A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

Ninuru cut through sheaves of sunlight, muscle pitching beneath fur. In the saddle, Tunuva ducked to avoid a branch. Hidat Janudin rode not far behind.

Ahead, a white-tailed longhorn smashed through the undergrowth. Its hooves were made for this wet ground, but an ichneumon could outrun anything.

The Lasian Basin could not be mapped, or so it was whispered throughout the South. Even the most gifted poets had never been able to capture the vastness of the forest, for none had laid eyes on its depths: its endless trees, their unthinkable heights, the layers built up over thousands of centuries.

Nothing grew alone. Nothing was bare. Moss enrobed the roots; the trunks wore vines. It was thick with the memory of its former selves.

No one had charted the Lasian Basin, but Tunuva knew her way.

Ninuru sprang off a fallen tree and landed in front of their quarry with a growl. Above, Esbar appeared on an arching root, enthroned on Jeda, who let out a fearsome roar. Frightened and snorting, the longhorn thundered off again, its sides lathered with sweat.

‘The glade,’ Esbar shouted. Tunuva was already chasing their prey.

The ichneumons broke into a glade matted with moss. Sunlight blazed through breaks in the canopy. Not far ahead, the trees drew close as lovers. Tunuva swung her bow from her back and notched an arrow to the string. Though her magic burned low, her eyesight was as sharp as ever. The arrow whipped across the clearing, the longhorn stumbled, and she pulled back, letting Hidat ride in front.

Jeda rushed past them both. Tunuva swallowed her shout – Esbar was already too far ahead. Hidat slowed, and they both watched as Esbar sprang off Jeda. A flash of steel, a huffing, and the beast collapsed into the grass. Jeda gripped its neck between her teeth.

Tunuva rode towards them, reaching the longhorn just as it slumped, the moss drinking its blood. Jeda let go of it and growled. Her fur was sleek black, and she had the amber eyes of most ichneumons, the pupils lying fessways.

‘A good hunt.’ Esbar rose and wiped her blade clean. ‘Fortunate it brought us here – the men tell me we’re low on moss. Small wonder, since I seem to be bleeding for three.’

‘I’ll gather some.’ Hidat slid out of the saddle. Beads tapped at the ends of her braids. ‘Does it hurt, Dartun?’

‘No,’ her sandy ichneumon said. The longhorn had gored his flank. ‘Ichneumons do not lose to slow cattle.’

Jeda and Ninuru rumbled their agreement. Tunuva smiled and patted Ninuru, while Hidat tore up a wad of moss and pressed it to the wound, making Dartun knead his paws in contentment.

‘Hidat,’ Tunuva said, ‘are you all right?’

‘Fine. Dartun took the brunt of it.’

‘I don’t mean the hunt.’ Tunuva touched her shoulder. She had mentored Hidat for several years, and knew when something was wrong. ‘You removed the rope from the tree.’

Hidat glanced at her. Even when she was young, she had always been a woman anchored in herself, difficult to rattle. Now her dark eyes held a candid doubt.

‘You are among the wisest of us, Tuva,’ she said. ‘Is it foolish to fear that it might never gift its fruit to me again?’

‘It makes Siyu twice the fool,’ Esbar muttered, ‘for planting that thought in your mind.’ She sheathed her hunting knife. ‘It was good of you to do it, Hidat. I’ll ensure Siyu makes amends.’

‘Peace. It’s done.’ Hidat gave Dartun a reassuring stroke. ‘Come, then, pup. Time for a drink.’

Leaving Ninuru to guard their kill, they walked until the trees thinned again, giving way to the River Minara. In this part of the Lasian Basin, it was almost two leagues wide.

Sunlight flashed off the rushing golden waters. While Hidat led her ichneumon to drink, Esbar shed her riding coat and wrung the blood from its sleeves.

‘You have that look in your eye,’ she said to Tunuva. ‘Is it what I said about Siyu?’

Tunuva sat on a fallen tree and worked off her boots. ‘No. I only hoped you would let Hidat kill the longhorn,’ she said, dipping her feet into the shallows. ‘It might have restored her confidence, to remember her skill.’

Esbar looked at her face for a time, then said, ‘A kind thought.’ She spread her coat on a rock before she joined Tunuva. ‘Forgive me. You know how I relish the chase.’

‘Which is why you’re munguna.’ Tunuva patted her knee. ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’

Esbar clasped their fingers. Tunuva traced the sunspots on the back of her hand. Both their hands had changed over the years: the knuckles thicker, the veins bolder.

‘Tuva,’ Hidat called. ‘I nearly forgot – the Prioress wishes to speak to you.’ She was up to her knees in the water. ‘Go to her now, if you like. We can handle the longhorn, can’t we, Ez?’

‘I should think so.’ Esbar glanced at Tunuva, lowering her voice. ‘If this is about Siyu—’

‘I will tell you.’

Tunuva kissed her and stood. Esbar tipped her face into the sunlight.

The shade of the forest folded back over Tunuva. Boots in hand, she retraced her steps to the glade, her bare feet making little sound. For some, the tree granted both the sacred flame and the silence of shadow.

She rode Ninuru back to the Priory, past its hidden wardings. Each time she crossed one, the mage who cast it sensed her coming.

The entrance lay between the thick and spreading roots of a giant fig tree, impossible to find by chance. She slid into the tunnel and walked until the earth rusted and gave way to smooth tiles. Once they reached her sunroom, Ninuru slunk off to doze on the balcony while Tunuva changed.

Saghul took her meals in her own sunroom, the Bridal Chamber. Tunuva found her picking at a platter of steaming rice, wood-smoked goat, and prawns simmered with leaves and groundnut butter.

The Wail of Galian thundered just beyond her balcony. The waterfall poured into the Vale of Blood, becoming a branch of the Lower Minara, which ran southwest to join the sea.

‘Prioress,’ Tunuva said, ‘may I join you?’

‘Tunuva Melim.’ Saghul waved her into a seat. ‘Sit. Eat. You must be famished.’ Tunuva washed her hands in the basin before she served herself. ‘Was your hunt successful?’

‘A longhorn buck. It should yield fine meat.’ Tunuva used the butter to roll a ball of rice. ‘Hidat said you wanted to speak to me.’

‘Indeed. I have no intention of staying awake longer than it takes me to finish this repast, so I shall be quick.’ Saghul swallowed. ‘I have considered your proposal that Siyu uq-Nāra be sent into the world.’

‘I thought you had already come to a decision on that front, Prioress.’

‘I merely voiced a thought on sun wine.’ Saghul drank a little. ‘Siyu will go to the court of Nzene. She will be an initiate.’ She speared a prawn at the end of her knife. ‘Gashan can instruct and counsel her.’

Tunuva hardly dared believe it.

‘Prioress,’ she said, relieved beyond measure, ‘thank you. Siyu will make you proud.’

‘Do you know why I chose Esbar as my successor?’

‘Because she commands respect from the Priory. Because she is decisive, inspiring, high-minded. Because she is a great mage.’

Saghul grunted. ‘All of those things, to be sure.’ She chewed the prawn. ‘But most of all, it was because of your influence on her. Your calming guidance. Your reason. When I am dead, yours may be the only counsel she will truly heed.’

‘Saghul, she loves this family. She will listen to everyone.’

‘Did Esbar slaughter the longhorn today, or did she let troubled Hidat strike the blow?’

Tunuva dropped her gaze.

‘The former,’ she said.

‘A Prioress must do more than listen. She must not only look, but see,’ Saghul said. ‘If all of us are flames, Esbar is the flame at the head of an arrow. So long as she found her mark, she would miss the world catching fire in her wake. That unswerving nature is both her great strength and her weakness.’ She laid down her knife. ‘You saw what Hidat needed, even if she never told you. You did the same for Siyu, as you always have. You are the flame that warms, Tunuva Melim. The flame that seals a wound.’

Tunuva ate the rice ball she had just made. Every private talk she had with Saghul made her feel strange – unsettled and consoled at the same time.

‘You honour me, Prioress,’ she said. ‘May I visit Siyu, to tell her of her posting?’

‘You may. I cannot let her out at once – I will not encourage further desecrations – but as soon as she has served her punishment, we shall hold her kindling.’ Saghul raised her eyebrows. ‘Your own siden burns low, tomb keeper. Go to the valley this night, and be satisfied.’

****

At sundown, she took the thousand steps down to the valley floor. The night was cool. A few of the men talked and chuckled together, sharing a jar of wine by the river. Seeing Tunuva, they made themselves scarce.

Every sister ate alone – except, of course, for the first time, when she ate before her family. Tunuva had worn the white cloak of an initiate that day. With every step towards the tree, she had feared she was unworthy, that it might withhold its fruit from her.

Decades later, she was still an initiate – ready to fight, but never called. There were no other ranks, for there was nothing yet to slay.

She let her cloak fall and knelt between two of the roots. The oranges flickered like candles on the boughs. One tumbled with a flutter of petals, straight into her waiting hands. Light shone through its rind, stemming from the heart in its core.

Siyāti uq-Nāra had believed the whole fruit should be eaten, to ensure that no magic was lost. Later Prioresses had revised the rule, since one bite seemed to be enough. For her part, Tunuva removed the peel first, setting it aside to bury.

The orange broke under her teeth. Siden poured forth like molten sunlight – magic of the deepest earth, enriching her with its power again. She let herself be set on fire.

For a time, she was an impossible candle, her wick renewing as it burned. It was night by the time the magic settled. She lay still, aware of every wingbeat and blade of grass, the heavy scent of blossoms that had thickened almost to a taste. The stars gleamed sharp as arrow points, and all the world thrummed in her skin.

She glanced down to see a glow in her fingertips. That golden light would fade; so would the heavy calm. Her skin would be tender and feverish by morning. She would be hungry: for food, for touch.

Before all that could strike, she rose, and pressed her hot brow to the tree in gratitude.

****

In the initiates’ quarters, Imsurin was singing one of the younger girls to sleep in his deep, soothing tones. Tunuva waited in the doorway until he noticed her.

‘Imin,’ she said in an undertone. ‘The Prioress has allowed me to visit Siyu.’

He drew a blanket over the child. ‘Why?’

‘To tell her she is to be kindled.’

His mouth twitched. She could tell he was pleased, but he took all good news with a pinch of reserve.

‘It’s past time,’ he said. ‘Though I wish it had not taken this to move the Prioress.’ He blew out the nearest lamp. ‘Siyu has not been feeling well. She will be pleased to see you.’

‘What troubles her?’

‘I suspect a spindle wasp. If she doesn’t improve, I will consult Denag.’

Tunuva nodded. It was rare for initiates to fall ill, but for now, Siyu was still a postulant.

The sting of the spindle wasp brought on a deep exhaustion. For that reason, Tunuva expected to find Siyu asleep. Instead, she was on her knees by the stove, retching over a pot.

Tunuva shut the door and crouched next to her, drawing back her long hair while she shuddered. Once Siyu had emptied her stomach, she sat back to catch her breath, and Tunuva brought her a cup of water, brushing a moth from the jug. Siyu drank thirstily.

‘What is it, sunray?’ Tunuva felt her brow. It was cool. ‘Is it your bleeding pains again?’

‘No.’ Siyu wiped her mouth. ‘I have not bled for . . . some time.’

Tunuva frowned. As Siyu met her gaze and swallowed, all the warmth that had just filled her seemed to disappear.

‘Siyu,’ she said faintly. ‘How long?’

Siyu glanced at the door and pressed a hand to her belly. ‘I’ve missed two bleeds,’ she said. ‘Promise not to tell the Prioress. Swear it on the Mother, Tuva.’

Tunuva could hardly speak, let alone swear an oath.

‘Siyu,’ she finally managed, ‘you know, you know the rules on childbearing. You’re too young, and not yet kindled. What were you thinking?’ When Siyu started to breathe faster, she collected herself. ‘We can solve this, but I must know. Who was it?’

Siyu looked at her, fear dawning in her eyes.

‘He isn’t from the Priory,’ she whispered. ‘He is from outside.’