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

Rauca, capital of the Ersyr, was the largest remaining settlement in the South. As he threaded his way through its jumble of high-walled pathways, Loth found himself at the mercy of his senses. Mounds of rainbow spices, flower gardens that perfumed the streets, tall windcatchers accented with blueglass—all of it was unlike anything he knew.

In the moil of the city, only glances were spared for the ichneumon at his side. They must not be as rare in the Ersyr as they were farther north. Unlike the creature of legend, this one seemed not to be able to speak.

Loth edged through the crowds. Despite the heat, he had covered himself to the neck with his cloak, but it still made panic coil in him when someone came too close.

The Ivory Palace, seat of the House of Taumargam, loomed over the city like a silent god. Doves waffed around it, carrying messages between the people of the city. Its domes shone gold and silver and bronze, as bright as the sun they mirrored, and the walls were spotless white, arched windows cut into them like patterns into lace.

It was for the House of Taumargam that Chassar uq-Ispad worked as an ambassador. Loth tried to go toward the palace, but the ichneumon had other ideas. He led Loth into a covered market, where the air was sweet as pudding.

“I really don’t know where you think you’re going,” Loth said, through cracked lips. He was sure the animal could understand him. “Could we stop for water, please, sirrah?”

He might as well have held his tongue for all the good it did him. When they passed a trove of saddle flasks, each crystalline with water, he could bear it no longer. He fumbled the purse of coins from his bag. The ichneumon looked back at him and growled.

“Please,” Loth said wearily.

The ichneumon let out a huff, but sat on its haunches. Loth turned to the merchant and pointed to the smallest bottle, spun from iridescent glass. The man replied in his own tongue.

“I speak no Ersyri, sir,” Loth said ruefully.

“Ah, you are Inysh. My apologies.” The merchant smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Like most Ersyris, he had golden skin and dark hair. “That will be eight suns.”

Loth hesitated. Being rich, he had no experience of wrangling with merchants. “That . . . seems very expensive,” he muttered, conscious of his paltry store.

“My family are the best glassblowers in Rauca. I can hardly taint our good name, my friend, by underselling my skills.”

“Very well.” Loth wiped his brow, too hot to gainsay. “I have seen people wearing cloths about their faces. Where can I buy one?”

“You came without a pargh— why, you are lucky not to be sand-blind.” With a click of his tongue, the merchant shook out a square of white cloth. “Here. This will be my gift to you.”

“You are too kind.”

Loth extended a hand for the cloth. He was so afraid the plague might seep through his glove that he almost dropped it. Once the pargh covered all but his eyes, he gave the man a handful of the gold coins from his purse.

“The dawn shines on you, friend,” the merchant said.

“And on you,” Loth said awkwardly. “You have already been so generous, but I wonder if you could help me. I am in the Ersyr to find His Excellency, Chassar uq-Ispad, who is an ambassador to King Jantar and Queen Saiyma. Might he be in residence at the Ivory Palace?”

“Ha. You will be fortunate to find him. His Excellency is often abroad,” the merchant said, chuckling, “but if he is anywhere at this time of year, he will be at his estate in Rumelabar.” He handed Loth the flask. “Caravans leave from the Place of Doves at dawn.”

“Could I send a letter from there, too?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. Good day to you, sir.”

Loth stepped away and drained the flask in three long swallows. Panting, he wiped his mouth.

“The Place of Doves,” he remarked to the ichneumon. “How beautiful it sounds. Will you take me there, my friend?”

The ichneumon took him to what must be the central hall of the market, where stalls offered sacks of dried rose petals, bowls of spun sugar, and sapphire tea, fresh from the kettle. By the time they emerged, the sun had dipped toward the horizon and stained-glass lanterns were being lit.

The Place of Doves was impossible to miss. Overlaid with square pink tiles, it was surrounded by a wall that connected four towering dovecotes, shaped like beehives. Loth soon worked out that the nearest was for mail heading to the West. He stepped into the cool honeycomb, where thousands of white rock doves nestled in alcoves.

On his last night in Cárscaro, he had written Margret a letter. And he had an idea of how to get it past Combe. A bird-keeper took it now, along with his coin, and promised it would be sent at dawn.

Weary to his bones, Loth let the ichneumon lead him from the dovecote and nudge him toward a building with the same latticework windows as the palace. Though the Ersyri woman inside could not speak Inysh, they somehow conveyed to one another, by dint of fervent gesturing and jaw-breaking smiles, that he wanted to stay for one night.

The ichneumon remained outside. Loth reached up to scratch between its ears.

“Do wait for me, my friend,” he murmured. “I would treasure your company in another desert.”

A short bark was his only answer. The last he saw of the ichneumon was its tail disappearing into an alley.

Beside that alley stood a woman. She was leaning against a pillar, her arms folded. Her face was hidden by a bronze mask. She wore belled trousers, tucked into boots with open toes, and a thigh-length brocade coat. Unnerved by her gaze, Loth turned away and went back into the inn.

He found a small room overlooking a courtyard, where sweetlemon trees surrounded a pool. Dizziness wafted through him at the cloying scent. He took in the unfamiliar bed, piled with bolsters and corncockle silk, and wanted nothing but to sleep.

Instead, he went to his knees beside the window, and he wept for Kitston Glade.

The Saint gave him slumber when he could sob no more. He woke in the small hours, puffy-eyed and aching, with a swollen bladder that wanted his attention. Once he had relieved himself, he groped his way back to his room.

Thinking of Kit split his chest open. Grief was a swallet in him, draining all good thoughts.

Outside, the doves had gone to roost. The burnished domes of the Ivory Palace drank in the lights and flickered like candles. Above them, stars wound across the darkness.

He was not in the West any longer. This was a land sworn not to Virtudom, but to a false prophet. Ead had confessed to finding the teachings of the Dawnsinger beautiful as a child, but Loth had shivered. He could not imagine what it must be like to live without the comfort and structure of the Six Virtues. He was glad she had converted when she came to court.

A breeze cooled his skin. He longed for a bath, but feared the plague would poison the water. He would burn the sheets when he rose in the morning and pay the innkeeper for her loss.

Fire itched along his back. His hands were becoming scaled, and he could only wear gloves for so long without raising suspicions. He prayed Chassar uq-Ispad would indeed have the cure.

The Knight of Fellowship had sent the ichneumon to him. He could not be meant to die that way.

He slept again, dreamlessly, until he was awake.

His limbs were shaking uncontrollably. Fever roared through him, but he was certain something else had made him stir. He fumbled for his sword, only to remember it was lost.

“Who is that?” He tasted salt on his lips. “Ead?”

A shadow moved into the moonlight. A bronze mask loomed over him, and then all was dark.