A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

King Bardholt had been with the Issýn for hours. In the false dark of the hall, Wulf tried in vain to sleep. Beside him, Thrit was awake, arms folded behind his head, a muscle rolling in his jaw.

There were no daymarks indoors, but Wulf guessed it was midnight by the time the Issýn emerged. Her hands were tucked into her sleeves, her face shadowed by a hood. Most of the former snowseers had darkened their hair after the conversion, but hers still gleamed white.

‘They were in there for some time,’ Thrit said under his breath. ‘What do you think they said?’

Wulf stared at the covered smokehole in the ceiling. ‘When the Nameless One flew to Lasia, he visited a plague upon it. A plague so vile even the Saint could never speak of what he saw.’

‘His Grace will try to keep this quiet.’ Thrit turned on to his side, so they faced one another. ‘By the Saint, he must do something. What if the sickness goes farther?’

They were close. By the weak light of the nearest candle, Wulf took Thrit in – the hollow where his collarbone met his throat, the dark stubble that lined his jaw and upper lip. Wulf had the sudden instinct to run his thumb across it, feel how sharp or soft it was.

‘Thrit,’ he said, ‘if I tell you something, will you keep it to yourself?’

‘Of course. Do I look like Karlsten?’

‘I found something behind the waterfall.’

‘What?’ Thrit asked him, shifting on to his elbow. Wulf shook his head. ‘Wulf, you can tell m—’

He winced when Sauma kicked him. ‘Saint’s ribs, you two,’ she muttered. ‘Stop whispering.’

Thrit shot Wulf a sheepish look. When Sauma returned her head to the floor, so did they. Wulf lay awake for the rest of the night, thinking of the fire in the rock.

****

At daybreak, they set out from Solnótt, beginning the long journey back to the capital. The Issýn stayed close to King Bardholt, on a fine white horse the chieftain had gifted her. She wore the green wools of a sanctarian, with catskin gloves that reached her elbows.

‘Are the people of Solnótt coming with us?’ Wulf asked Regny.

Regny glanced at him. ‘There is no evidence that the sickness has gone beyond Ófandauth. His Grace has ordered the Chieftain of Solnótt to burn that village to the ground.’

‘Half its people had abandoned it by the time we got there. If any of them had the sickness—’

‘Wulf,’ she said, ‘if I were you, I would not speak of Ófandauth again.’

She rode ahead. Sending a troubled look north, Wulf spurred his mount after hers.

For days, the royal party followed the amber road that led out of the Barrowmark, making for the River Dreyri. Far behind them, smoke needled into the sky.

They camped beneath the stars, reminding Wulf of his training in the forests of Fellsgerd. When he was not on guard duty, he sat with his lith beside a fire, and there was drink and song and merriment, as there always was around the King of Hróth. At night, in their cramped tent, he was too aware of the softer warmth of Thrit beside him. He had never taken such close notice of his friend before, and had no idea why he was doing it now.

After a long ride through wind and light snow, the party came to an inland port, where three Mentish cogs awaited them, all fitted with striped sails, teal and white. Though the Hróthi prided themselves on their shipbuilding, King Bardholt had accepted when the Vatten had sent him twenty of these stolen vessels, survivors of the Midwinter Flood.

That evening, Wulf approached the cabin. Eydag stood guard with Karlsten, whose golden hair was braided behind his left ear.

‘I need to see the king,’ Wulf said. Eydag nodded and went in, leaving Wulf alone with Karlsten.

Wind came wuthering into the sail.

‘Does it hurt?’ Wulf said, after a silence.

‘Save your pity, Wulf.’ Karlsten kept his hand closed. ‘I imagine you’re familiar with the smell of burning.’

‘Why?’ Wulf said, torn between irritation and amusement. ‘You really think I was raised at the foot of a cauldron, the reek of vile potions hot in my nostrils?’ Karlsten offered a mirthless smile. ‘I hate to disappoint, Karl, but strewing herbs were the first scents I knew. And I take no joy in your pain, though it seems you take plenty in mine.’

Karlsten folded his burly arms. ‘None.’

‘They say a man speaks the truth in his cups. Say it again now. You believe the witch of legend was the one who left me at the edge of the haithwood. For what purpose?’

‘I don’t claim to know the ways of witches.’

‘There are none. The haithwood is just that – trees and memory. There are no witches.’

‘I see a witch now.’

Wulf followed his gaze to where a shelter had been raised for the Issýn. She was still wearing her gloves, and sat hunched and alone, dark crescents beneath her eyes.

‘Ah, hush your twining, Karl,’ Wulf sighed. ‘She converted before you were even born. You’re imagining vice everywhere.’

‘The Saint made a new kingdom in Inys because the old was too twisted to save. The old world is all round us, Wulf,’ Karlsten said. ‘Stealing out of dark places, waiting for us to let it in.’

Eydag returned before Wulf could think of a retort. ‘Go on, then,’ she said, holding the door open. Her scalp had grown a dark stubble. ‘Friendly game of foxes when you’re finished?’

Wulf cocked an eyebrow. ‘Will you spend it thinking of as many wolf jokes as possible?’

‘Always,’ Eydag said gravely. ‘But I promise they’ll be my most inventive wolf jokes yet.’

Wulf smiled. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you promise.’

Karlsten turned his face away. Wulf stepped past him, and Eydag closed the door in his wake.

In the cramped excuse for a cabin, the King of Hróth was scratching out a message, a groove between his brows. Not born into nobility, he had been illiterate before he was crowned, and still had considerable difficulty writing. If he was using his own hand rather than summoning a scribe, he must want to keep this letter a secret.

‘Wulf.’ He tossed the quill aside with relish. ‘Eydag said you wished to speak to me.’

‘Sire.’ Wulf weighed his words. ‘While I was in Ófandauth, I saw something.’

‘Go on.’

Bardholt listened as Wulf explained the disappearance of the sanctarian, the blood by the river, and the simmering clutch of boulders. None of it seemed to perturb him.

‘Undir is an old fire mount,’ he concluded, when Wulf had finished. ‘It might not have stirred for many years, but its presence causes disturbances in the surrounding areas, even as far away as the mudpots at Dómuth. Strange, but natural. As for the blood – grey wolves, no doubt.’

The darkness had sheared his face gaunt. For most of the journey, he had not laughed once within earshot of Wulf, though he drank as much as ever.

‘Sire,’ Wulf said, ‘when I touched the rock with my bare hand, it cracked. It reminded me of—’

He almost said it, but his courage abandoned him. It would sound like madness. ‘What?’ Bardholt said, his voice unusually soft. ‘What do you think you saw?’

‘Nothing, sire. It was a foolish thought.’

Bardholt picked up the goblet at his side and took a long drink.

‘You need not think of Ófandauth any longer,’ he said. ‘It was a fever, nothing more. It has been burned away.’

‘My king, forgive me, but most of the villagers had fled. Some say illness is spread by touch. Should messengers not be sent out to find them, stop them travelling any farther?’

‘No one left. The villagers locked themselves into their homes. The Issýn assured me of this.’ Bardholt retrieved his quill. ‘Thank you for telling me what you saw. I must ask you not to share it with anyone else. One day you will be a knight, and a knight must always be discreet, as courtesy demands.’

Wulf knew when he was receiving an order, even if it was couched in religious wisdom.

‘When we reach Eldyng, I entrust you to send this message to Inys,’ Bardholt continued. ‘It is of the utmost importance, and must reach Queen Sabran as soon as possible.’

‘It will be done,’ Wulf said. With the distinct impression that he had just been asked to choke one virtue to save the other, he turned away, stopping when he heard a commotion outside.

Bardholt looked up as a muffled screech came from the deck. ‘Drunken clots,’ he muttered. ‘See to it that they disperse, Wulf, or I shall challenge them each to a duel.’

‘Sire.’

Wulf opened the door, expecting to find a brawl. At first, that was what he thought he was seeing. The light of the boxed fires revealed a crush of people at the other end of the deck. Glimpsing a flash of white, Wulf tensed, a cold tug in his gut.

The Issýn screamed like she was being sawn in half. As she wrenched free of the crowd, Wulf glimpsed her arms, bare where she had pulled open the fastenings on her sleeves. From fingertip to elbow, her skin was scarlet, as if she had slathered it with paint.

It starts with a redness in the fingers.

The sickness. It had followed them.

Another terrible shriek from the Issýn. Every jerk of her body seemed like a cruel mockery of dance. ‘Help me,’ she moaned. ‘Oh, gods, save me. It burns, I’m burning—’

‘Help her,’ came a cry, but no one knew how.

The Issýn slipped and crumpled, pounding her fist on the deck. With impossible strength, she reared on her knees and tore her herigald apart. Eydag gasped. Eyes wild, spittle on her chin, the Issýn writhed out of the roughspun, so she was only in a shift – and still she kept going, clawing at the linen and the skin beneath it, drawing blood from her throat.

‘Put it out,’ she sobbed at them all, agony in every crease of her face. ‘Spirits, put it out!’

‘Put what out?’ Vell shouted at her.

‘It’s burning, all of it—’ She clenched her hair. ‘Can’t you see, can’t you see I’m on fire?’

Her plea came from the seat of her, animal and all too human. Each scream went through Wulf in a sickening shudder as the Issýn ripped bloody white hanks from her scalp and shredded her face with her nails. She crawled across the deck, foaming at the mouth.

Eydag and Karlsten drew their swords and closed ranks. ‘In the name of the king,’ Karlsten barked, ‘come no closer.’ His lips were skinned back, eyes wide. ‘Stay where you are!’

‘Sire. My king. Good king!’ She was choking in agony. ‘Help me, kill me—’

‘Restrain her,’ someone called.

Karlsten moved to block her way. ‘No, Karl, don’t,’ Thrit shouted. ‘Don’t touch her!’

The Issýn made a grab for Karlsten. He ducked away from her, and instead she swung her fist and caught Eydag, who lurched away with a cry.

‘What in the Saint’s name is this uproar?’ King Bardholt bellowed, emerging from his cabin. The Issýn saw her saviour. She lunged for him, and all that was left between them was Wulf. Before he could think, he caught her by the wrist and drove his sword through her middle.

The world stopped. Her face was a whisper from his, and he could smell her sweat, the rot of brimstone on her teeth. He saw shock, a flash of pure terror, and then, at last, a smile. She brushed his cheek with her thumb, almost tender, before she collapsed.

Silence fell like a heavy snow over the ship. Hunched against the mast, Eydag gingerly felt along her jaw. Vell knelt at her side and checked her face with a gloved hand.

‘Back, Vell,’ the king barked. Vell recoiled. ‘Eydag, did she touch you?’ Eydag nodded fearfully. ‘Karlsten?’

‘No,’ Karlsten said, teeth gritted. ‘The Issýn never took her gloves off. She knew she had the sickness when she came on board.’

Wulf stared at the blade of his sword, glazed with blood. His empty hand – the right hand – was shaking. He looked past both, through the blur, at the woman he had slain.

‘Captain,’ King Bardholt said, ‘signal the other ships to stop.’ His nostrils flared with every breath. ‘Those of you the Issýn touched will remain here, sealed in the cabin, until we reach Eldyng. You too, Vell. We don’t know how it spreads.’ He looked at the body of his old friend, his face twisted in bitter regret. ‘The rest of you, push the body into the river. Use the oars. Do not lay even a finger on her.’