A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

The Lasian Basin had started to wake. For a long time, the birds had been silent, sensing the change in the world.

Now the honeyguides warbled again. Tunuva Melim followed one.

It had been many years since she last visited the clearing. The men had decided to bury Meren there, in a place he loved, where the honeyguides had led him on that fateful day. Tunuva had not been able to face the body – once had been enough – but Esbar had told her later that the birds had come to mourn him, singing a sweet dirge over his grave.

Beyond the Lasian Basin, all was quiet. No wyrms howling in the night. No screams.

When she reached the place, memory struck with the force of a warhammer. The smell of blood on sweetness. The taste of fear in her craw. Her own cries. There was the tree the bees had hummed in, broken open with an axe, honey still glistening on its bark. Honey never rots away, Meren had told her. You could wait a thousand years and still eat it.

The men had planted sunbreath. Meren had loved those flowers, which opened each summer, bright as his smile. Tunuva knelt and placed her palm where his face had been.

‘Meren tried to protect him.’

The stillness of her body felt primal. She sensed unearthly magic, far stronger than before.

‘I did it quickly, if it comforts you,’ Canthe said. ‘Wulf was looking at the bees – Meren was trying to teach him not to fear them. He never saw the body.’

Tunuva remained where she was. Somehow, she was not surprised that Canthe had survived.

‘You never told me why,’ she said. ‘Why you killed Meren. Why you took my child from me.’

‘The world is broken, Tunuva. You have seen that now, all of you,’ Canthe said. ‘Long ago, the balance of two magics was disturbed – the balance that once held our world in harmony. All this suffering and death was a disastrous consequence.’

She stepped into the clearing. Tunuva could not look yet, but her body was aware of every footstep.

‘I once tried to teach a man to love my tree as well as I did. I tried, but he turned away from it. He turned away from me as well,’ Canthe said. ‘Bereft of my daughter, I longed for a child with mage blood, one I could teach from the cradle – an heir to help me heal the earth. A guardian for the forest, in case anything should happen to me. I went to the Priory.’

‘How did you know about it?’

‘I was alive when it was founded. When I saw Wulf, I knew. A sister is not supposed to cleave too close to her own flesh, after all,’ she said. ‘I thought a boy would not be missed.’

‘He was. Every day. Every moment,’ Tunuva said quietly. ‘But you know that now.’

‘I do.’

Tunuva remained on the ground. Her breath was bundled at her breastbone, like something trapped inside an egg that was about to crack.

‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘after all the trouble to steal Wulf, why allow the Inysh baron to take him?’

‘My enemies found me. I knew they would kill him, and I was too weak, by then, to keep him truly safe. I gave him to someone who could, but I always hoped to return for him, one day.’

‘Then why did you not?’

‘Because I saw that he was happy.’

‘He would also have been happy with me, as he was before.’ At last, Tunuva rose, her movements slow, and faced the woman she had once called her friend. ‘Why are you here?’

Canthe wore only a fishnet, knotted at her shoulder. Her wet hair trailed to her waist.

‘You know why,’ she said.

‘You are never entering the Priory again.’

‘The Long-Haired Star grants many gifts to those who know its secrets. Now my sterren is renewed, I can take any form I wish. You will never know if I am there.’

‘You became Saghul, to trick Hidat. You changed your shape and walked in hers.’

‘No. That would have taken more than I had. I only cast an enchantment. When Hidat looked at me, she saw and heard Saghul Yedanya. An illusion, not a change – but yes, it was all me. I knew it would drive Siyu away. I knew what that would do to you and Esbar.’

‘So you not only took my birthson, but almost estranged me from the two people I love most in this world.’

‘I do not expect your forgiveness, Tunuva. I already know that is too much to ask.’

All was too still, the air as thick as the honey.

‘Did you come here for the fruit,’ Tunuva said, each word a fresh pain, ‘or the jewel?’

‘The latter.’ Canthe cast her gaze southwest. ‘I know it is here.’

‘The key no longer is. I sent it far away.’

‘Tunuva, I have lived for a long time, but my patience is not boundless where that abomination is concerned.’

‘What is it, that is raises such fear in you?’

‘That knowledge is not your burden. The duty to right this is mine, no matter how low I must sink.’ Canthe took another step, her bare feet silent on the earth. ‘Tell me where the key is. I can make you.’

‘You can’t, because I don’t know where it is. And I am not afraid of you, Canthe.’

‘Why?’

‘You could have stolen the key while I slept. You could have killed me for it,’ Tunuva said. ‘But you wanted to earn my trust.’

‘I needed your trust. My sterren was too weak to keep a firm hold on your mind without it.’

‘That is not the only reason. You stayed for two years, because you wanted to belong in this family. You were careful. You reunited me with Wulf, despite the risk.’ Tunuva held her gaze. ‘You say you lost a child.’

‘That was true.’

‘Why did you help me find mine?’

A honeyguide sang.

‘I think you did it,’ Tunuva said, ‘because you love me.’

Canthe lowered her gaze.

‘When I realised the tomb keeper was the same woman whose child I had taken, I wasn’t sure if I could stand to cause you pain again. After all, I am also a mother, though my daughter is long dead,’ she said. ‘And then you were kind and gentle with me, and it was worse. I have more regrets than you can ever know, Tunuva Melim, but this is my greatest – that it was your child I took. That it has cost me a place in your family. I would offer you my life in penance, but you could not kill me. I fear nothing can.’

‘Knowing you walk alone is enough.’

Canthe closed her eyes. Tunuva watched her pluck a glass bottle, about as long as a thumb, from her sleeve.

‘Take a drop when you feel weak,’ she said, holding it out. ‘It will stop the stone draining your magic too quickly.’

‘Why would I accept this from you?’

‘The stone will always be hungry, Tuva. You will not hold a flame for long. The strain may even kill you,’ Canthe said. ‘Please. Your family needs you strong for a long time yet.’

After a rigid silence, Tunuva took the bottle, careful not to let their fingers touch.

‘If you truly love me,’ she said, voice knotting in her throat, ‘do not return here – not in any guise – until you are certain I am dead. It will hurt me too much, to know you are close. I will remember your betrayal every time I taste honey or hear bees. I will remember when I see the flowers on this grave.’

Canthe looked at her. Where her eyes had been depthless wells, there was a flicker of despair.

Then all emotion disappeared, like dust blown from a sketch.

‘I will walk the world alone, as you desire,’ she said, her voice low. ‘I will wrap myself in lies, so none will offer pity or succour. I will be the Witch of Inysca. I will make myself as monstrous as you see me now. I will inflict my own punishment, for the loss of you.’

Tunuva returned her gaze with a clenched jaw, unshed tears building in her own eyes.

‘One day, I will find the key. I will take the waning stone and hold it close, until its song quietens,’ Canthe said, soft as sleep. ‘Then I will know. I will know you are dead.’

She melted back into the forest, gone the way she came. A crow winged away from the Lasian Basin.

****

The same hour Dedalugun was slain, its beasts had lost the fire in their eyes. As the bearded star wept streaks of light, they had all retreated from the city, leaving its people to grieve their dead.

Across the South, every creature with the stain of the Dreadmount had started to weaken. First, the wyrms could no longer breathe fire. Soon their wings no longer held them. Within three days, they had all crawled away, to sleep or perish. The world lay devastated in their wake, but they were gone. The comet had lingered for a week – Esbar and Tunuva had charted its course – before it faded back into the far depths of the sky.

Kediko was a shrewd man, despite his years of doubt in the Priory. He had already used the comet to explain away the moving lake and the unseen force deflecting the fires, claiming it had been a spectacular gift from the divinities of night, to persuade Abaso to quench the wyrms’ fire. Whether the survivors believed his story, Tunuva had no idea.

She rode Ninuru back to the Priory. Imsurin worked in the scullery, making bread. Hidat was instructing the girls in the War Hall. For the first time, Lukiri sat with them – young though she was, she could watch and be curious.

After they had returned from Nzene, they had found Canthe gone. Blood had stained the floor beneath the stone, but there had been no sign of her. No one had seen her leave.

No one would ever see her again, for as long as Tunuva drew breath.

Smoke no longer dulled the sun. For the first time in months, it blazed hot enough to make her sweat. There would be hunger for a long time, but new crops would soon have enough warmth and light to ripen.

She found Esbar near the orange tree, basking in the rays. Tunuva lay beside her, and Esbar took her by the hand, intertwining their fingers.

‘I saw Canthe.’

‘We knew she would show her face in the end.’ Esbar opened her eyes. ‘She came for the stone.’ Tunuva nodded. ‘She will never reach it. Why does she want it so badly?’

‘I don’t know, but I think she fears it.’

Their ichneumons wallowed in the Minara. Barsega had whelped. Her brood of pups squeaked and capered around her, practising a war dance. When Siyu returned – and she would return – she would be granted another pup, to raise as she had raised Lalhar. Hundreds of birds chirruped in the forest. Tunuva slowed her breaths and let the sounds of home soak in.

Above, the oranges were flickering, dimmer than their wont. The comet seemed to have dampened all fire in the world, both on the surface and beneath. Last time Tunuva had eaten, there had been far less magic in the fruit. Now each flame she conjured left her wick too short.

She had noticed, however, that Esbar could sustain one for much longer. So could everyone else.

For you, only death will break the connection. The bottle was cold at her side. It will feed on your magic.

After a long time, Esbar turned on to her hip and looked Tunuva in the eye. When the sunlight gleamed in her hair, Tunuva recalled the sheer power and splendour of her in Nzene, unleashing enough fire to burn the sky. Now she was all softness, her gaze tender.

‘Tuva,’ she said, ‘I have thought long on whether to ask you this, but you and I have never had secrets.’ She kept hold of her hand. ‘Was Canthe telling the truth, in the tomb?’

Tunuva let her memory stray there. The night she had locked at the back of her mind.

‘She kissed me. And I kissed her,’ she murmured. ‘I looked in her eyes, and I saw something worse than death. She had felt so much, for so long, that all of those feelings had lost their individual strands, the way even the brightest dyes can blend into a grey.

‘And when she embraced me, it spread in me, too, the dead grey of her solitude. Had I kissed her for the rest of my life, I could never have broken free of that tangle, that mass she held within. I had never felt more alone, in that moment, seeing so much loneliness.’

Esbar was silent, listening.

‘I wanted no rancour between you and Canthe. That’s why I hid it,’ Tunuva said, ‘but for me, there has only ever been you.’ She turned to face Esbar. ‘Can you forgive me?’

‘I forgave you before I asked.’ Esbar touched her cheek. ‘You are a sun to people like Canthe. It is your nature to warm all you see, and the sun does not ask forgiveness for shining.’

Tunuva pressed a kiss to her palm, releasing the burden she had carried all those months.

‘We know the truth now. Canthe can never deceive us again,’ Esbar said with resolve. ‘I have left a warning for our sisters in the archives, telling them to be wary of strangers.’

‘What of the Inysh matter?’ Tunuva asked. ‘Will you leave word of that in the archives, too?’

‘Yes.’ Her gaze turned distant. ‘I will leave a tablet there, stating that the Queen of Inys is always to have a mage as her protector; that this is my ruling as Prioress of the Orange Tree – but I will allow our future sisters to interpret my reasons as they see fit.’

‘Thank you,’ Tunuva said.

‘I do it to protect a part of you that will live on,’ Esbar told her, ‘but also because a position in Inys will always be of value to us. We can see into the land of the Deceiver.’

‘I agree. Let our sisters know what he did to the Mother, so they might always guard the truth.’

The Red Damsels needed no flame to fight. Each sister was a living blade. They would hunt the wyrms now, to the same places they had forced humans into for almost a year. They would stalk them to the deepest caves, the highest roosts and farthest wastes, to ensure they never rose again.

An ichneumon pup snuffled towards them. Esbar nudged Tunuva with her shoulder.

‘Go to the Mother,’ she said. ‘She must miss your voice.’ With her old smile, she took Tunuva by the chin and drew her in for a kiss. ‘And then come to my bed, my love, and warm me until dawn.’

****

The blood had been scrubbed off the floor, and the coffin sealed with a new lid. On top of it, a statue had been placed, watching over the burial chamber. Kediko had sent it himself, as a gift to the Priory – a standing effigy of Cleolind, based on a carving in his palace.

It was, Tunuva had to admit, a reasonably close likeness. Still, the High Ruler would have to work for several more years – possibly for the rest of his life – before Esbar warmed to his overtures.

Tunuva lit a tiny flame. She used it to light the lamps in the chamber, all one hundred and twenty of them. There were not enough candles in Lasia to mourn all those who had fallen in the slaughter that did not yet have a name.

She knelt before the tomb of Cleolind, and she sang, as she had many times. She sang in love and worship. She sang of grief and fear and loss. She sang as if the Mother could hear every word – and perhaps she could, in her bed of stone. Perhaps she would smile in her sleep.

When she could sing no more, Tunuva Melim rose and placed a kiss upon the coffin.

‘Mother, we are your daughters,’ she said softly. ‘We remember. We remain.’