A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

A fistful of snow shattered against Glorian. Breathless with laughter, she scooped powder into her gloved hands.

She savoured the burn in her skin. It was rare for snow to settle for long, even in the Fells. Now the Saint had sent a flurry from on high. He, too, was celebrating the new year.

The Feast of High Winter had come and gone. The Virtues Council had arranged the usual celebrations, but Glorian had noticed that less food than usual was served. After the feast itself, she and her ladies had built a snow knight, skated on the frozen lake, and foraged for hazelnuts and sloes in the queenswood.

All of it stifled her longing for Hróth. One day, she would always wake to sparkling frost. She would drink sap from the birches and dive into icy water every morning.

For now, she would enjoy the last stretch of her favourite season. Even Adela had given in to the joy of the fight, laughing as if she would burst, hair lank and bronze with meltwater. She flung a snowball at Helisent, only to run straight into Glorian. They fell with a shriek.

‘Highness,’ Sir Bramel called.

‘I’m fine,’ Glorian said, and meant it.

She collapsed into a heap with her ladies, damp and smiling. As she lay there, the cold seeped into her.

She had not dreamed in recent days. After what her mother had revealed, it was both a comfort and a burden. Queen Sabran thought the dreams were from the Saint, but she had seemed afraid of them.

What did it mean when the Saint stopped speaking?

‘We ought to go inside,’ Julain said. ‘Before we freeze.’ She sat up. ‘Oh, look.’

Glorian followed her gaze to a black stallion, galloping towards the castle. ‘She rides as if the Nameless One were behind her,’ Helisent observed. ‘What can be the hurry?’

The gates were heaved open, and swallowed the rider.

They stayed out until noon. When they returned indoors, they huddled around the fire in the Dearn Chamber. A servant brought white cheese and figs and mulled cranberry wine, and all afternoon they played checkers and straw heap, warming their bones.

‘I wonder what Princess Idrega will wear,’ Julain mused. ‘Red, for the pear of the Vetalda?’

‘Yellow,’ Adela said, with certainty. ‘It is the colour Yscals associate with fellowship. Mama wore it to her wedding.’

‘That will make a cheerful sight in Vattengard.’ Helisent slid a painted stick from the pile. ‘It sounds a fearfully stern place. Then again, Lord Magnaust sounds a fearfully stern man.’

Just then, a knock came at the door. When the guards opened it, Florell stepped inside.

Glorian had never seen the First Lady of the Great Chamber look anything other than perfect, down to the last curl and fastening. Not so today. Her curls sat awry beneath their net, and her eyes were bloodshot.

‘Your Highness,’ she said. ‘Ladies, please excuse us. I must speak to the princess alone.’

They left, and the guards closed the door. ‘Are you quite well today, Florell?’ Glorian asked her.

‘I wanted to tell you myself. Before the Virtues Council summons you. I think your lady mother would have wanted that.’

‘The Virtues Council?’

Florell went to her knees in front of Glorian and took her by the hands. Glorian blinked.

‘Glorian,’ Florell said, ‘I have . . . news, sweeting. I can think of no kind way to give it.’ A long silence. ‘Your parents’ ship never arrived in Hróth.’

‘Were they blown off-course?’ Glorian asked, surprised. Cruel winds were known to ride the Ashen Sea in winter, but her father only hired the best captains, weathered old sea hounds who relished a storm. ‘Heryon Vattenvarg will be terribly insulted.’

Florell lowered her head. When she looked up, Glorian saw that her eyes were full and shining.

‘Earlier today,’ Florell said, ‘another rider came from Queens’ Lynn. For several days, fishers have been seeing fragments of wrecked ships in the Ashen Sea. Among them they found numerous white pieces, and a figurehead. They could not have come from any vessel but the Conviction.’

‘But . . . there was no storm. There have been no storms since the Conviction left.’

‘The pieces were blackened. By fire.’

At this, Glorian let out a huff of laughter. ‘That’s absurd. They would have fled the ship—’

‘Glorian,’ Florell said, with effort, ‘we are in the depths of winter. Even in summer, the Ashen Sea is perishing.’ A tear seeped down her cheek. ‘Queen Sabran and King Bardholt—’

‘No.’ Glorian stood. ‘No. There were seven ships in the royal entourage. Pray, was no rowboat on the Conviction, Florell? Would none of the other captains have taken them on board?’

‘None of the ships docked.’

‘That isn’t possible. You expect me to believe that a single fire destroyed seven vessels?’

‘We don’t yet know what happened.’ Florell could hardly get the words out. ‘It may have been an attack, Glorian. The Ments—’

‘We must send ships and divers to comb the Ashen Sea. Pay them, give them what you wish, but make them find my parents.’ Her heart was trying to break her ribs. ‘My father is the Hammer of the North. My mother is Sabran the Ambitious. They ended the War of Twelve Shields, the Century of Discontent. The Saint would not let them die at sea!’

Florell kept shaking her head. ‘Even the Saint could not have—’

‘They are not gone. You’ll see. My father is alive. He would never have let my mother die. He promised. He promised me we would live in Hróth.’ Tears bathed her cheeks. ‘Papa—’

Something was foaming up inside her. All sense of control crumbled. She had a sudden urge to rip and strike, run and scream, fling open the doors and run until her legs gave in – anything to be out of this room, to not have heard these tidings. Anything on earth.

Before she could, Florell pulled her close, and the sound that escaped her throat was so awful, she could not think it hers. It stemmed from some place deep within, the seat of her very self.

‘It’s not true,’ she heaved out. ‘Florell, say it’s not.’

Florell only held the back of her head. Glorian clung to her, the warm blue anchor in the wrathful sea.

****

She lay in bed, not caring how she got there. Florell kept watch beside the fire. Now and again, Glorian would see her weeping into her hands, so hard she made no sound.

The doors were closed against the world. It did not stop Glorian from hearing Adela scream in anguish. Her mother had been on the Conviction, too. So had hundreds of others, including one of Julain’s brothers. Every noble family had sent at least one member to the wedding.

And Wulf. Her old friend must be among the many dead, beside her father to the last.

Outside, in the gloom of dusk, the snow thickened. Florell roused herself enough to send for wine, while Glorian tried to think. How was it possible that seven ships could have burst into flame on the water, and been torn apart with the force of a storm?

What sort of fire could leap between decks, across leagues of sea?

When the idea stared Glorian in the face, she said, ‘Florell, may I have some?’

When the goblet came, she drank, long thick gulps that burned her chest, and listed back into the bolsters. She remembered the worm, curled around the dead thing in the gall.

Wyrm. It was her own voice she heard as she drifted into a fitful sleep. Only a wyrm breathes so much fire.

****

News of the seven shipwrecks would fracture the West and the North. For as long as possible, it was to remain a secret, guarded by the Dukes Spiritual. They let Glorian lie in bed for two days. In the end, she did weep, until her eyelids puffed and her throat ached.

At last, Florell opened the drapes around her bed. Glorian lay still as a cool hand found her hair.

‘The Dukes Spiritual have requested your presence.’

Glorian stared at the canopy. ‘It is him, Florell. The Nameless One.’

‘You must not say or think such things.’

‘How else would you explain all those ships burning on the sea?’ Before Florell could answer, she rose, so heavy she thought her bones had turned to lead. ‘I will speak to them.’

It took her a long time to dress. Since the truth was to remain hidden, she could not wear the grey of mourning. Instead, her gown was deep blue, trimmed with bear fur, appropriate for winter. Florell helped her with the fastenings, and laced her hair into a virtue braid.

Rumours must be spreading through Inys. Soon, people would thread the strands together.

The Dukes Spiritual waited in the Cloven Chamber. It housed a large tapestry that had once depicted the Saint beside the Damsel, which had been cut in half, removing Queen Cleolind. The Saint had destroyed every depiction of his bride after her death, such was his pain at losing her – every statue and painting, even written accounts.

When Glorian entered, the Dukes Spiritual stood as one. These were the most powerful members of the larger Virtues Council. All were descended from the Holy Retinue, the six trusted friends and retainers of the Saint, and each was the guardian of a virtue.

Lord Robart Eller, the Duke of Generosity, stood at the head of the table. Sunwise, she took the rest in: Lord Damud Stillwater, Lady Brangain Crest, Lady Gladwin Fynch, Lade Edith Combe, and Lord Randroth Withy. The latter two had been called to replace relatives – an aunt and a nephew, respectively – who had been aboard the ships.

‘Lady Glorian.’ Lord Robart was a picture of poise in his green doublet. ‘Thank you for joining us.’

Glorian took the chair opposite him. A moment later, they all sat, too.

‘As you have been told, there is evidence that the wedding fleet, including the Conviction, met a violent end on its way to Vattengard. What precisely happened, none can say.’

‘I bid you find out,’ Glorian said hoarsely. ‘Lady Gladwin, you are Warden of the Twelve Ports and Keeper of the Sea. You must send out a search party.’

She had never spoken by herself to the whole council. The youngest, Lade Edith, was ten years her senior, and the rest far older. If they were to take her seriously, she had to maintain her self-possession.

Lady Gladwin was a tiny, spruce woman in her early seventies, all angles. Years at sea had weathered her brown face. ‘Highness,’ she said, ‘from what I know of ships – which is no small amount – there is no chance the Conviction survived. I have had fire towers lit to guide any survivors, but given the dire cold of that sea, I fear none will appear.’

‘My father is a Northerner. He could bear it,’ Glorian whispered. ‘If not, then we must recover as many bodies as we can.’ Her voice shook a little. ‘To send them safely to Halgalant.’

‘Yes, Highness.’

‘Now we must consider our next steps,’ Lady Brangain said, her voice dull. ‘The law states that if the Queen of Inys is absent without discernible reason, she must be assumed dead or incapable. After a grace period of twelve days, the heir must inherit the throne. Since the first evidence that Queen Sabran is missing was seen three days ago, nine remain.’

Nine days. No time at all.

‘At sixteen, you are not of age to rule. This invites the possibility of pretenders to the throne.’

‘I am the heir to Inys,’ Glorian said. ‘There is only ever one.’

Lady Brangain looked too tired to answer. Her own heir – her son – had been lost on the waves.

‘Sadly, that has not always stopped pretenders,’ Lord Damud said. ‘Let us not forget the saga of Jillian the Merrow.’ Lady Gladwin snorted into her cup. ‘We may also see contenders who make no claim to Berethnet blood. Once the queendom knows the truth—’

He stopped himself. There was a foreboding silence before Glorian said, ‘You think it was the Nameless One. That people will question the divinity of the House of Berethnet.’

Lord Damud paused a moment too long before saying, ‘Of course not, Highness. But others may.’

‘It would be wise to crush all talk of fire,’ Lady Brangain said. ‘We have instructed officials in the coastal settlements to destroy any evidence they see.’

Glorian touched the ring her father had given her. ‘Since I am not of age to rule, who will?’

‘Lord Robart is the ceremonial head of the Virtues Council,’ Lade Edith said. Their walnut hair grazed the high white collar of their tunic. ‘You will be crowned, but until you turn eighteen, he will serve as Lord Protector of Inys.’

Glorian looked at Lord Robart, and he at her.

He had a solemn face – strongly boned, not gaunt. Smooth hair was combed back from his brow, swept a little to the left, the same pewter as his beard. They held tongues of the auburn that must once have set his head aflame.

She thought he must have greyed before his time. He was only a little older than her father. His skin reminded her of tallow, making him look somedeal unwell, but he was fit and stalwart, his blue eyes wick as running water.

‘My lord,’ Glorian said, ‘I would be honoured to have you as my regent – but surely my grandmother, as a Berethnet, should be offered the position of Lady Protector.’

‘I do not think Queen Sabran would like that idea, Highness,’ Lord Robart said quietly. ‘Do you?’

Glorian was silent.

‘Lady Marian will be escorted to a stronger castle within the next few days,’ Lord Robart said, clasping his fingers. ‘I have resolved to move the court to the capital before we announce your parents’ deaths. Ascalun will be easiest to defend in case of unrest. We’ll travel by ship – a risk, of course, but safer than having you out in the open countryside.’

Out of sight, Glorian fisted her hands in her skirts. She would be in the sea that had taken her parents. ‘Do you agree, Lady Gladwin?’

‘Highness, I mislike it profoundly, but, on balance, yes. I believe sea travel is the smaller risk.’

‘I charge all of you to instruct the court,’ Lord Robart said. ‘We ride tonight, to Werstuth.’