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

In the morning, the honored Chief Grand Secretary handed Tané the letter she would take to Inys. There would be no embassy sent across the sea, no pomp or ceremony. One dragon and one woman would carry the news.

Her weapons were returned to her. In addition, she received a Seiikinese pistol and a finer sword, as well as a pair of Lacustrine bladed wheels.

She had enough food to last her for two weeks on dragonback. Nayimathun would hunt fish and birds.

When darkness fell over the City of the Thousand Flowers, Tané met Nayimathun in the courtyard. A saddle of black leather, edged with wood and gold lacquer, had been secured on her back, though saddle was far too unassuming a word for it—it was more of an open palanquin, enabling the rider to sleep during a long flight. Such was the secrecy of their assignment that no Lacustrine courtiers or officials were here to witness them leave. Only Thim and Loth had been permitted.

“Good evening, Tané,” Nayimathun said.

“Nayimathun.” Tané patted her neck. “Are you sure you feel strong enough for this journey?”

“I am certain. Besides,” the dragon said, and nudged Tané with her snout, “you seem to have a habit of stumbling into trouble without me.”

A smile warmed her lips. It felt good to smile.

Thim stayed where he was, but Loth approached her. Tané busied herself with securing the pouches that hung from the saddle.

“Tané,” he said, “please tell Queen Sabran that I am safe and well.” He paused. “And if you do wake Ead . . . tell her that I’ve missed her, and I will see her soon.”

Tané turned to him. There was tension in his face. He was trying, just as she was, not to look afraid.

“I will tell her,” she said. “Perhaps when I return, I can bring her with me.”

“I doubt Ead would ever consent to ride a dragon, even in the service of peace,” Loth said with a chuckle, “but I have been surprised many times this year.” His smile was tired, but true. “Goodbye, and good luck. And”—he hesitated—“goodbye to you, too, Nayimathun.”

“Farewell, man of Inys,” Nayimathun said.

The last light of dusk withdrew from the city. Tané climbed into the saddle and made sure her cloak was wrapped all the way around her body. Nayimathun took off. Tané watched the City of the Thousand Flowers fall away until the palace was a flicker in the sleeping white labyrinth. Cloaked in the darkness of the new moon, they left another capital behind.

They flew over the pearly lakes and the pine trees dressed in white, following the River Shim. The cold kept Tané awake, but made her eyes water.

Nayimathun stayed above the clouds during the day, and avoided settled areas at night. Sometimes they would spot a pillar of smoke in the distance, and they would know that fire-breathers had attacked that settlement. The further west they traveled, the more of these dark columns they saw.

On the second day, they reached the Sleepless Sea, where Nayimathun landed on a small island to rest. There would be nowhere to land when they flew over the Abyss, not unless they veered into the North. Dragons could go for a long time without sleep, but Tané knew the journey would be hard for Nayimathun. She had been underfed by the pirates.

They slept in a tidal cave. When Nayimathun woke, she immersed herself in the shallows while Tané filled her gourds with water from a stream.

“If you grow hungry, tell me. I will pass you something to eat,” she said to Nayimathun. “And if you need to swim in the Abyss, you must not fear for me. My clothes will dry in the sun.”

Nayimathun rolled over lazily. Suddenly she lashed her tail, spraying water, and Tané was drenched to the bone.

For the first time in an eternity, she laughed. She laughed until her stomach hurt. Nayimathun snapped playfully as Tané used the jewel to fling water back at her, and the sun made rainbows in the spray.

She could not remember the last time she had laughed. It must have been with Susa.

By sunset, they were flying again. Tané held on to the saddle and breathed in the clean wind. In spite of all that lay before them, she had never felt more at peace than she did now.

The black of the Abyss spread like a stain into the Sundance Sea. As soon as Nayimathun left the green waters behind, Tané felt a chill. A vault of darkness now lay below them—the vault in which Neporo of Komoridu had once imprisoned the Nameless One.

Days passed. Nayimathun spent most of the journey above the clouds. Tané chewed on cuts of ginger root and tried to stay awake. Mountain sickness was common in riders.

Her heart thumped heavily. Sometimes Nayimathun would descend to swim, and Tané would relieve herself and stretch her limbs in the water, but she only relaxed when she was back in the saddle. This ocean did not welcome her.

“What do you know of Inys,” the dragon asked.

“Queen Sabran is the descendant of the warrior Berethnet, who defeated the Nameless One long ago,” Tané said. “Each queen has a daughter, and each daughter looks the same as her mother. They live in the city of Ascalon.” She pushed back a wet strand of hair. “They also believe the people of the East are blasphemers, and see our way of life as the opposite of theirs—as sin to their virtue.”

“Yes,” Nayimathun said, “but if she seeks our help, Queen Sabran must have learned the difference between fire and water. Remember to be compassionate when you judge her, Tané. She is a young woman, responsible for the welfare of her people.”

Nights above the Abyss were colder than any Tané had ever felt. A harsh wind cracked her lips and scourged her cheeks. One night, she woke with the clouds in her breath, and she looked down at the sea and saw that there were stars there, mirrored in the water.

When she woke next, the sun was high, and a golden haze made a ribbon across the horizon.

“What place is this?”

Her voice was rough. She reached for a gourd and drank enough water to moisten her tongue.

“The Ersyr. The Golden Land,” Nayimathun said. “Tané, I must swim before we enter the desert.”

Tané gripped the horn of the saddle. Her head grew light as Nayimathun descended.

The sea stung her face. It was warm here, and clear as glass. She glimpsed rubble and flotsam strewed among the sills of coral. Metal glinted at her from the seabed.

“All of that is from the Serene Republic of Carmentum, after which this sea is named,” Nayimathun said when they surfaced. Her scales glittered like gems under the sun. “Much of that country was destroyed by the fire-breather Fýredel. Its people flung many of its treasures into the sea to protect them from his fire. Pirates dive for them and sell them.”

She swam until the shore was close, then took to the sky again. A desert stretched before them, vast and barren, rippling in the heat. Tané felt thirsty just looking at it.

There was no cloud to hide in. They would have to stay higher than ever to avoid wandering eyes.

“This desert is called the Burlah,” Nayimathun said. “We must fly across it to reach Lasia.”

“Nayimathun, you are not made for this climate. The sun will dry your scales.”

“We have no choice. If we do not awaken Lady Nurtha, we may never find another person who can wield the waning jewel.”

The moisture on her scales was drying almost as quickly as it appeared. Dragons could make their own water for a time, but in the end, this beating sun would overwhelm Nayimathun. She would be weaker over the next few days than she had ever been.

They flew. And they flew. Tané shed her cloak and used it to cover the metal scale, to prevent it from growing too hot.

The day went on for eternity. Her head ached. The sun burned her face and scorched the skin at the parting of her hair. There was nowhere to hide from it. By sunset, she was shivering so hard that she had to reach for her cloak again, even though her skin was hot.

“Tané, you have the sun quake,” Nayimathun said. “You must keep your cloak on in the day.”

Tané dabbed her brow. “We can’t carry on like this. We’ll both be dead before we reach Lasia.”

“We have no choice,” Nayimathun said again. Then, “The River Minara runs through that land. We can rest there.”

Tané wanted to answer. Before she could, she slipped back into a fitful sleep.

The next day, she wrapped the cloak around her body and head. Sweat drenched her, but it kept the sun off her skin. She removed it only to tend to Nayimathun, and to cool the metal scale with water, making it sizzle and sputter.

The desert did not end. Her gourds ran dry as bone. She sank into the cradle of the saddle and let go of her thoughts.

When she opened her eyes again, she was falling.

Branches lashed at her cloak and hair. She had no time to scream before the water seized her.

Panic thrummed along her limbs. Blind, she kicked. Her head broke the surface. In the blackness of night, she could just make out a fallen tree jutting over the water, almost too high to reach. As the current gulped her toward it, she grabbed one of its branches. The river tore at her legs. She hauled herself onto the tree and keeled over it, shuddering.

For a long time, she clung there, too bruised and shaken to move. Warm rain drummed on her scalp. When she finally came to her senses, she pushed her weight onto her hands and pinched the tree with her knees. It shook as she moved inch-meal along it.

As she fought to stay calm, she remembered Mount Tego. How she had weathered the freezing wind and knee-deep snow and the agony in her limbs. How she had climbed a sheer rock with bare hands, breathing flimsy air, one slip from death. How she had not let herself turn back. After all, dragonriders had to be able to remain nimble-fingered and strong at great heights. They could not fear the fall.

She had stood on the pinnacle of the world. She had ridden a dragon across the Abyss.

She could do this.

Her fear crushed, she moved faster. When she reached the end of the tree, her boots sank into mud.

“Nayimathun,” she shouted.

Only the roar of the water answered.

The case with the jewel was still on her sash. She was on the bank of a river, close to where it frothed into white rapids. If she had not been shocked awake in time, she would have been washed to her death. She pressed her back against a tree and slid to the ground.

She had fallen from the saddle. Either Nayimathun was looking for her, or she had fallen, too. If that was the case, she could not be far away.

This had to be the River Minara, which meant they had reached the Lasian Basin. She searched her memory for the maps she had seen as a child. The west of the country, she remembered, was covered by forest. That was where Loth had told her she would find the Priory.

Tané swallowed and blinked the water from her eyes. If she was to survive this, she would have to keep a clear head. The pistol was useless now it was wet, and her bow and sword had been attached to the saddle, but she still had a knife and the bladed wheels.

A few of her possessions had fallen with her. Tané crawled to the nearest bag and opened it with aching fingers. When she felt the compass in her hand, she let out a sigh of relief.

She gathered up as much as she could carry. Using a strip of her cloak, a branch, and a little sap, she fashioned a torch and kindled it with a spark from two stones. It might attract a few animals, but better to risk discovery than step on a snake, or fail to see a hunter in the dark.

The trees pressed close as conspirators. Just looking at them almost made her courage fail.

You have a dragon’s heart.

She paced into the forest, away from the roar of the Minara. Her boots sank into loam. It smelled the way Seiiki did after the plum rain. Rich and earthy. Comforting.

Her body was a half-drawn knife. Despite the familiar scent, the first steps were the hardest she had ever taken. She walked light-footed as a crane. When a twig snapped beneath her, birds of many colors took off from the trees. Before long, she found the damage to the canopy. Something large had fallen nearby. A few steps more, and her torch revealed a pool of silver blood.

Dragon blood.

The forest seemed set on hampering her progress. Hidden roots snared at her ankles. Once a branch crumbled beneath her, and she found herself up to her waist in swamp. She only just kept her grip on the torch, and it took far too long to prize herself free.

Her hand shook as she limped onward, following the trail of blood. From the amount that had been shed, Nayimathun was injured, but not badly enough to kill her. Her blood might still entice predators. The thought made Tané break into a run. In the East, tigers were sometimes bold enough to attack dragons, but the scent of Nayimathun would be strange to the animals of this forest. She prayed that would be enough to keep them at bay.

When she heard voices, she smothered the torch. An unfamiliar language. Not Lasian. She held her knife between her teeth and climbed a nearby tree.

Nayimathun was lying in a clearing. An arrow was embedded in her crown—the part of her that gave her the means to fly. Six figures were gathered around her, all in scarlet cloaks.

Tané tensed. One of the strangers was handling her bow, running her fingers over its limb. These must be the Red Damsels, the warriors of the Priory—and now they knew a dragonrider was close.

At any moment, one of them could plunge a sword into Nayimathun. She would be no match for them in this state.

After what seemed like hours, all but two of the Red Damsels disappeared into the trees. Now they were hunters, and Tané was their prey. Their sorcery might put her at a disadvantage, but even that did not make them all-powerful.

She dropped in silence from the tree. Her best weapon now was the element of surprise. She would get Nayimathun to safety, and then she would track one of the Red Damsels to the Priory.

Nayimathun opened one eye, and Tané knew that she had seen her. The dragon waited for her to creep nearer before she lashed her tail. In the precious moments the Red Damsels were distracted, Tané moved like a shadow toward them. She caught sight of dark eyes beneath a hood—eyes as dark as her own—and for the strangest moment, she felt as if the sun was on her face.

The feeling died as soon as she got close. She attacked with every drop of her strength. The first swing of her wheel nicked skin, but a blade snapped up to deflect the second, jarring her arm to the shoulder. The force of the collision rang through her teeth. As the hunters circled her, cloaks spinning around them, she fended them off with a wheel in each hand. They were quick as two fish eluding the hook, but it was clear that they had never encountered bladed wheels. Tané gave herself over to the fight.

The fleeting calm soon fled from her. As she swerved away from their swords, she had the chilling realization that she had never been in a fight to the death. The Western pirates had been easy—brutal, but undisciplined. She had scrapped with other apprentices as a child, trained with them when she was older, but her knowledge of battle was little practice and no end of theory. These mages had been locked in a war for most of their lives, and they moved like partners in a dance. A warrior forged in the schoolroom, alone and wounded, would be no match for them. She should never have confronted them in the open.

Thirst and exhaustion made her slow. With every step, their swords flashed closer to her skin, while her wheels were nowhere near theirs.

Her steps grew drunken. Her arms ached. She hissed as a blade sliced her shoulder, then her jaw. Two more scars for her collection. The next blow set fire to her waist. Blood soaked into her tunic. When the Red Damsels attacked together, she only just lifted the wheels in time to parry.

She was going to lose this fight.

A feint caught her off-guard. Metal bit open her thigh. One knee gave way, and she dropped the wheels.

That was when Nayimathun reared her head. With a roar, she clamped one of the mages between her teeth and hurled her across the clearing.

The other woman turned so quickly that Tané almost missed it. Her palms were full of flame.

Nayimathun flinched from the light. As the woman walked toward her, she recoiled, snapping. Tané aimed true and plunged her knife through red brocade, between two struts of rib. When the woman fell, Tané stepped around her and went to her dragon.

Once it would have shamed her that Nayimathun had seen her kill. It was against the way—but her life had been in danger. Both of their lives. Now she had killed for Nayimathun, and Nayimathun had killed for her. After all they had survived already, she had no regrets.

“Tané.” Nayimathun lowered her head. “The arrow.”

Even looking at it made Tané feel queasy. As gently as she could, she reached up and eased the arrow from the yielding flesh. It took enough force to make her arms shake.

Nayimathun shuddered as it came free. Blood dribbled down her snout. Tané placed a hand on her jaw.

“Can you fly?”

“Not while this heals,” Nayimathun panted. “They were from the Priory. Follow the others. Find the fruit.”

“No,” Tané said at once, chest tight. “No. I will not leave you again.”

“Do as I say.” The dragon bared her teeth. They were tipped with blood. “I will fly again, but I will not be able to reach Inys yet. Find another way. Save this Lady Nurtha. Carry the message to Queen Sabran.”

“And leave you here alone?”

“I will follow the river to the sea and heal. When I can fly again, I will find you.”

Days after their reunion, and now they had to part again. “How will I reach Inys without you?” Tané said thickly.

“You will make a path,” Nayimathun said, gentler. “Water always does.” She gave Tané a soft nudge. “We will see each other again soon.”

Tané shivered. She clung to her dragon for as long as she dared, face pressed into her scales.

“Go, Nayimathun. Go now,” she whispered, and made for the trees.

The other Red Damsels had gone north. Tané kept low as she chased their footprints. There was no time to make a torch, but her eyes were used to the darkness now.

Even when she lost the trail, she knew where the women had gone. She was following a feeling. It was as if her quarry had left warmth in their wake, a warmth that called to her very blood.

It ended in another clearing. She paused for breath, holding her damp side. There was nothing here. Just trees, countless trees.

Her eyelids grew heavy. She swayed on her feet. Now a woman in white was standing before her, and the sun was shining from her fingers.

That was the last that she remembered of the forest.