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

The Imperial Palace was much the same as it had been the last time Lady Tané of Clan Miduchi had set foot in its halls. As the sun went down, she walked away from the Hall of the Fallen Star, past servants clearing paths with shovels, blowing warmth into her hands.

While she regained her strength in preparation for her formal return to the High Sea Guard, she had acted as an unofficial ambassador between Seiiki and the Empire of the Twelve Lakes. The Unceasing Emperor had been courteous, as always. He had given her a letter to take back to Ginura, as he often did, and they had spoken for a time about what was happening on the other continents.

All seemed quiet in the world, yet Tané was restless. Something called to her from a distant past.

Nayimathun waited in the Grand Courtyard, surrounded by well-dressed Lacustrine courtiers, who carefully touched her scales for a blessing. Tané climbed into the saddle and pulled on her gauntlets.

“Do you have the letter?” the dragon asked.

“Yes.” Tané patted her neck. “Are you ready, Nayimathun?”

“Always.”

She took to the sky and, soon enough, they were over the Sundance Sea. Pirates still roamed its waters. Although discussions with Inys were under way, the red sickness was not yet abated, and for now, the Great Edict stood, as Tané suspected it would for some time.

The Golden Empress was out there somewhere. She would live for as long as the sea ban did, and while she drew breath, the trade in dragonflesh would endure. Tané meant to make good on the vow she had made to her on Komoridu, in the shadow of the mulberry tree. Once she had recovered from her injuries, she had begun the climb back to strength with Onren and Dumusa. Soon she would be ready to return to the waves.

The Warlord of Seiiki had rewarded her for her actions on the Abyss. She had been given a mansion in Nanta and her life back.

Except Susa. That loss would remain an arrowhead in her, buried too deep to dig out. Each day, she expected another water ghost to come out of the sea. A ghost without its head.

Nayimathun returned her to Ginura, where she delivered the letter and returned to Salt Flower Castle. As she combed her hair, she cast her gaze toward the bronze mirror and traced the scar on her cheekbone. The scar that had set her on the path to the Abyss.

She changed out of her travel-soiled clothes and slung on her cloak. At dusk, she walked to Ginura Bay, where Nayimathun was bathing on the same beach where she had been captured. Tané walked into the shallows.

“Nayimathun,” she said, placing a hand on her scales, “I would like to go now. If you will take me.”

That wild gaze locked on hers.

“Yes,” the dragon said. “To Komoridu.”

Not long before, Tané had returned to the village of Ampiki—her first visit since she was a child—to search for any trace of Neporo of Komoridu. It had never been rebuilt after the fire. The only people there had been the young men and women who collected seaweed from its shore.

She had gone back to Feather Island to speak to Elder Vara, who had welcomed her with open arms. He had told her all he knew about Neporo, though it was precious little. There were records of her marriage to a painter, several more letters that pertained to the rise of a new ruler in the East, and some fanciful drawings of what the Queen of Komoridu might have looked like.

In the end, there was only one place to find her.

Light pulsed through Nayimathun as she flew. When Komoridu came into sight—a drop of ink on the face of the sea—she descended onto its sand, and Tané slid out of the saddle.

“I will wait here,” Nayimathun said.

Tané patted her in return. She lit her lantern and walked into the trees.

This was her inheritance. The island for outcasts.

One fateful day, as a child in Ampiki, Tané had followed a butterfly to the sea. Elder Vara had told her that in some tales, butterflies were the spirits of the dead, sent by the great Kwiriki. Like dragons, they changed their shape, and so the great Kwiriki in his wisdom had chosen them as his messengers from the celestial plane. If not for that butterfly, Tané would have perished with her parents, and the jewel might have been lost.

Hours she walked the silent forest. Here and there, she found glimpses of what must once have stood a thousand years before. Foundations of houses long since fallen. Shards of cord-marked pottery. The blade of an axe. She wondered if, beneath the ground, the soil was packed with bones. Unsure of what she was looking for, or why, she walked until she found a cave. Inside was a statue of a woman, whittled into the rock, her face weathered but whole.

Tané knew that face. It was her own.

She set the lantern down and knelt before the Firstblood. In her mind, she had thought of all the things she had wanted to say to her, but now she was here, she had only one.

“Thank you.”

Neporo gazed back at her, unblinking.

Tané watched her, feeling as if she were in a dream. She stayed until the lantern had burned out. In the darkness, she took the stair she had taken once before, up to the ripped-up mulberry tree that had died beneath the stars. Tané lay beside it and fell asleep.

In the morning, a white butterfly was cupped in her hand, and her side was damp with blood.