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

Loth left his rooms in the Palace of Salvation for the last time in the dead of night.

The Draconic plague was inside him. One touch to the brow of the Flesh King, a prickle in his hand, and an hourglass had turned over in his mind. Soon enough, the fine grains of his sanity would begin to course between his fingers.

Slung over his shoulder was a leather sack, filled with supplies for the journey through the mountains. His baselard and sword were at his side, concealed beneath a winter cloak.

Kit followed him down the winding stairs. “I do hope this is a good idea, Arteloth,” he said.

“It is the opposite of a good idea.”

“Piracy was the better option.”

“Undeniably.”

They were entering the bowels of Cárscaro. The Donmata Marosa had told him how to access a hidden stair from the Privy Sanctuary, which tapered as they descended. Loth dried the cold sweat from his brow. He had pleaded with Kit to stay behind, but his friend had insisted on coming with him.

An eternity passed before their boots hit flat ground. Loth held his torch up.

The Donmata Marosa was waiting at the foot of the stair, her face cast into shadow by her hood. She stood before a great crack in the wall.

“What is this place?” Loth asked.

“A forgotten escape route. For use in sieges, I suppose,” she said. “It was how Mama and I meant to flee.”

“Why did you not use it to get word out?”

“I tried.” She lowered her hood. “Lord Kitston. Are you now afflicted?”

Kit bowed. “Yes, Radiance. I believe I am sufficiently plague-ridden.”

“Good.” Her gaze snapped back to Loth. “I sent one of my ladies. That was before I knew how many Draconic creatures were in the mountains.”

The inference was clear.

The Donmata reached behind her and held out matching wooden staffs, each capped with a hook. “Ice staves. They will help you find your balance.”

They took them. To Loth she handed another sack, heavy with the iron box.

“I bid you not abandon this task I have set for you, Lord Arteloth.” Her eyes were jewel-like in the firelight. “I trust that you will do this for me. And for Virtudom.”

With these words, she stood aside.

“We will send help.” Loth spoke quietly. “Keep your father alive for as long as you can. If he dies, hide yourself from Fýredel. When this task is done, we will tell the sovereigns of Virtudom what has happened here. You will not die alone in this place.”

At last, the Donmata Marosa smiled, just a little. As if she had forgotten how.

“You have a kind heart, Lord Arteloth,” she said. “If you do get back to Inys, give Sabran and Aubrecht my regards.”

“I will.” He bowed to her. “Goodbye, Your Radiance.”

“Goodbye, my lord.”

Their gazes held for a song of heartbeats. Loth dipped his head once more and stepped into the passage.

“May the Knight of Courage bring you cheer in these dark hours,” Kit said to Marosa.

“And you, Lord Kitston.”

Her footsteps echoed as she left. Loth felt a sudden regret that they could not take her with them. Marosa Vetalda, Donmata of Yscalin, imprisoned in her tower.

The passageway was unspeakably dark. A breeze drew Loth on like a beckoning hand. He snared his boot on the uneven ground at once, almost robbing himself of an eye with his torch. They were surrounded by the glimmer of volcanic glass and the porous swell of pumice. The glass mirrored the light of his torch, casting a hundred different reflections.

They walked for what seemed like hours, sometimes turning a corner, but otherwise moving in a straight line. Their staves tapped out a rhythm.

Once Kit coughed, and Loth tensed. “Hush,” he said. “I would rather not wake whatever dwells down here.”

“A man must cough when need be. And nothing dwells down here.”

“Tell me these walls don’t look as if a basilisk carved them.”

“Oh, stop being such a doomsinger. Think of this as another adventure.”

“I never wanted an adventure,” Loth said wearily. “Not even one. At this moment, I want to be at Briar House with a cup of mulled wine, preparing to walk my queen to the altar.”

“And I should like to be waking up beside Kate Withy, but alas, we cannot have everything.”

Loth smiled. “I’m glad you’re here, Kit.”

“I should think so,” Kit said, his eyes shining.

This place made Loth think of the Nameless One, and how he had torn through the earth until he found his way into the world above. His mother had often told him the story when he was a child, using different voices to frighten him and make him laugh.

He took another step. The ground underfoot gave a hollow rumble, like the belly of a giant.

Loth stopped dead, clutching the torch. Its flame guttered as another cold wind feathered through the tunnel.

“Is it a quake?” Kit murmured. When Loth did not reply, his voice grew tense. “Loth, is it a quake?”

“Hush. I don’t know.”

Another rumble came, louder this time, and the earth seemed to tilt. Loth lost his footing. No sooner had he caught himself than a terrific shuddering began—first soft, like a shiver of fear, then more and more violent, until his teeth rattled in their sockets.

“It’s a quake,” he shouted. “Run. Kit, run, man. Run!”

The iron box pounded against his back. They barreled through the darkness, desperately searching for any glint of daylight ahead. It was as if the very mantle of the earth was convulsing.

“Loth!” Kit, his voice shot through with terror. “The torch—my torch is out!”

Loth turned on his heel, winded, and thrust out his torch. His friend had fallen far behind.

“Kit!” He ran back. “On your feet, man, hurry. Follow my voice!”

A creak. Like weak ice underfoot. Small rocks, like gravel, peppering his back. He threw his hands over his head as the roof of the tunnel came pouring down.

For a long time, he expected to die. The Knight of Courage fled from him, and he whimpered like a child. The darkness blinded him. Rock smashed. Glass shattered and rang. He coughed on foul-tasting dust.

And then, just like that, it stopped.

“Kit,” Loth bellowed. “Kit!”

Panting, he reached for his torch—still lit, miraculously—and swung it toward the place he had heard Kit calling out to him. Rock and volcanic glass filled the tunnel.

“Kitston!”

He could not be dead. He must not be dead. Loth shoved at the wall of debris with all his might, threw his shoulder against it time and again, struck at it with the ice staff and pounded his fists bloody. When at last it gave way, he reached into the rubble and hauled at the rocks with his bare hands, and the air down here was like half-set honey, sticky in his throat . . .

His fingers closed around a limp hand. He shoved more glass aside, his muscles straining with the effort.

And there, at last, was Kit. There were the eyes Loth knew, their laughter gone. The mouth, so quick to smile, that would never smile again. There was the tablet about his neck, twin to the one he had given Loth at their last Feast of Fellowship. The rest of him was out of sight. All Loth could see was the blood that seeped between the rocks.

A desperate sob heaved out of him. His cheeks were wet with sweat and tears, his knuckles bled, and his mouth tasted of iron.

“Forgive me,” he said thickly. “Forgive me, Kitston Glade.”