A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

Now Siyu had seen out her sentence, Saghul had restored her freedoms and granted her the use of a sunroom. Their family united to help and cheer her. Between feeds, the men would take the newborn so she could sleep and mend from the delivery. Her crime was forgiven, if not forgotten.

Just as peace returned to their home, Tunuva had to leave. Soon she and Hidat would ride to the Vale of Yaud, one of the places where they had found the strange rocks, to investigate. This time, they would go with enough force to slay anything that emerged.

Before she left, she decided to pay Siyu a visit, remembering the exhaustion and soreness after childbirth. Even sitting had been hard, and her ankles had swollen to twice their usual girth – so when she glanced into the sunroom, she made sure to be quiet, in case Siyu was sleeping.

She sat awake on her daybed, feeding the child. Cloth wrapped her beneath the mound of her belly, padded with moss to soak up the long bleed. Seeing Tunuva, she smiled.

‘I hoped you’d come.’

‘I know the feeds can be dull alone.’ Tunuva kissed her forehead, relieved to find it cool. ‘How are you?’

‘Tired. I don’t know why, when I sleep so often.’

‘Because your body has spent months forming a future warrior. Now it works day and night to nourish her, and to heal.’ Tunuva studied her face. ‘Tell me truthfully. Are you in any pain?’

‘I feel bruised.’ Siyu shifted the baby. ‘Tuva, I don’t think I’m doing this right. Today she seems happy, but yesterday she screamed so much I thought I must be hurting her.’

‘No, no. Some newborns just don’t take to the breast. Imin can enrich longhorn milk to help. You lived on that after the first month,’ Tunuva told her. ‘Esbar tried to feed you until then, but she found it so exhausting and painful, she had to stop. It can be very hard.’

‘But I thrived?’

‘Yes. You were perfect.’ Tunuva sat beside her. ‘Siyu, I know the Prioress has been too unwell to anoint the child, but have you thought of a name?’

‘Lukiri du Siyu uq-Nāra.’

An old Selinyi name, meaning orchard child. Tunuva had not heard it in some time.

‘Beautiful,’ she said. ‘It suits her.’

‘When will the Prioress be able to anoint her?’

‘Soon, I hope.’

Once Lukiri had stopped, Siyu dabbed her mouth with a cloth. ‘Would you like to hold her?’ she asked Tunuva. ‘Denag explained how to help her bring up wind, but I never can.’

Tunuva started to speak. Yes, a voice said in her head. Of course.

‘You don’t have to, Tuva,’ Siyu said quietly.

‘No.’ Tunuva made herself smile again. ‘Let me show you.’

Siyu smiled back and passed her the child. Tunuva held Lukiri under the arms, and the tiny girl curled up her legs, sleepy and drunk with milk.

‘Hello, little sunray.’

Lukiri blinked. Tunuva sat the child on her thigh, tilted her forward, and cupped a hand under her chin.

‘Oh,’ Siyu breathed. Lukiri waved her fists, frowning. ‘I’ve been putting her over my shoulder.’

‘That suits some babies.’ Tunuva made sure she had a firm hold on Lukiri before she started to pat and rub her back. ‘Others prefer this way.’

‘Tuva . . . Imin held me after I was born. He told me so. May Anyso not hold Lukiri?’

‘Imin was an anointed member of the Priory.’

‘So might Anyso be,’ Siyu said, appeal in her eyes. ‘Tuva, he could lead a happy life among the men. He’s so gentle and patient. His family are bakers, so he can make bread and cakes, and he helped raise his two sisters. I’m sure he could learn to sew and garden.’

‘He also loves you.’

‘Esbar loves you.’

‘Our situation is different. Anyso wants to marry you and take you to his family. You must see the danger in that.’

Siyu was silent for a time. ‘I could make him understand, if I could talk to him,’ she said, shaken. ‘It’s awful to keep him here like a prisoner, Tuva. He didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘I know.’ Tunuva gave her a regretful look. ‘This is why we try to stay hidden, sunray.’

‘I should never have gone to the river. I should never have been seen,’ Siyu said in a disquieted whisper. ‘Tuva . . . if he can’t stay and he can’t leave, what will happen to him?’

‘That is for the Prioress to decide, when she feels stronger.’

Lukiri broke the silence with a burp and spat up milk, startling herself. Siyu managed a snort of laughter.

‘There.’ Tunuva turned Lukiri and used a fresh cloth to wipe her mouth and chin. ‘Shall I take her to the men?’

‘Yes, please.’ Siyu set her head on the bolster. ‘Will you ask Imin about the milk?’

‘I will.’

Tunuva hitched Lukiri up to her shoulder. Her movement woke Lalhar, who twitched her nose and climbed on to the daybed to curl up with Siyu. Tunuva left them both to sleep.

Lukiri yawned in her arms, smelling of roses and milk. Tunuva gave her scalp a gentle kiss as she descended. The pang came, as it always did, but it was softer than she had feared.

She knew exactly how Saghul would want to remove the difficulty of Anyso. Siyu was supposed to have killed him. He had known too much as soon as he saw a girl in the depths of the Lasian Basin. If there was another way, Tunuva had failed to think of it.

‘Explain to me how this happened, Alanu. Explain it as if I am one of the children.’

Imsurin was holding a grey cloak, glaring at one of the older boys. ‘Brother, we were low on clothing soap,’ Alanu was saying, his tone earnest, ‘so I thought I would try—’

‘You must forgive my ignorance, Alanu. I was under the foolish impression that you had something to do with maintaining our supplies. Are we usually graced by a soap divinity?’

‘I hate to interrupt,’ Tunuva said. They both turned. ‘This child will need changing soon.’

‘Alanu will be pleased to oblige,’ Imsurin said curtly. Alanu dipped his head to Tunuva, leaving with a sigh. ‘Is she fed, Tuva?’

‘A full belly.’ Tunuva handed the baby to him. ‘Siyu has named her Lukiri.’

‘Lukiri is a fine name.’ Imsurin turned his grandchild towards him with practised ease. ‘Denag says Siyu is well in body and mind.’

‘I think she is. She may wish to use longhorn milk.’

‘I will prepare some,’ he said. Lukiri hiccupped. ‘Do you know if the Prioress is any better?’

‘There has been no change, as far as I know. Esbar will keep you abreast of her condition.’

Imsurin nodded, his brow knitting into deeper lines. ‘I wish you well on your travels, Tunuva,’ he said. ‘May the Mother watch over you.’

‘And you, Imin.’

Tunuva made her way back up the stairs. In the scullery, the older men were hard at work cooking the midday meal, filling the corridors with the smells of milk-rubbed bread and lamb stew.

‘Hello, Tunuva.’

She stopped at the sound of that full-toned voice. Canthe stood at the end of the corridor.

Tunuva almost turned away. Canthe had been so kind when she wept, embracing her without question or judgement. Showing such vulnerability to a stranger had left her feeling naked and shaken.

‘Canthe. Are you all right?’ Tunuva said, with reserve. ‘This floor is for the men and children.’

‘A mark of my predicament. I’m afraid I keep getting lost,’ Canthe admitted. ‘There are so many rooms.’

Tunuva softened. ‘No one has shown you the Priory?’

‘No.’

That would not do. ‘Then I will,’ Tunuva said. ‘Come. We can share a loaf of hot bread.’

****

They visited almost every room. Tunuva took Canthe into the War Hall, the armoury – the walls glinted with hundreds of weapons – and the refectory, which rang with general disorder as the men tried to feed the children. They glanced into the Fire Chamber, where Hidat was leading the younger initiates in a practice session, lighting candles and oil lamps with magic.

‘Above us are the sunrooms,’ Tunuva said as they wandered along a corridor. ‘Those are for titled sisters – presently myself, Esbar and the Prioress. Those who are pregnant and nursing may also use those rooms.’

‘How lovely.’ Canthe smiled, looking touched. ‘Siyu is using one now, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘You seem very fond of her.’ When Tunuva gave a small nod, Canthe said, ‘I understand Esbar is her birthmother. She must be like a daughter to you, in some ways.’

‘A sister. We are all daughters of the Mother.’

‘Of course.’

They went to the next floor, where a fountain trickled and miniature trees grew in stone urns.

‘This is where the initiates live,’ Tunuva told Canthe. ‘They rise from the lowest rank – the postulants – by proving themselves to the Prioress. When she deems it suitable, an initiate will eat of the tree for the first time and receive her white cloak. We call this a kindling.’

‘How old are they when this happens?’

‘Usually around sixteen.’

‘Goodness.’ Canthe laughed. ‘If the Prioress lets me stay, I shall be a latecomer indeed.’

Tunuva wondered exactly how old this woman was. ‘Once they have the sacred flame,’ she said, ‘the initiates are sent to uphold the stability and safety of the South. We are bound to protect the ruling families of Lasia and the Ersyr. Only they know of our existence.’

‘But your highest duty is to ensure the Nameless One never returns. Where is it you think he is now?’

‘One of the great mysteries. The Mother vanquished him with the sword Ascalun, but to where, no one knows. Most of us suspect that he crawled back into the Dreadmount.’

‘Which has now erupted.’ Canthe glanced at her. ‘Do you suppose he has returned?’

Tunuva recalled the flock of dark wings, the tang of siden on the wind.

‘Let me show you more,’ she said.

It was quiet in the dim rooms below. The men kept the children outside for most of the day.

‘Each child learns to read and write in Selinyi,’ Tunuva said as they crossed the playroom. ‘At the age of five, the path splits, with the girls becoming postulants. They begin their training as warriors and guardians of the Southern courts, and bond with an ichneumon pup. The boys stay with the men, who teach them needlepoint, cooking, husbandry – everything to do with maintaining the Priory. They also prepare to support us in battle.’

‘Like squires to knights,’ Canthe said, nodding. ‘Is it possible to change paths?’

‘In certain circumstances.’ Tunuva picked up a woven doll and returned it to the chest of toys. ‘One of my brothers was raised as a warrior, but later, he knew he belonged with the men.’

In his early twenties, Balag had often stayed up very late, studying the arts he had not been taught as a child. Whenever she had woken with an unquiet dream, Tunuva had known her beloved guardian would be awake, poring over books and scrolls.

‘And if one were like Gedali, neither man nor woman?’ Canthe said. ‘Is there a middle way?’

‘It would be easier to choose one or the other. Both require so much knowledge and instruction, it would be hard to commit by halves, though it may have been attempted.’

They walked down the corridor, heading for the steps. Canthe slowed. ‘What lies that way?’

Tunuva stopped. ‘The burial chamber,’ she said. ‘Where the Mother rests.’

‘Princess Cleolind. How did she die?’

‘That is another of the great mysteries. The Mother departed suddenly one night, leaving no word as to her purpose. Some time later, her body arrived here.’ Tunuva paused. ‘You must never try to enter the burial chamber. It is the most sacred place in the Priory. Only the titled are permitted.’

‘I understand.’

Canthe followed her, dealing the chamber door a final look. Tunuva slid open a lattice.

‘Farther down are the archives, where we keep most of our records and artefacts,’ she said. ‘Some way beneath those is the hot spring. But much of the work goes on outside.’

She took Canthe back through the higher corridors, out on to the thousand steps. When Canthe saw the orange tree, she reached for her own breastbone, as if to take her heart in hand.

‘It never stops being magnificent, does it?’

Tunuva smiled. ‘Never.’

Upon reaching the valley floor, they meandered across it, the grass cool underfoot.

‘We buy supplies, if necessary,’ Tunuva said, ‘but we prefer to be self-reliant, so we are beholden to no one. We sisters forge our own weapons; the men make our clothes and food. They raise crops to the south of the Priory: rice, millet, curd root and so on. We have a vineyard and a winepress.’ Canthe stopped to slide off her sandals. ‘Some vegetables and groundnuts are grown here in the valley, but most fruit is collected from the forest.’

‘Such bounty. I remember how well plants took to the earth around my hawthorn – the warmth and softness in it,’ Canthe said fondly. ‘Nurtha had more life than all Inysca.’

‘Nurtha is its own island?’

‘Yes. It lies just east of Inys.’

Tunuva showed her where the livestock and chickens were kept, and where the ichneumons reared their pups. In the creamery, Balag poured them cups of buttermilk, which they sipped as they visited the herb gardens, the icehouse, the earth cellar, the kiln and forge.

‘How do you keep all this a secret?’ Canthe asked. ‘Surely people have tried to chart the Basin.’

Her eyes held curiosity and sorrow. After all, she had failed to protect her own tree.

‘Our ancestors planted rumours of fearful creatures in the forest,’ Tunuva explained. ‘We also lay wardings around our farms, so we have time to prepare, should anyone come – but the forest is too large and dense for more than a few to have made it this far.’

‘I see.’ Cream lingered on her upper lip, which was fuller than the lower. ‘I came through it to reach the Priory, but I imagine you know its most beautiful places. Do you have time to show me?’

Tunuva glanced at the sun. It was on its way down, but she had already prepared for her journey.

‘Very well.’ She whistled. ‘Nin!’

Ninuru was lazing in the shade of the orange tree. Hearing Tunuva, she perked up and padded towards them. ‘This one smells of iron,’ she said, gaze fixed on Canthe. ‘And night.’

‘This is Canthe. She wants to see the Basin.’ Tunuva scratched her between the ears. ‘Shall we go for a run?’

‘Yes.’

Tunuva climbed on to her back and offered a hand to Canthe. ‘Truly?’ the visitor said with a laugh.

‘Truly. Nin won’t bite.’

Canthe accepted her hand, climbing on. Tunuva felt that odd sense of queasiness again. She kneed Ninuru east, and her ichneumon loped along the river, out through the neck of the Vale of Blood.

Ninuru was in high spirits, and ran hard. Every so often, Tunuva would stop her to show Canthe a wonder of the Lasian Basin. They waded through the flooded caves behind a waterfall, startled clouds of red butterflies from a bower, swam in a limpid pool.

‘What bird is that?’ Canthe asked as Tunuva mounted again. ‘I have never heard anything quite like it.’

Tunuva looked up. An elegant bird cocked its head at them.

‘A honeyguide,’ she said softly.

‘It seems as if it wants us to follow,’ Canthe said, charmed.

‘She does.’ Tunuva lowered her gaze. ‘Honeyguides know where the bees dwell. When they call that way, it means they want to show you.’ The bird chirruped. ‘The men smoke the bees and open the hive. They take the honey, while the birds take the wax and the young bees.’

‘Ought we not to help her, then?’

‘I brought no axe.’ Tunuva trilled to the bird with the tip of her tongue, and it took off from the branch to hunt elsewhere. ‘Come, Nin – let’s show Canthe more of the river, shall we?’

Ninuru took them to where the Upper Minara roared into a deep gorge. Tunuva dismounted at the top and gave Canthe a hand down.

This sight was among her favourites. Spray misted the air, and beyond the cascading waterfall, thousands of treetops spread all the way to the horizon. She sat with Canthe on a rock that elbowed into the water, while Ninuru waited for fish, paw raised.

‘We should return soon,’ Tunuva said. ‘I leave at dawn.’

‘For the Vale of Yaud?’ Canthe said. Tunuva nodded. ‘I hope you find nothing to fear.’ She beheld the forest. ‘Perhaps, when you return, the Prioress will have decided my fate.’

‘Yes.’ Tunuva tamped down her pride and said, ‘Thank you for your kindness, after Siyu gave birth.’

‘No thanks are necessary.’

The waterfall thundered.

‘It was here. In the forest.’ Tunuva heard herself speak as if from a distance. ‘Where my birthson died.’

Later, she might ask herself why she had laid the unvarnished truth before a stranger. For now, she found she wanted to – had wanted to since that night, since the birth – and did not question it.

‘Tunuva, I’m so sorry.’ Canthe drew her knee up to her chest. ‘How old was he?’

‘As long in the world as he was in my womb,’ Tunuva murmured. ‘Just starting to walk.’

Balag holding his tiny hands, helping him take unsteady steps. He waddled to her again, fell headlong into her arms, and she swung him up and showered him with kisses, making him laugh from his belly. She had loved that sound. In her dreams, she still heard it.

‘I never expected to love him so much. In the Priory, we are not supposed to cleave too close to our own flesh. We all belong to the Mother,’ she said. ‘Yet as soon as he was born, he had my heart.’

Now it was as if Canthe was no longer there. She was telling herself the story once more.

‘His birthfather was best at finding honey. The birds would perch on his finger. That was why I chose him. His gentleness. I wanted our child to be gentle, too, even if I bore a warrior.’

Canthe watched her. ‘Were you not with Esbar then?’

‘Yes, I was. Childbearing here is a gift to the Mother, and we both wanted to help strengthen the Priory. Saghul gave me three choices. I chose Meren. We were close friends.’

She could see him in the sunroom, waiting for her. He had made her chuckle to set her at ease. For as long as she could remember, it had been women she desired, but Meren had done his best to make her comfortable on those nights. When she had told him she was pregnant, he had grinned as if his face would crack, tears of joy in his brown eyes.

‘Can you ever choose someone from the outside?’

‘Rarely, if someone wants a child and there are no suitable matches. They will go into the world, have a discreet entanglement, and return pregnant. But it is not the preferred way.’

It took Tunuva a moment to carry on. Now she had thought of Meren, the wound was raw again.

‘One morning, Meren went out for honey, taking our birthson with him,’ she said. ‘When they didn’t come back, I went looking for them. Meren could often get distracted.’

Every word was a root, pulled from the deep hollow where she had crushed her grief.

‘His body was in a clearing. The smell of blood, the honey—’ She gazed at the horizon, trying not to see it. ‘Our birthson was gone. I ran blindly into the forest to find him, but as night came, so did a terrible storm, so heavy the Minara burst its banks. I could not even raise my flame without it flickering out. For the first time in my life, I lost my bearings in the Basin.’

Ninuru nuzzled her. She was there again, in the flooding hollow, wet fur at her side, water gushing on them both.

Go. Leave me, Nin. Waiting to die there, wanting it. Leave me . . .

I will die with you. You fed me.

‘Nin came after me. She saved me,’ she said, stroking the ichneumon. ‘When Esbar realised we were gone, she mustered the others. By the time they reached the clearing, the spoor had been washed away, but it must have been a wildcat. No trace of my child was found.’ She closed her eyes. ‘And all I have been able to imagine, all these years, is the pain he felt before the end. Whether he heard me calling. How his sweet laughter must have turned to screams, and then to nothing.’

Her own voice cracked away. It was only when she tasted salt that she realised tears had run down her face . . .

‘I’m certain that he knew how much you loved him,’ Canthe said quietly. ‘What was his name?’

Tunuva swallowed. It had been so long since she had let it pass her lips.

‘Only if you want, Tuva.’ Cool fingertips found her wrist, raising chills all the way along her arm. ‘Only if it helps you.’

It was a strange place to touch someone, the wrist. The skin that knew the patterns of the heart. ‘His name,’ Tunuva whispered. His face filled her sight. ‘I named him—’

‘Tuva?’

She turned to see a familiar black ichneumon. Esbar was astride, grasping the hilt of her sword.

Canthe took back her hand. ‘Esbar,’ Tunuva said. ‘Nin and I were just showing Canthe the forest.’

Esbar released her sword, casting her gaze towards the outsider. ‘So I see.’ Jeda growled. ‘I wanted to speak to you. Have you shown our guest enough?’

Tunuva frowned a little at her expression. For the first time in thirty years, she did not quite understand it.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Let’s go home.’

****

All the way to the Priory, Tunuva could not displace the tension from her shoulders. She watched Esbar, hoping to catch her eye, but she never looked back. Her jaw was set like a brick to mortar.

Canthe held on to Tunuva, not speaking. Long strands of her hair blew about them both.

They reached the entrance in the old fig at sunset. While Esbar strode up the steps, Jeda stalking in her wake, Canthe stopped Tunuva. ‘I hope I didn’t upset anything,’ she said, looking troubled. ‘I’m sorry, Tunuva, if so.’

‘Everything is fine.’ Tunuva spoke with more confidence than she felt. ‘Duty calls.’

‘I understand. Thank you for trusting me with your story. If you ever wish to talk – about your son, or anything else – I am here, for as long as the Prioress permits me to remain. I know I’m not a sister, but perhaps we could be friends.’

‘Yes. Goodnight, Canthe.’

‘Goodnight.’

They parted ways. Tunuva sent Ninuru to the river and carried on to her sunroom, where Esbar was waiting on the bed they shared so often, hands clasped between her knees.

Tunuva stood in the doorway. ‘It’s been a long time since we had anything to fear from the Basin,’ she said, a question in her tone.

‘It is not the forest I fear.’

‘Canthe.’ Tunuva sat beside her. ‘Ez, have you no faith that I can protect myself, after all these years?’

‘Tuva,’ Esbar said, iron in her gaze, ‘we have no idea who this woman is or what she can do. Until we know more, none of us should be alone with her. Why risk it?’

‘Because I feel for her. Imagine it, Esbar – the loss of the tree.’

There was a fleeting quiet between them.

‘You think she might understand your loss,’ Esbar finally said. ‘Perhaps better than I do.’

Though she tried to mask it, Tunuva saw that she was shaken. ‘Ez,’ she said, moving to clasp her by the hands, ‘no, my love. I didn’t mean that. Only that Canthe has suffered a terrible hurt. You know – you saw, when Nin brought me back to you – that to be alone with so much sadness is a dangerous thing. Please, let us at least give her a chance.’

Esbar searched her face. Tunuva could almost see her terrified eyes, that night in the rain.

‘If it comforts you, Tuva,’ she said. ‘I only ever want you to be happy.’

She rose. ‘Sleep here,’ Tunuva said, standing with her. ‘I may not see you for weeks.’

‘Saghul needs me. She can no longer hold down food, or move without help,’ Esbar said shortly. ‘Denag and I will take it in turns to care for her – one in the day, one through the night.’

‘Ez, you never told me this,’ Tunuva said softly. Esbar nodded once. ‘Has Denag learned what ails her?’

‘She thinks it is a . . . malicious growth, somewhere in her belly. Apparently such things can root and spread for many years, only for death to strike within a few weeks of the first warning.’

‘Is there a cure?’

‘No.’

Regret took hold of Tunuva. She had been so preoccupied with Siyu that she had missed this weight on Esbar: the shadows under her eyes, the careworn slope to her shoulders.

As Esbar turned to leave, Tunuva caught her hand. ‘Esbar,’ she said, ‘if anything happens while I am gone, you are ready. You have been ready since the day Saghul chose you.’

Esbar softened. ‘Come back soon,’ she said, placing a gentle kiss on her lips. ‘In one piece, if you please.’

The door shut behind her. Tunuva sank on to the bed, heavy with so many layers of grief.

As if sensing her troubled heart, Ninuru slunk in and lay at her side, where Esbar usually would. Calmed by her warmth, Tunuva drifted to sleep and dreamed again of Esbar, this time drowning her in honey.

****

Deep in the night, she woke, expecting to find herself soaked in sweat – a common occurrence in recent years. Instead, her skin was dry. Beside her, Ninuru looked up, ears pricked.

Tunuva touched her flank. ‘Nin?’

Ninuru sniffed the air. ‘It smells of the black mountain,’ she said. ‘The hidden fire.’

Now Tunuva sensed it, too. She followed Ninuru to her balcony. As she watched, a swathe of the stars went out, then returned. It was too dark for anyone but a mage to see the shadow that had just descended.

Without pausing to think, she made for the corridor, Ninuru hard on her heels.

The smell of vomit clung to the Bridal Chamber. Saghul was asleep. By the light of her own flame, Tunuva found Esbar on a mat on the floor, her head resting on a bolster.

‘Esbar.’ Tunuva shook her, and she stirred. ‘I’m sorry, my love.’

‘Tuva?’

‘There’s something in the valley. Nin says it smells of the Dreadmount.’

Esbar sat up and grasped the sword under the bed. ‘I need to fetch Denag,’ she said. ‘Gather a small group.’

Tunuva moved through the Priory, choosing those she trusted most to be discreet. Hidat first, then Izi Tamuten – she tended the ichneumons – and Imsurin, who she found drip-feeding Lukiri with a spouted urn.

‘Imin,’ Tunuva said, keeping her voice low. ‘Come with me.’

He passed the baby to one of the other men. Tunuva sent Balag to keep watch on Saghul.

They headed down to the valley, their flames opening a way through the dark. With no light of his own, Imsurin went in the middle. Tunuva kept hold of his shoulder to steady him.

‘The tree,’ Hidat murmured.

Tunuva looked down at it. The fruit was burning in the dark, so its boughs appeared to be covered with embers.

At the bottom, she followed her senses over the grass. They let their flames drift overhead, to cast a wider light. When she saw the shape at the base of the tree, Tunuva stopped.

‘Hidat,’ she said. ‘It’s just like the rocks we saw.’

‘Yes.’ Hidat nocked an arrow. ‘How did it come to be here?’

‘Something brought it to the tree.’

Ninuru huffed through her nose. ‘It almost looks like pitchstone,’ Izi said, kneeling close to it. ‘How strange.’

Esbar drew her sword. ‘Let’s see what lies within.’

‘Be careful, Esbar,’ Imsurin warned. ‘I don’t like the way it feels.’

Tunuva raised her spear. Esbar circled the boulder, searching for a weakness. Finding none, she swung the sword above her head and sliced down, only for it to glance off the surface with a distinct clang, sparking in all directions. She tried stabbing and sawing it, to no avail.

‘Let me try,’ Tunuva said.

Esbar stood aside. Slowly, Tunuva pushed up her sleeve, moved her hand towards the searing rock, and did exactly what she had dared not in the Vale of Yaud.

She laid her naked hand upon it.

Above, every fruit gave a rutilant flare. Beneath her fingers, the rock broke apart, starting right beneath her palm. Hot steam scalded through the seams, followed by the selfsame light and stench that had come from the Dreadmount.

‘Tuva, get back,’ Izi urged her, retreating. Tunuva could not. She was looking at a broken mirror, at death and life, at things she understood and failed to understand.

Esbar pulled her away. Tunuva stared at her own smarting hand, finding it pitted with tiny, reddened holes. A mark like a honeycomb. In all her life, no heat had ever wounded her.

Cracks pronged through the boulder. It heaved and lurched, rocking from side to side, and its surface rippled, as if it were loosening. Imsurin held up his saddle axe.

One side of the rock swelled, and a sharpness punctured it. Even with the eyes of a mage, Tunuva could not understand what she was seeing. Two horns, like polished iron. A cloven hoof, and then another, shattering the dense shell that enclosed them. Nostrils snorting out black smoke, and two embers above, set deep where its eyes should be.

Most of her mind still clawed for reason. Surely it was a great ox, or a beast of that sort. But when the front part of its body had arched free, steaming and marbled with molten lava, no hind legs followed. Instead, there was a thick scaled tail.

‘What in the name of the Mother is this?’ Esbar breathed.

Its hooves scraped furrows into the earth. When it opened its mouth, dark metal teeth glinted in the firelight, and it let out an excruciated scream.

‘I don’t know.’ Hidat aimed her arrow. ‘I want it dead.’