A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

The day of her commendation. Glorian Hraustr Berethnet stared in expectation at her canopy, waiting for maturity to shine on her from Halgalant.

She had prayed for a sense that she was ready for her life. She had wanted the Saint to whisper to her, acknowledge her as his descendant. She had hoped she would finally long for her betrothal to a complete stranger, and her belly to puff with the next heir to Inys.

In short, she had prayed, hoped and expected to feel less of an imposter. Instead, she was drained from another painful night, she still had no interest in consorts, and the only puff she fancied in her belly was the sort that came from a good helping of blackberry pie.

Julain woke at cockcrow and slipped away to dress. Glorian snuggled into her pillows. She could have just a little more peace before she was scraped and trussed like a goose – at least, she thought she could, until Helisent flumped on to the bed beside her.

‘Time for you to meet the world.’ She threaded her arms around Glorian, making her smile. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Sore.’

‘About your commendation. You could be betrothed.’

‘I could have been betrothed since my birthday.’ Glorian looked at her. ‘Did you feel different?’

Helisent considered. A small ruby hung from her circlet, sparkling in the middle of her brow.

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Every year, I expect to suddenly feel the way Florell and Queen Sabran look, as if I could say anything and be convinced I was right, and not terrified that someone will peck holes in my words. As if I’ve . . . set, or been kilned into shape. Still, I never do.’

Glorian sighed. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t say that.’

‘Sorry.’

A rap on the door, and Florell herself was there, adorned with amber.

‘Good morrow, young ladies,’ she said brightly. Julain and Adela came after her. ‘Oh, Glorian. Your commendation! I remember when you were so tiny, I thought I’d lose you in my sleeves. Now look at you – so tall and beautiful.’ She patted Glorian on the cheeks. ‘Come, let’s get you dressed. We have a busy day ahead.’

****

Three miles from Drouthwick Castle, a rooster cawed over the drowsy settlement of Worhurst. In exchange for their silence about his arrival, Bardholt had opened his coffers and casks to its astonished inhabitants.

Wulf woke to rough blankets and the scent of a hayloft. Thrit slept beside him, head resting on a muscular arm, and Eydag snored nearby. Careful not to wake them, Wulf sat up and found his boots. As his footsteps creaked away, Thrit stirred, lashes flickering.

Outside the barn, Wulf secured a belt over his wools and stepped into a copse of oaks and golden birches, over their fallen leaves. Light dripped between the branches like watered beer, prancing on the stream they had crossed on their way into Worhurst. In the near distance, bells made a merry clangour for the Feast of Late Autumn.

He knelt beside the stream to shave his stubble from the crossing. On the other side, a swineherd whistled as she walked beside her hogs, letting them root through the acorns and beechmast. Wulf scrubbed his face clean and inspected his reflection in the water.

This day, he would serve as cupbearer to the greatest king the world had ever known. He could not let that opportunity slide from his grasp. Since he was fourteen, he had served as a housecarl. If he kept to the virtuous path, he might achieve his dream of knighthood.

To succeed, he would have to needlebind his heart, so no one could slip into it again. He had been a fool to return that first kiss, and not crush the bud before it could flower.

‘What did he say to you?’

Wulf glanced over his shoulder. Regny stood beside a slumping willow, already groomed and armoured.

‘Enough.’ He used his shirt to dry off. ‘Was he hard on you?’

Regny lifted a shoulder. ‘Chieftain I may be, but I’m not old enough to rule in my province. Youthful folly can be excused and buried. Bardholt understands this more than anyone.’

‘Any idea who told him?’

‘A healer gave me certain herbs. I assume her tongue slipped.’

‘I should have gone for you. Forgive me.’

‘You wouldn’t be the first to forget the need for such things.’ Her cool gaze followed him as he joined her. She wore the silver collar of a chieftain, its ends decorated with the tree of Askrdal. ‘Let me guess. You’ve sworn off vice for the rest of your days because our king gave you a slap on the wrist.’

‘He never slaps on the wrist. Always the back.’

‘Yes, I think he dented mine.’

‘And my place at his side is more fragile than yours. I have to be careful, Regny.’

‘You know full well that Bardholt favours you,’ Regny said, ‘but I respect your wishes.’ The sunlight tempted out the auburn notes in her plaited brown hair. ‘Don’t lock your heart too fast, Wulfert Glenn. I happen to know someone else in the household has taken a liking to you.’

Wulf raised an eyebrow. ‘Who?’

‘I’d say you’ll find out, but I’d rather make a sport of counting all the signs you miss.’ She wrapped an arm around his waist. ‘Come. Bardholt needs us to be his eyes in the Old Hall.’

****

Drouthwick Castle was almost as large as that of the royal stronghold of Ascalun. Its Great Hall stretched on for ever. Several fires crackled, warming its walls. Not that it needed much warming, for a tremendous number of people had filled it for the Feast of Late Autumn.

Glorian had never expected so many guests, or so much food. Elderflower cheesecake, golden as a windfall, served up with boiled cream or gooseberry butter; hot griddle bread and rosehip pudding; red pears simmered in honeyed wine. And such meat: goose stuffed with apples, spit-roasted chicken, charred sausages thick with pine nuts.

Her crimson gown was cut in a fashionable Yscali style, with a tight waist and hanging sleeves, altered to cover her cast. Florell had taken six pieces of hair and woven them into a virtue braid, leaving the rest loose down her back. With that and her gold coronet, she was unbearably hot.

She ate three more helpings of cheesecake. Applause resounded as the harpist plucked the first notes of ‘A Royal Quarry’ – a ballad about Glorian the Second, known to history as Glorian Hartbane. It was after that famous queen, whose marriage to Isalarico the Benevolent had brought Yscalin into the arms of the Saint, that Glorian had been named.

White banners draped the walls, showing the True Sword. It represented Ascalun, the enchanted blade the Saint had used to rout the Nameless One, and it surrounded the Carmenti.

The republicans sat with the Virtues Council. Grandest of the delegation was Numun, the Decreer – a tall and narrow-shouldered woman with a long, bare neck, unadorned by jewellery. Her sleeveless dress pleated at the waist before sweeping to the floor.

Her face was calm beneath her greying black hair, which was tightly braided and arranged at the top of her head. The only clear sign of her authority was a circlet of gold leaves. She had brought a pronged Southern utensil, which she used to spear each morsel.

Beside her sat her advisor, large and observant, wearing the same rich purple, with a white layer draped over his enormous shoulder. They were both dark of eye and brown of skin, Arpa Nerafriss a little paler than Numun. Glorian had yet to understand how they had reached their positions, or what those positions involved. It all sounded very complicated.

‘What is that on their crest?’ Helisent asked over the din. It showed a pale archway on lavender.

‘The Gate of Ungulus,’ Glorian said. ‘The end of the world. Liuma told me.’

‘The world has an end?’ a flushed Julain said, frowning. ‘With a gate?’

‘Well, it has to end somewhere, doesn’t it?’

Helisent tilted her head. ‘Does it?’

‘I hear Numun has two companions,’ Julain said, hiding her mouth with her hand. Helisent snorted in amazement, while Glorian finished her third (or perhaps fourth) cup of wine. ‘Yes, it must have caused a scandal in Halgalant. A marriage of three. Oh, wonderful, crispels!’

Glorian looked down the table with a grin. ‘You there,’ Helisent called, ‘pass those here for the princess!’

‘Her Highness,’ people shouted, cups lifted. ‘Lady Glorian!’

‘To our magnificent princess,’ Florell laughed from her place near the queen. ‘Joy for her hall!’

Queen Sabran wore her mantle low, showing the creamy skin of her shoulders. She raised her own cup and favoured Glorian with a rare smile.

‘Beloved daughter. Princess of Inys and Hróth,’ she said, her voice ringing clear. The chatter died away while she spoke. ‘May the Saint bless and keep you in this, your fifteenth year.’

Cheers went up around the hall. She does love me, Glorian thought, and the wine felt even warmer in her belly. She is proud of me.

A platter came her way, laden with pastries as thin as parchment, fried in butter and honey. She ate several in a row and licked the sweetness from her fingers.

Glancing up, she saw her mother looking at her, eyebrow arched. Glorian took the next crispel with more care, eating in tidy bites.

Conciliated, Queen Sabran returned to her conversation with Robart Eller, the Lord Chancellor of Inys, who sat on her left. Even as he spoke, he watched the hall, his blue eyes discerning. He was Duke of Generosity, and as such, he had paid for most of this feast, even providing spiced wine from Yscalin, where grapes could sweeten under a far warmer sun.

Beholding her mother, so poised and strong, Glorian was glad that she was such a poor imitation. She was born to be a shadow, and all shadows had to do was walk behind.

Out of nowhere, agony seared through her arm. ‘You fool,’ Julain gasped, sober at once. ‘Have you tuns for feet?’

Glorian blinked needles from her eyes, trying to work out what had happened. One of the servants – a boy, a page – had tried to restock her cup, and instead knocked her broken arm.

‘Highness.’ He was shaking with fear. ‘I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?’

‘It’s nothing.’ Glorian could hardly speak. ‘Excuse me.’

Suddenly it was too much – the heat and noise, the pain. When she stood, so did those closest to her. She fanned their concern away. Hopefully they thought she just needed the close stool, which she did. If her instinct was right, she was about to be horribly sick.

Drouthwick Castle had many odd crannies and in-between places. One of them was the long musicians’ gallery that overlooked the Great Hall. Glorian ran up the stairs, past the hanging that guarded it – and crashed into something large and solid. Her arm screamed. She lurched and almost stumbled, just catching herself on the wall with her good hand.

Her first wild thought was that the gallery must have been walled up. Then the hanging was drawn back, and a stricken face appeared, cast into shadow.

‘Who in Halgalant are you?’ Glorian demanded.

Pain and embarrassment sharpened her voice. She had not thought to see anyone up here. The man – a young man, not much older than her – stared back at her in shock.

‘My lady.’ Recovering, he lowered his head. ‘Your pardon. Are you hurt?’

His accent was a flinty burr. She could have sworn it had the rime of the North on it.

‘Hurt?’ Glorian snapped. ‘I am vexed, by your presence. Why are you lurking up here in the dark?’

He seemed at a loss for words. She knew she was being rude, but she needed him to get out of the way, before she fainted on him. Her bone hurt so badly it made her sight prickle.

A second face looked out from behind the young man. A woman, about the same age, brown hair plaited over her pale forehead. When Glorian realised what she must have interrupted, she flushed.

‘Unless you two are wed, you should not be trysting.’ She drew herself up to her full, considerable height, her arm throbbing. ‘Off with you, or Queen Sabran will hear of this.’

‘We weren’t—’ the woman started, but the man cut her off.

‘Aye, my lady. Forgive us.’

He ushered his friend away, and they were gone. Glorian waited until their footsteps had faded before she doubled over, painting the floor with vomit and bramble wine.

Somehow, she thought gloomily, just as her guards caught up, I suspect Mother would have handled this better.

****

Half an hour later, she sat at the high table in the Old Hall. Three hundred of the most important guests, including the delegation from Carmentum, had been invited to the more intimate chamber.

Her guards had summoned the bonesetter, Kell Bourn, who had fastened her arm to her chest. Now Glorian felt steadier, though her body ached. She had chewed on some catmint to freshen her breath, and a mantle hid the slender leather strap from the Carmenti.

Her fourth suitor was beside her. The first had been too shy to do anything more than whisper his name; the second had been odd (‘Lady, your eyes are as green as two smooth toads’), and the third, heir to an olive region in Yscalin, had not even managed to meet her gaze.

This one was Magnaust Vatten, elder son of the Steward of Mentendon. His eyes were steely grey, and his white face was a picture of disdain. Where the Inysh were a blaze of autumn reds and golds, he wore sealskin and black tooled leather, defiant in his severity. He drew wary looks from all over the hall, this son of the man they had once called the Sea King.

Glorian, daughter of a real king, was unimpressed. Magnaust had done little but complain while he sawed his way through a dish of baked swan, and had yet to let her get more than a word in edgeways.

At least she had been spared from dancing. She could never get the timings quite right, though she loved the spectacle. Fifty people were performing the zehanto, a circle dance from Yscalin.

‘And of course,’ her ostensible suitor continued, ‘the Ments might not openly speak ill of us – cowards, all – but I’ve no doubt they wag their forked tongues in private.’

‘Terrible,’ Glorian said absently.

‘We pour our wealth into their cities. We defend them from free raiders. We showed them the way to Halgalant itself, yet they glower as if they would see us all shipwrecked.’

They both spoke in what was called High Hróthi – the language as it was spoken in Eldyng, rather than the dialect that had blossomed in Mentendon. Glorian wondered if he even spoke Mentish. Wanting very much to be elsewhere, she looked back at the zehanto.

Florell spun with consummate grace, the skirts of her russet gown swirling. She joined hands with Arpa Nerafriss, who looked quite taken with her, while Helisent danced with Sylda Yelarigas, the future Countess of Vazuva, who was visiting from Yscalin.

‘Looters, they call us. Sea wolves,’ Magnaust Vatten sneered. ‘When I rule, I will root out the ingrates and burn them alive. They’ll like that. The Nameless One rose from their vile mountain, after all.’

‘Oh, indeed,’ Glorian said, even more distracted, for the dance had come to an end, and applause thundered. To her right, her suitor gave a raw cough. ‘Are you well, my lord?’

He was turning puce. She was wondering if she ought to slap him on the back when he reached into his mouth and dug out a bone. He threw it down on his plate in disgust.

‘Your Grace,’ the Decreer called in her sonorous voice, ending any further opportunity for conversation, ‘among our company is a consort of the finest musicians of Carmentum.’ At her gesture, they stepped forward and bowed. ‘They would be pleased to play the thinsana, a dance of Gulthaga, for your daughter’s commendation.’

‘We would be honoured if you would join us in friendship,’ Arpa said, standing beside her. ‘And if the thinsana is strange to you, it would be my pleasure to teach you its steps.’

Glorian considered this. The offer could be honest, or a golden opportunity to make the Queen of Inys look a fool. If the dance was difficult, her mother might stumble in public. It could even be perceived as an insult, to expect a monarch to be schooled before her court.

It was also difficult for her to refuse without appearing pettish or aloof. All of this made Glorian nervous.

To her surprise, however, Queen Sabran was smiling again, faintly. She glanced towards the gallery, which had filled with figures. The harpist gave a signal.

‘It is a very generous offer, Decreer,’ Queen Sabran said, ‘and it pains me to decline on this occasion. I have heard of the splendour of the thinsana.’ She placed her hands on the arms of her seat. ‘Regrettably, I have saved the next dance for my companion.’

For a moment, Glorian thought she had misheard, or that her mother had drunk more wine than her steady voice implied – until the clean note of a horn blasted out, the Inysh musicians struck up a welcome, and in poured a procession, bearing the crest of the House of Hraustr. Queen Sabran rose as the King of Hróth appeared like a giant of old in the doorway.

‘Father,’ Glorian breathed in disbelief.

Happiness welled in her chest as gasps and chatter swept across the hall and everyone rose to bow. The Carmenti party exchanged unreadable glances before doing the same.

‘My king,’ Queen Sabran said, warm and clear. She descended to the floor and held out a hand. King Bardholt went to one knee before her.

‘My queen,’ he said in his thick Inysh. ‘I believe I have this dance.’

‘I believe you do.’

King Bardholt brought her knuckles to his lips. Glorian grinned as he turned to smile at her, so wide his hazel eyes crinkled. He had come. In the dark half of the year, he had come.

He strode to the high table and extended a hand for hers. Once she had given it, he bowed low, as though she, too, were a Queen of Inys.

‘Daughter,’ he said, and raised a fist to his chest. ‘For this, your commendation, I have crossed the sea.’

The hall erupted into cheers and applause. Glorian threw her good arm around him, her heart floating up to the ceiling, her pain and the Vatten boy quite forgotten.