A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

The War Hall was the largest chamber in the Priory, its ceiling a triumph of Ersyri mirrorwork. One side was open to the elements – a steep drop to the forest, guarded by nine columns. Detailed carvings adorned them, showing the lives and deeds of the nine handmaidens of Cleolind.

At the top of each column was a corbel, sculpted into the bust of a handmaiden. For those who had borne children, all women of their line were named beneath, etched in Selinyi. Tunuva read the lower ones as she limbered up. Five centuries of sister lines.

After her kindling, she had etched her own name into the second column, below many other Melim women, all branching down from their ancestor, Narha. It was said only she could comfort the Mother when she dreamed of the Nameless One.

Tunuva wished Narha could comfort her, too – that her forebear could lean down from that column and brush away her nightmares. In the last one, Esbar had stabbed her in the heart, and she had woken in a sweat, convinced it was blood.

She had not told Esbar.

Across the hall, Esbar was taking her time at the rack. When she nodded to an Ersyri sword, the armourer removed its silver-mounted scabbard, wiped its blade with an oiled cloth, and handed it to her. As she held the sword aloft to inspect it, Tunuva recalled the cold twist of the knife in her dream.

She shook herself. ‘Are you ready,’ she called, ‘or examining yourself in the ceiling?’

‘Why?’ Esbar sauntered to the middle of the hall. ‘Do you suppose I’d like what I see?’

‘Unquestionably.’

Many of their sisters had gathered to watch. Yeleni stood in a far corner, away from the others. She had seen out the long confinement imposed on her for abetting Siyu.

‘You flatter me, lover,’ Esbar said, drawing her back to the matter at hand. She tilted the sword, resting the flat of its blade on her scarred forearm. ‘But tread softly.’ They circled one another. ‘Fill me with too much confidence, and I fear you may come to regret it.’

‘Confidence is a danger, true.’ Tunuva spun her spear. ‘Arrogance, however, I can tip to my advantage.’

Lips leaning into a smile, Esbar lunged.

Since they were children, they had mastered every Southern weapon, as well as some Yscali blades. What they trained to fight was not human, but the Mother had vanquished the Nameless One with an Inyscan sword, Ascalun. Even monsters were not impervious to steel.

Esbar slashed and stabbed, thews bunching in her upper arms. She was always most vigorous at the start of a duel, wearing her opponent down as quickly as she could. Tunuva knew better than to rise to it. She blocked with ease.

‘Letting me lead, I see.’ Esbar flicked back a grey strand of hair. ‘Am I to take this as an early submission?’

‘Ah, you know I like to warm the blood before a dance.’

Not long after their first kiss, they had faced each other in this chamber. Esbar always fought to win, and win she had. She had sent the healer away and tended Tunuva herself.

Nothing comes above the Mother, she had said, soft and resolute. If we do this, we cannot let it call us from our duty. We are warriors, Tunuva.

From that day forth, Tunuva had fought as hard against Esbar as she did against any other sister. In thirty years, she had never flinched.

Esbar kept hammering her across the chamber. She was an army in one woman, her sword catching the sunlight and splintering it between the mirrors. Its edge came within a fingertip of Tunuva; she flung up her spear just in time to deflect it.

They spun away from each other. Esbar pounced again. Tunuva swivelled the spear around her waist, over her shoulders, parrying each cut. Though Esbar was relentless, Tunuva had nurtured the patience to endure the onslaught, and for all Esbar tried to break her defence, it held.

Tunuva had never cared for the hunt, but fighting – that was something wondrous. Feeling her body surge and twist, marvelling at the power in it, at the way her eye spoke to her mind and her limbs. And of course, the force of nature that was Esbar.

The curved sword flashed towards her again. As she knocked it away, Tunuva recalled the first time she had seen Esbar fight, with Gashan, who was almost two years older. They had fought with pride and rancour, which had shown in their discordant blows, their shouts and gritted teeth – but when Tunuva fought Esbar, it was always courtship.

Esbar was finally slowing. As soon as she saw the glint of sweat, Tunuva drove the spear at her. Hissing out an exhilarated breath, Esbar sliced up and down, both hands on the hilt, barely keeping the spear from her face. She unlocked a store of strength and briefly won back the upper hand, only for Tunuva to feint and clip her jaw with the blunt end of the spear. Esbar grinned. The mark would bloom and fade before morning.

Tunuva whirled her weapon, drawing sounds of appreciation from their sisters. She had always favoured the graceful Kumengan spear. Tightening her grip, she ran forward, planted its end on the floor, and used it to pitch her weight towards Esbar, kicking her square in the chest. Esbar had barely fallen when she wheeled herself back to her feet.

Tunuva charged towards her and swung for her calves. Esbar jumped to elude the blow and struck down with all her might, pinning the spear. Mustering her strength, Tunuva broke the lock. In the same movement, she brought the spear all the way around her waist, thrusting its head back towards Esbar.

Esbar rallied once more. Tunuva glimpsed an opportunity and cracked her across the hand, forcing her to drop her sword. A moment later, Esbar was on her back, and Tunuva was astride her, pointing the spear at her throat. Esbar laughed, chest heaving.

‘Sometimes I forget how good you are,’ she said.

‘Hm.’ Tunuva kissed her. ‘And then I remind you.’

She rose and held out a hand. Esbar took it, letting Tunuva pull her up. While their sisters applauded, Esbar passed her sword to the armourer, let down her hair, and glanced towards the witnesses.

‘Canthe,’ she called. ‘Good of you to join us.’ She clenched and unclenched her hand. ‘Care for a spar?’

Heads turned. The newcomer was standing beside Yeleni, draped in ivory silks that left her arms bare.

‘A kind invitation, Esbar, but I am no warrior.’ Canthe inclined her head. ‘I prefer never to fight.’

‘If you are to become a sister, you must.’ Esbar accepted a cup from one of the men. ‘I think we would all be curious to see the gifts of an Inysh mage.’

‘I fear it would be a one-sided battle.’ Canthe glanced at the arched entrance. ‘Besides, I think you are needed.’

Bare feet clapped along the corridor outside. One of the young postulants came rushing through the doorway.

‘Tunuva, Esbar,’ she said, breathless. ‘It’s Siyu.’

Murmurs filled the chamber. Tunuva looked to Esbar, who breathed in through her nose, expressionless. ‘Go,’ she said. ‘Be with her, Tuva. I’ll follow once I’ve told Saghul.’

Tunuva needed no further encouragement. She tossed her spear to the armourer and strode after the girl.

****

She heard the sounds before she reached the birthing chamber. Sounds brought on by an opened body – movement beyond knowledge, beyond thought. Ancient and unspoken urge. (Clench, hold, push.) Then the smells: sweat and herbs. Something like clay. Scent of wet earth taking form. Though she placed one foot before the other, each step pulled her back in time.

The chamber was more like a cave than the rest of the Priory, dimmed to calm the mind. Passage from one womb to another – that was how she had seen it then, in the first clouded hour of holding him close.

After the clearing, in her dreams, she remembered this room not as womb, but as tomb, as comb. No honey in a womb. No bees. She had brought him from the darkness to his end.

Siyu was huddled over her belly. When Tunuva stepped inside, she looked up, face tearstained.

‘Tuva.’

‘Hello, sunray.’ Tunuva went to her. ‘I missed you.’

‘I missed you, too.’ Her voice shook. ‘It hurts.’

It will never stop, Tunuva thought, unbidden. It will never stop hurting. All of your days, you will never know peace. She drew Siyu as close as she could, and Siyu buried her face in her shoulder.

Every feature of the birthing chamber lived in perfect detail in her memory. Little had changed in almost two decades. There were the candles, the jars of oil, the fresh linen, basins of hot and cool water. On the hearth, the bronze statue of Gedali, high divinity of doorways and birth, delivering their child, Gedani, who held a pomegranate flower in each fist.

When Tunuva had laboured here, she had felt her sisters’ love around her like a cloak. They had all gathered in support, to hearten and pray for her. Her birthmother had been dead by then: Liru Melim, who had given her life saving the Ersyri royals from a surprise attack.

So Esbar had been on both sides of Tunuva – breathing with her, soothing her. She had been there when Tunuva leaked water, through each wrenching pain, through the tearing. All of them had, all through the night. It had been the hardest birth in years.

This night, the room was empty but for Denag, purging her hands in fig wine.

‘Denag,’ Tunuva said, ‘is it time?’

‘Yes. She has opened enough.’ Denag rinsed and dried her hands. ‘Is Esbar coming?’

‘I don’t want anyone else,’ Siyu said roughly. ‘Just Tuva.’

Tunuva shook her head at Denag. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she murmured to Siyu. ‘Denag has delivered many children. Including you.’ She tucked her damp hair behind her ear. ‘Are you ready?’

Siyu set a wide-eyed gaze on the birthing bricks. After a long moment, she nodded.

Tunuva led her to the stacks and helped her step on to them. ‘Bend your knees. Denag will be there to take the child,’ she said, ‘and I’ll be here to hold you. You’re going to be fine, Siyu.’

Denag knelt before the bricks with her wrap of instruments, hidden from Siyu. Those would only be used if something went awry, or Siyu needed more assistance. She shook out the mantle she would use to catch the child, chanting a familiar prayer to Gedali.

First to birth, opener of ways, guardian of life, make this one strong. Protect her, protect the one who is coming. You whose womb’s blood woke the fields, whose broken waters raised the rivers, whose milk nourishes the land . . .

‘We’re ready when you are,’ Tunuva said gently to Siyu. ‘You can start to push now.’

‘I don’t know how.’

‘Breathe with me, slowly. Listen to your body leading you. It knows the way.’ Tunuva guided her trembling hand to her belly. ‘It feels a little like your bleeding pains, doesn’t it?’

Just once more, Tuva. Push.

Siyu could hardly speak. ‘Worse,’ she managed. ‘Much worse.’ A groan ripped out of her. ‘Tuva, I can’t, I want it to stop.’

‘It will stop. Bear down,’ Tunuva said in calming tones. ‘You will feel what to do.’

Siyu blew in and out. When she pushed, a cry tore from her throat, knifing into Tunuva. I am with you. Esbar bracing her shoulders, stiffening each time she sobbed. We all are.

‘That’s it, Siyu,’ Tunuva said, keeping hold of her. ‘Very good. You’re being so brave. Push again, now.’ Siyu shook her head, tears dripping from her chin. ‘Siyu, you can do this.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You must,’ Denag told her. ‘The child must come. You can see your sisters after this, Siyu.’

Siyu heaved with tears. Tunuva moved behind her and grasped her hands, helping her carry her own weight.

As Tunuva held on, and the candles burned low, she was not only herself. She was beside Esbar on the day she had Siyu, and she was in love all over again. She was weeping in relief, and Denag was bringing her child, and it was a boy, a sweet boy for the Mother.

Sweat dampened her skin. Siyu pushed again with a long raw sound, and Tunuva felt each sob and shudder deep in her own body, softly echoed. A ghost brushed tiny fingers over her face. A ghost fed at her breast. A ghost cried in the dark vaults of her memory.

She pressed her eyes shut, forcing that time back into its deep pit. Siyu needed her.

Over an hour passed. Siyu strained and panted, but for all she tried, the child would not come.

‘Is it as it was with me?’ Tunuva asked Denag, whose expression was grim. ‘A footling?’

‘No, but I suspect the face or brow is coming first. Apaya was born that way.’

‘Then it will be all right.’ Tunuva watched her. ‘Denag?’

Denag placed a reassuring hand on Siyu. ‘I need to see if the child is facing the backbone or the belly,’ she muttered to Tunuva, who leaned closer to hear. ‘Usually, I would prefer the backbone, but if I am right, that would make things . . . significantly more difficult. Either way, I will do my best to move the child into a better position.’

‘No more,’ Siyu gasped out. ‘I can’t.’

She pulled away and almost crawled towards the hearth. ‘Siyu,’ Tunuva said, following, ‘it’s all right.’

‘So tired.’ Siyu slumped against the wall, glazed in sweat. ‘Gedali, have mercy. Make it stop.’

‘Gedali is with you. They hear.’ Tunuva knelt beside her. ‘Tell me what you’re feeling.’

She saw the depth of fright behind those eyes. Siyu was a warrior, but for all her cuts and bruises, she had never had to weather this kind of pain. She had no idea what to do with it.

‘Siyu,’ Tunuva said, smudging a tear from her cheek, ‘Denag needs to reach the child.’ Siyu shook her head. ‘I’m right here. I’m with you, Siyu. Don’t try to bear the pain alone.’

‘I have to.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I see now. What I did. The Mother is punishing me.’

‘No, sunray.’

Tunuva moved her drenched curls from her face and used a cloth to blot her sweat, barely restraining her own fear. Not once had she allowed herself to think they might lose Siyu, but childbirth always came with risk, even with a guide as capable as Denag.

‘The blend of relief,’ Tunuva said to her. ‘Please, Denag.’

Denag reached for a box. ‘Siyu, I have something that will make you less aware for a short time. It’s harmless, and you can push again after. Would you like to take it?’

‘Yes,’ Siyu rasped.

When she was young, Denag had discovered that the milk of a rare flower, mixed with certain herbs, could blunt the senses. As soon as Siyu had drunk it, she softened and sank against Tunuva, letting Denag reach inside. Denag frowned in concentration.

‘Good. Face first, as I thought,’ she said, ‘but turned towards the belly. A great mercy.’ She released a breath. ‘Come, little one. No need to confront the world so brashly.’

Siyu murmured in discomfort. Finally, Denag withdrew, just as Siyu started to break from the haze.

‘Tuva,’ Denag said, ‘turn her on to her side.’

Tunuva did. Whatever Denag had done, it had worked – Siyu pushed twice more, and at last, the child was out. ‘It’s over,’ Tunuva told her. Siyu wept in relief. ‘You did so well.’

A little cry rose. Tunuva helped Siyu walk to the daybed, where Denag brought the baby. ‘Here she is, Siyu. A new warrior,’ she said. ‘The Mother is very proud of you.’

Siyu blinked at the newborn on her chest with bewildered curiosity. It was hard to tell who looked more dazed. ‘Thank you, Tuva,’ she whispered. ‘And you, Denag. Thank you.’

Tunuva smiled, her mouth tight at the corners. Here he is, Tuva. Here he is.

The close air clotted in her throat. ‘Denag,’ she said, ‘I will come back. Take care of them.’

Denag did answer, but Tunuva only heard a faint roar, like the inside of a shell. She faltered into the corridor, smelling fresh bread and flowers instead of birth. Her head was heavy as an anvil.

‘Tuva.’

She looked up. Esbar was striding towards her with Lalhar, followed by the rest of their family, waiting to welcome Siyu back into the fold. The banded ichneumon sniffed the air.

‘Tuva.’ Esbar embraced her. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why didn’t you come?’ Tunuva said, weary.

‘Saghul collapsed.’ Esbar drew back. ‘Is Siyu all right?’

‘Yes.’ So tired she could hardly think, Tunuva touched her cheek, smearing it with a little blood. ‘Go to her, Ez.’

Tunuva moved past her, stroking Lalhar as she went. The ichneumon licked her elbow.

As soon as she was out of sight, she broke into a run. She stumbled up flight after flight of steps, towards her own sunroom and its open doors.

On her balcony, she fell to her knees, unleashing the scream that had risen and writhed in her, all those hours in the birthing chamber. For the first time in years, she let the pain break free and flood her.

She would not drown in grief again. Instead, she swam in it, bathed in it. She drank it like a bitter wine, until only a sliver of her soul was left to gasp for breath. She could see him again: his soft head, his eyelids, his perfect fingers curling around hers, his first smile. With a cry, she pressed both hands to her face, lost in the agony of remembrance.

I’m sorry.

‘Tunuva?’

Eyes overflowing, she looked back. Canthe, the unexpected guest, came to sit at her side.

‘Canthe, you can’t be here,’ she said, the words strangled.

‘I’m sorry. I saw you run past, and . . . it seemed wrong to leave you.’ Canthe watched her, aching sorrow in her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry, Tunuva. It is the most painful thing. To lose a child.’

Tunuva stared at her. ‘How?’ she whispered. ‘How could you possibly know?’

Canthe hesitated, then said, ‘I just know.’

Tunuva tried to speak, to no avail. There was nothing to say. Canthe wrapped an arm around her, and Tunuva wept bitterly into her shoulder, as if she had known this strange outsider all her life.