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

In the foothills of the Spindles, the wyrm Valeysa was dead, brought down by a harpoon. All around her, the ground was strewn with the earthly remains of human and wyrm.

Fýredel had not stayed to defend his Draconic territory. Instead, he had summoned his brother and sister to rout the combined armies of North and South and West. They had failed. As for Fýredel himself, he had taken wing as soon as the Nameless One had disappeared beneath the waves, and his followers had scattered once more.

The sun was rising over Yscalin. Its light fell on the blood and the char, the fire and the bones. A Seiikinese woman named Onren had brought Loth here on dragonback so he could find Margret. Standing on the wretched plain, he strained his gaze to Cárscaro.

Smoke rose from the once-great city. No one had been able to tell him whether the Donmata Marosa had survived the night. What was known was that King Sigoso, murderer of queens, was dead. His wasted corpse hung from the Gate of Niunda. Seeing it had caused his soldiers to desert.

Loth prayed the princess lived. With all his soul, he prayed she was up there, ready to be crowned.

The field hospital was a league from where the fight had begun. Several tents had been erected near a mountain stream, and the flags of all nations flew outside them.

The wounded were crying in agony. Some had burns that went deep into their flesh. Others were so covered in blood, they were unrecognizable. Loth spotted King Jantar of the Ersyr among those who were gravely hurt, lying with his warriors, tended to from all sides. One woman, whose leg had been shattered, was biting down on a leather strap while the barber-surgeons sawed it off below the knee. Healers brought in pails of water.

He found Margret in a tent for Inysh casualties. Its flaps were open to let out the reek of vinegar.

A bloodstained apron was tied over her skirts. She was kneeling beside Sir Tharian Lintley, who lay still and bruised on a pallet. A deep wound stretched from his jaw to his temple. It had been stitched with care, but he would be scarred for life.

Margret looked up at Loth. For a moment, she was blear-eyed, as if she had forgotten who he was.

“Loth.”

He crouched beside her. When she leaned into him, he enveloped her in his arms and rested his chin on the top of her head.

“I think he’ll be all right.” She smelled of smoke. “It was a soldier. Not a wyrm.”

His sister curled against his chest.

“He is dead.” Loth kissed her brow. “It’s over, Meg.”

Her face was smeared with ash. Tears washed into her eyes, and she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.

Outside, a finger of light broached the horizon, pink as a wild rose. As a new spring dawn crested the Spindles, they held each other close and watched it gild the sky.