The Priory of the Orange Tree (The Roots of Chaos)

Cárscaro.

Capital of the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin.

The city sat high in the mountains above a vast plain. It was scarped into a ridge in the Spindles, the snow-capped range that stood between Yscalin and the Ersyr.

Loth gazed through the window of the coach as it approached the mountain path. He had heard stories about Cárscaro all his life, but had never thought to lay eyes on it.

Yscalin had become the second link in the Chainmail of Virtudom when King Isalarico the Fourth had wed Queen Glorian the Second. For love of his bride, he had abjured the old gods of his country and pledged it to the Saint. In those days, Cárscaro had been famed for its masques, its music, and the red pear trees that grew along its streets.

No longer. Since Yscalin had renounced its age-old devotion to the Saint and taken the Nameless One as its god, it had been doing all it could to undermine Virtudom.

As dawn broke, bright threads of cloud appeared over the Great Yscali Plain. Once upon a time, this expanse of land had been carpeted with lavender, and when the wind blew, it had carried its scent up to the city.

Loth wished he could have seen it then. All that remained was a charred waste.

“How many souls live in Cárscaro?” he asked Lady Priessa, if only to distract himself.

“Fifty thousand, or thereabouts. Ours is a small capital,” she replied. “When you arrive, you will be shown to your chambers in the ambassadorial gallery. You will have an audience with Her Radiance at her earliest convenience to present your credentials.”

“Will we also meet King Sigoso?”

“His Majesty is indisposed.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

Loth pressed his brow to the window and stared at the city in the mountains. Soon he would be at the heart of the mystery of what had happened to Yscalin.

A blur of movement caught his attention. He reached for the latch so that he might get a better look at the sky, but a gloved hand snapped it shut.

“What was that?” Loth asked, unnerved.

“A cockatrice.” Lady Priessa folded her hands in her lap. “You would do well not to wander far from the palace, Lord Arteloth. Many Draconic beings dwell in the mountains.”

Cockatrices. The spawn of bird and wyvern. “Do they harm the people in the city?”

“If they are hungry, they will harm anything that moves, except those who already have the plague. We keep them fed.”

“How?”

No reply.

The coach began its trundle up the mountain path. Across from Loth, Kit stirred from his doze and rubbed his eyes. He hitched up his smile at once, but Loth could tell he was afraid.

Night had fallen by the time the Gate of Niunda came into view. Colossal as the deity it was named after, carved from green and black granite and lit by torches, it was the sole entrance to Cárscaro. As they grew closer, Loth could make out shapes below its lintel.

“What is that, up there?”

Kit understood first.

“I would look away, Arteloth.” He sat back. “Unless you want this hour to haunt your nights forever.”

It was too late. He had seen the men and women chained by their wrists to the gate. Some looked dead or half-dead already, but others were alive and bloody, fighting their restraints.

“That is how we keep them fed, Lord Arteloth,” Lady Priessa said. “With our criminals and traitors.”

For a terrible moment, Loth thought he was going to cast up his last meal right here in the coach.

“I see.” His mouth flooded with saliva. “Good.”

He ached to make the sign of the sword, but here that would condemn him.

As the coach approached, the Gate of Niunda opened. No fewer than six wyverns guarded it. They were smaller than their High Western overlords and had only two legs, but their eyes scorched with the same fire. Loth looked away until they were past.

He was in a nightmare. The bestiaries, the stories of old, had come to life in Yscalin.

A tower of volcanic rock and glass rose from the middle of the city. That must be the Palace of Salvation, seat of the House of Vetalda. The mountain Cárscaro sat on was one of the lowest in the Spindles, but vast enough that its summit was hidden by the haze above the plateau.

The palace was a fearful thing, but it was the river of lava that unsettled Loth. It flowed in six forks around and through Cárscaro before merging into one pool and cascading onto the lower slopes of the mountain, where it cooled to volcanic glass.

The lava falls had appeared in Cárscaro a decade ago. It had taken the Yscals some time to build channels for the flaming river. In Ascalon, people now whispered that the Saint had sent it as a warning to the Yscals—a warning that the Nameless One would one day be the false god of their country.

Streets wound like rat tails around the buildings. Loth could see now that they were linked by high stone bridges. Stalls with red awnings were surrounded by people in heavy robes. Many wore veils over their faces. Fortifications against the plague could be seen everywhere, from charms in doorways to masks with glass eyes and long beaks, but some dwellings were still marked with red writing.

The coach brought them to the vast doors of the Palace of Salvation, where a line of servants waited. Lifelike carvings of Draconic creatures formed an arch around the entrance. It looked like the neck of the Womb of Fire.

Loth stepped from the coach and stiffly held out a hand to Lady Priessa, who declined it. It had been foolish to offer in the first place. Melaugo had told him to keep his distance.

The jaculi growled as their small party walked away from the coach. Loth fell into step beside Kit, and they followed the servants into a high-ceilinged vestibule, where a chandelier hung. He could have sworn its candles were burning with red flames.

Lady Priessa disappeared through a side door. Loth and Kit exchanged baffled glances.

Two braziers flanked a grand staircase. A servant lit a torch from one of them. He led Loth and Kit through deserted corridors and passages hid behind tapestries and trick walls, up cramped and tapering stairs that left Loth feeling even more nauseated, past oil paintings of former Vetalda monarchs, and finally into a gallery with a vaulted ceiling. The servant pointed first to one door, then another, and handed each of them a key.

“Perhaps we could have some—” Kit began, but the man had already vanished behind a tapestry. “Food.”

“We can eat tomorrow,” Loth said. Every word echoed in this corridor. “Who else do you think is here?”

“I am no expert on the subject of foreign ambassadors, but we must assume there are some Ments about.” Kit rubbed his grumbling stomach. “They have their fingers in every pie.”

That was true. It was said there was no place in the world the Ments refused to go.

“Meet me here at noonday,” Loth said. “We ought to discuss what to do.”

Kit clapped him on the back and went into one of the chambers. Loth slotted his key into the other door.

It took his eyes a moment to attune to the shadows in his bedchamber. The Yscals might have declared their allegiance to the Nameless One, but they clearly spared no expense in the upkeep of their ambassadors-in-residence. Nine windows lined the west-facing wall, one smaller than the others. On closer inspection, this turned out to be a door to an enclosed balcony.

A canopy bed dominated the north end of the room. An iron candle holder stood beside it. The candles were formed of a pearlescent wax, and their flames were red. True red. His chest had been set down nearby. On the south end, he swept aside a velvet curtain to discover a stone bath, full to the brim with steaming water.

The windows made him feel as if all Yscalin could see in. He closed the drapes and snuffed all but a handful of the candles. They released a puff of black smoke when extinguished.

He sank into the water and lay there for a long while. When his aches had dulled, he found a cake of olive soap and set about getting the ash from his hair.

Wilstan Fynch might have slept in this very chamber while he investigated the murder of Queen Rosarian, the woman he had loved. He might have been here when the lavender fields burned, and when the birds flew out with news that the Chainmail of Virtudom had lost a link.

Loth poured water over his head. If someone in Cárscaro had arranged for Queen Rosarian to die, that same person might be trying to kill Sabran. To remove her before she gave Virtudom an heir. To resurrect the Nameless One.

With a shiver, Loth rose from the bath and reached for the folded linen beside it. He used his knife to shave, leaving a patch of hair on his chin and a little on his upper lip. As he worked, his mind lingered on Ead.

He was sure Sabran was safe with her. From the moment he had first seen her in the Banqueting House—a woman with acorn skin and watchful eyes, whose posture had been almost regal—he had sensed an inner warmth. Not the heat of wyrmfire, but something soft and golden, like the first light of a summer morning.

Margret had been telling him for a year that he should marry Ead. She was beautiful, she made him laugh, and they could talk for hours. He had brushed his sister off—not only because the future Earl of Goldenbirch could not take a commoner as a bride, as she knew full well, but because he loved Ead as he loved Margret, as he loved Sabran. As a sister.

He had not yet experienced the all-consuming love reserved for a companion. At thirty, he was more than old enough to be wed, and he longed to honor the Knight of Fellowship by partaking in that most sacred institution.

Now he might never have a chance.

A silk nightshirt was laid out on the bed, but he donned his own, crumpled from travel, before stepping on to the balcony.

The air was cooling. Loth rested his arms on the balustrade. Below him, Cárscaro sprawled toward the sheer drop to the plateau. The glow from the lava stained every street. Loth watched a silhouette plummet from above and drink from the river of fire.

At midnight, he gingerly climbed into the bed and drew the coverlet to his chest.

When he slept, he dreamed his sheets were poisoned.

Close to noonday, Kit found him sitting by his table in the shade of the balcony, gazing down at the plateau.

“Well met, sirrah,” Loth said.

“Ah, sirrah, ’tis a beautiful day in the land of death and evil.” Kit was carrying a trencher. “These people might worship the Nameless One, but what fine beds! I never slept better.”

Kit could never be serious, and Loth could never help but smile at his outlook, even here. “Where did you find food?”

“The first place I look for in any new building is the kitchen. I hand-signed at the servants until they understood that I was famished. Here.” He set the trencher on the table. “They will bring us something more filling later.”

The board was piled with fruit and toasted nuts, a jug of straw wine and two goblets. “You ought not to have wandered off alone, Kit,” Loth said.

“My belly waits for no man.” When he saw his expression, Kit sighed. “All right.”

The sun was an open wound, the sky a thousand variations on pink. A pale mist hung over the plain. Loth had never seen a view quite like it. They were shielded from the brunt of the heat, but their collarbones were jeweled with sweat.

It must have been unspeakably beautiful when the lavender still grew. Loth tried to imagine walking through the open-air corridors in the summer, warmed by a perfumed breeze.

Was it fear or evil that had seized King Sigoso, to corrupt this place the way he had?

“So,” said Kit, through a mouthful of almonds, “how are we to approach the Donmata?”

“With the greatest courtesy. As far as she knows, we are here as permanent ambassadors-in-residence. I doubt she will think it suspicious if we ask what became of the last one.”

“If they did something to Fynch, she will lie.”

“Then we will ask for evidence that he is alive.”

“You do not demand evidence from a princess. Her word is law.” Kit peeled a blood orange. “We are spies now, Loth. You had better stop listening to that trusting nature of yours.”

“What shall we do, then?”

“Blend into the court, act like good ambassadors, and find out what we can. There may be other foreign diplomats here. Someone must know something useful.” He gave Loth a sunny smile. “And if all else fails, I shall flirt with the Donmata Marosa until she opens her heart to me.”

Loth shook his head. “Knave.”

A rumble passed through Cárscaro. Kit caught his cup before the wine could spill.

“What was that?”

“A quake,” Loth said, unsettled. “Papa told me once that fire mountains can cause such things.”

The Yscals would not have built a city here if it could be razed by a quake. Trying not to think about it, Loth took a sip of his wine, still haunted by the thought of what Cárscaro must once have been. Humming, Kit took out his quill and a small knife.

“Poesy?” Loth asked.

“Inspiration has yet to strike. Terror and creativity, in my experience, do not often walk hand in hand.” Kit set about sharpening the quill. “No, this is a letter. For a certain lady.”

Loth clicked his tongue. “Why you haven’t told Kate how you feel is beyond me.”

“Because though I am charming in person, I am Sir Antor Dale on the page.” Kit shot him an amused look. “Do you think they send their letters by bird or basilisk nowadays?”

“Cockatrice, most likely. It combines the qualities of both.” Loth watched his friend remove an inkwell from a pouch. “You know Combe will burn any letters we send.”

“Oh, I have no intention of trying. If Lady Katryen never reads this, so be it,” Kit said lightly, “but when the heart grows too full, it overflows. And mine, inevitably, overflows on to a page.”

A knock rang out in the chamber behind them. Loth glanced at Kit before he went to open the door, ready to use his baselard.

Outside was a servant in a black doublet and breeches.

“Lord Arteloth.” He wore a pomander. “I am come to tell you that Her Radiance, the Donmata Marosa, will see you in due course. For now, you and Lord Kitston must go to the physician, so Her Radiance may be assured that you do not carry any sickness to her door.”

“Now?”

“Yes, my lord.”

The last thing Loth wanted was to be prodded at by a physician with Draconic sympathies, but he doubted they had a choice.

“Then please,” he said, “do lead the way.”