A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

Late summer had always been bittersweet for Glorian. On the one hand, there was the Feast of Courage, which she loved – six days of jousts, boar hunts and wrestling – and the days were never more beautiful, especially at Glowan Castle. Wildflowers nodded and swung in the grounds, and the air smelled of the honeysuckle that frothed around the windows.

On the other, the end of summer was when her father always left. This year, he had not come at all.

She sat on the marble fountain with Julain, an ache in the base of her skull. Since the spring, she had often seen a distant figure in her sleep, standing in mist and shadow. It never moved or spoke. Those dreams always left her cold, as if she had slept on a bed of snow.

Between her troubled nights, the days lazed. The heat was hard to explain, since the sun gave so little. Coated in murk, it shone a dirty red on some days, edge sharp as a blade.

Her sixteenth had been a modest affair. No ambassadors from foreign lands, no dances or republicans, and no desire for marriage or a child.

Yet another year had passed, and still her betrothal troubled her. Sometimes she wanted to shake herself for it, and wished she were like a swan or a wolf, possessed of an instinct to partner for life. The Knight of Fellowship decreed that all souls should be bound in wedlock. Many people found happiness in it, yet she could not shed her disquiet.

How much easier things would be, if she could want as others did.

She glanced at her ladies: Helisent working on her epic poem in the shade of a walnut tree, and Adela with her back to its trunk, eating the last cherries of the season. Helisent would occasionally write verses for girls at court, tucking them unsigned into a pocket or under a door, but she never took the courtship further. Adela had no interest in anyone.

Julain, on the other hand, had always wanted a companion, and she had a choice in it. Her older brother was heir to her duchy, and he already had a child, leaving her to do as she pleased.

‘What troubles you?’ she asked Glorian.

‘Nothing.’ When Julain gave her a look, she sighed. ‘It may be a matter for the sanctarian.’

‘Why, have you committed some great sin?’

‘Many, no doubt.’

They stopped when Sylda Yelarigas approached, draped in a gown of white silk – a sharp contrast to her copper skin and black hair, which rippled over her shoulders. ‘Lady Glorian, good morning,’ she said in Yscali. ‘I wondered if I might speak with Lady Helisent.’

‘Of course,’ Glorian replied in the same language. ‘If she agrees.’

Helisent stood and tucked her parchment into her girdle. She walked to join the Yscal, who linked her arm. ‘How is Lord Osbert?’ Glorian asked Julain, watching them leave.

‘He writes often, and expressively.’

‘Could you marry him?’

‘It’s still early. Mama says we won’t be wed until I’m at least twenty.’ Julain spoke gently: ‘Glorian, most people don’t marry at seventeen. You know it’s all right, to not want it yet.’

And what if I never do?

Glorian was spared from answering when two of the Dukes Spiritual strode along the path: Lord Robart Eller, and towering Lord Damud Stillwater, Duke of Courage and Master of the Treasury. Seeing Glorian, they lowered their heads respectfully and moved on.

‘They look worried,’ Glorian said, toying with her necklace.

‘There was a meeting of the Virtues Council. Mama says there’s been a drought. Some brooks and rivers have run dry – the Lennow, the Brath. There are reports that people have crossed the Limber dryshod in some places, and boats have run aground. Coupled with the expectation of a poor harvest, the coming year may be harder than usual.’

Glorian frowned. She had not realised Inys, with its steady rains, could ever want for water.

Something had changed since the eruption of the Dreadmount. The sinister cast over the sun was an ill omen. The last time the mountain had spilled fire, it had also birthed the Nameless One.

‘Your Highness.’ A messenger had appeared. ‘Queen Sabran requests your presence.’

With a fresh sense of foreboding, Glorian splashed the sweat from her face and tidied her hair. Her mother had a habit of always summoning her when she was dishevelled.

Queen Sabran was in her withdrawing room, where Liuma was lacing her gown. The Mistress of the Robes smiled when Glorian came in. Liuma had always been sterner than Florell, but the years had softened her a little.

‘Glorian,’ Queen Sabran said. ‘I trust you have had a productive day with your tutors.’

‘Yes, Mother. I undertook religious studies and learned more complex phrasing in Yscali.’

‘Good. Your pronunciation needs refinement,’ her mother stated. ‘Janasta ruz zunga, fáurasta ruz herza.’

To know many tongues is to rule many hearts. Glorian mustered her confidence. ‘Atha meisto áuda,’ she said, making sure to articulate each word with precision, ‘sa háuzas tu andugi gala háurasta.’

‘A perfect sentence.’ Liuma nodded her approval. ‘Very good, Your Highness.’

‘Yes. Come,’ Queen Sabran said. ‘I have news for you.’

Glorian sat opposite her mother at a table, and Liuma set two exquisite goblets before them, blown from ruby glass and caged in ironwork. ‘How beautiful,’ Glorian said, wondering.

‘Gifts from the Carmenti. They have been scrupulously cleansed.’

It took a moment to understand. Poison had never even crossed her mind.

Liuma poured them both a dark cherry wine before retreating. Glorian sat up straight, the better to mirror Queen Sabran. After sixteen years, it was still a strange thing, to look at her mother and see her own features. Lips as red as roses, as sacred blood on snow, the rhyme went. Eyes as green as willow leaves, and hair black as a crow.

‘First, I have news I imagine will please you,’ Queen Sabran said. ‘We have decided to annul your betrothal to Lord Magnaust Vatten. Instead, he will wed Idrega Vetalda, Princess of Yscalin.’

Glorian was careful not to smile, even as a sunbeam of relief shone through her.

‘As you decree, Mother,’ she said. ‘I wish them every happiness.’

Arching an eyebrow, Queen Sabran lifted her goblet to her lips. The wine deepened their redness.

‘The eruption of the Dreadmount threatens the stability of Virtudom,’ she said. ‘We could no longer wait until you are seventeen to strengthen our ties to the Vatten. Fortunately, Idrega is willing and of age. She will marry Lord Magnaust on the Feast of High Winter.’

‘In such a dark time?’

‘It is wise to give the people joy when the world offers them gloom and lack. As the Knight of Fellowship reminds us, it is in the darkest times that companionship is needed most. What else does the Feast of High Winter represent?’

‘A new year.’

‘Yes. A fair time for a new alliance.’

Glorian had a distant memory of Idrega, courteous and sweet. A strange fit with the scornful Magnaust.

‘Your father and I will attend the ceremony, which will take place in Vattengard,’ continued Queen Sabran. ‘The newlyweds will then go on progress in Mentendon.’

Before Glorian could stop it, hope leapt in her. ‘Mother, it’s been so long since I last visited Hróth. May I go, too?’

‘No,’ her mother said at once. Seeing Glorian wilt, she sat back, her shoulders lowering. ‘The heir and the sovereign cannot both be away from Inys, Glorian. You must stay.’

Glorian dulled as quickly as she had brightened. To distract herself, she drank some wine.

‘All of this does not relieve you of your own duty to wed,’ Queen Sabran reminded her. ‘Princess Idrega has done us a great service. Our Yscali friends will need rewarding.’

And Glorian was the reward.

‘Yes, Mother,’ was all she said.

Queen Sabran looked at her, and then through the window, at the fields beyond the castle. ‘I asked your father to marry me here,’ she said. ‘On the shore of Lyfrith Lake.’

‘Truly?’

Glorian could not recognise this picture of her mother, cavorting in pools and proposing to strange heathen men. It had been years since Glorian had even heard her laugh.

‘Yes.’ Her gaze was distant, but soft, her lips tilted. ‘I was afraid that day. Afraid to take such a great risk on a stranger, a man I knew had blood on his hands – but I did, to save Inys from the rot that had almost consumed it. The rot of decadence, envy, indecision. We must never let it creep back, Glorian.’ She took one more small drink from her goblet. ‘I will hear petitions this afternoon. I trust you will pay close attention to your studies.’

‘Mother,’ Glorian said, ‘I am sixteen now. If I am to be alone in Inys, I should know more about ruling. May I join you?’

‘What other lesson do you have today?’

‘Music.’ Glorian cleared her throat. ‘I am to . . . refine my singing.’

They both knew her voice was as clear as marshwater. ‘I see.’ When Queen Sabran spoke again, her tone was lighter than usual. ‘Perhaps we can dispense with singing for one day.’

****

Glowan Castle was a summer home. The timber-framed throne room lacked the daunting magnificence of its counterpart in Ascalun, but still had a dignified beauty – the walls painted white, the floors strewn with rushes. Its doors had been thrown open to the breeze.

Seventy petitioners stood in a crowd, waiting to speak to Queen Sabran. Her throne was polished walnut, set beneath a red canopy, before a banner bearing the True Sword.

For the first time, Glorian perched beside her mother on a faldstool. Once more, she sat with her shoulders back and hands in her lap, just as her manners tutor had instructed.

The Inysh came to their queen when they had found no satisfaction in their provinces. Most of their grievances were dull, complicated, or both – minor heresies by their neighbours, disputes over burial rights and land boundaries, the occasional plea for a royal pardon – and the heat made it hard to concentrate. Still, Glorian tried. When she wore the crown, it would be her duty to listen to her people, and to try to make things right for them.

‘Lord Mansell,’ Queen Sabran said when a man in his fifties approached. ‘Welcome. How fares your companion?’

The man bowed. ‘Your Grace. Highness,’ he added to Glorian. ‘Lord Edrick is very well.’

‘And your children?’

A queen was always courteous, despite the demands on her time. ‘Roland continues to learn the ways of the barony from Edrick,’ Lord Mansell said. ‘Mara has begun work for your own mother at Befrith Castle. She says Lady Marian treats her most kindly.’

It was the first Glorian had heard of her grandmother in a long time.

‘I am pleased to hear it,’ Queen Sabran said. ‘And your younger son, Wulfert. He stands among my consort’s retainers.’

‘Indeed.’ Lord Mansell smiled, his eyes twinkling. ‘Wulf is very proud to serve King Bardholt, and we are very proud of him.’ He sighed. ‘Your Grace, forgive me. This is a dreary matter, to be sure, and yet it drags on. I would be grateful for your intervention.’

‘I shall render what assistance I may.’

Lord Mansell began a story of a neglected path and a six-year dispute over who was legally bound to maintain it. Though Glorian tried to listen, trying to set her mind on it was like nailing whey to a wall. By the time she willed herself to concentrate again, Lord Mansell had retreated.

‘Lord Ordan Beck,’ the steward announced. ‘Dowager Earl of Goldenbirch.’

The Dowager Earl approached on a plastered foot and a crutch, wearing the black and harvest gold that appeared in his heraldry. He was tall, like his daughter, his hair grey over a broad forehead.

‘Your Grace, Highness. The Leas is honoured by your presence,’ he said in his rolling northern accent, ‘and I am, as ever, honoured to keep it in your name.’

‘You have not petitioned me for many years, my lord. Since you have come with an injury, it must be a pressing matter,’ Queen Sabran observed. ‘Pray, unburden yourself.’

‘My queen, I do have a story both urgent and strange. With me I bring Lady Annes Haster, companion to Sir Landon Croft. If it please you, she will tell it with her own tongue.’

‘As you wish.’

An ashen woman stepped forward. ‘Your Grace, forgive me. I hardly know where to begin.’

Queen Sabran inclined her head. The woman wrung her thick fingers.

‘Our estate is close to the haithwood. All through the spring and summer, our livestock has been disappearing – the lambs stolen as soon as they were born, others taken in the night.’

Glorian was wide awake now.

‘Given the Dowager Earl had broken his ankle,’ Lady Annes said, ‘he asked my companion to lead a lawful hunt in the haithwood, to try to kill whichever creature was responsible.’

She stopped, her shoulders rising. ‘Take your time, Lady Annes,’ Queen Sabran said.

‘Thank you, Your Grace. I beg your pardon.’ She dried her cheeks. ‘Some way into the haithwood, Sir Landon found what he thought was a wolf den. Inside, among bones and blood, they found eleven boulders, about so high.’ Her hand hovered by her fourth rib. ‘He said they were hot as a cooked pot to the touch, with a reek like a boiling stew. Three of the rocks had split open, and within they were thick with . . . black honeycomb.’

‘Honeycomb,’ Queen Sabran repeated.

‘I believe he spoke poetically, Your Grace,’ Lord Ordan explained. ‘Likely some pory rock.’

Glorian glanced sidelong at her mother.

‘Sir Landon decided to retreat, and to return with axes to break another of the rocks open. He returned for supper and left again at dawn,’ Lady Annes said. ‘He never came back.’

Queen Sabran narrowed her eyes.

‘Your Grace.’ Lord Ordan took over. ‘The southern reaches of the haithwood are my responsibility up to the Wickerwath. It’s forbidden to stray from the bridleway without the approval and guidance of my foresters. Sir Landon and his party did not seek this before returning. Since they are now in contempt of royal forest law, I must ask your leave to carry out a search for them, no matter how deep into the trees it may take us.’

‘I grant it, and commend you to the Duchess of Justice. We shall have a full inquest.’

‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ Lady Annes whispered.

‘I will report my findings as soon as possible,’ Lord Ordan said. ‘Good day, my queen. My princess.’

They retreated, and the next petitioner approached the throne, a slender man with short brown hair.

‘Your Grace.’ He had pointed features, sharp blue eyes. ‘Blessings on you, and on your daughter.’

Queen Sabran looked to her steward, who seemed at a loss. The petitioner took out a blade, a dull knife with a wooden handle. ‘Mother,’ Glorian cried, but it was not the queen that he ran toward.

It was her.

A weight collided with her side, thrusting her off the faldstool. She looked back to see her mother shove the man hard in the chest with her bare hands. He lashed out with the knife, just missing her bloodless face. As the Royal Guard wrestled him away, she threw herself beside Glorian and flung both arms around her, shielding her with her own body.

The man stabbed the young guard who held him, driving the blade straight into their throat, above their mail. He rounded on Glorian and her mother, the knife slick with blood.

‘Liars,’ he hissed. His hand was shaking. ‘You never held him at bay. You never—’

A sliver of dark iron burst through his chest. Red sprayed the rushes. Glorian screamed as he fell to the floor, revealing Sir Bramel Stathworth, who slowly lowered his crossbow.

Glorian stared at the dying man, tears leaking down her cheeks. Queen Sabran gripped the back of her head, holding her so tight that Glorian could feel her trembling.