A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

A rooster crowed beyond the windows of Langarth. Unlike many Inysh buildings, the manor had withstood the devastation. The plague had never breached its walls; no flame had ever caught the thatch.

Langarth would stand for centuries yet, in the shadow of the haithwood.

Wulf lay abed in his old room, where the shutters were open to let in the sunlight. He listened to the birdsong that drifted from the ancient oaks, along with a great flaught of leaves.

According to the foresters, most of the haithwood had been left untouched, as if even the wyverns had dared not shed light on its depths. Just like the house, the trees had survived, to watch a new age dawn on Inys.

Thrit slept beside Wulf, one arm slung across his waist, head on his chest. Wulf lifted a hand to stroke his tousled hair.

Even in the wake of Cenning Moor, it had taken him a long time to decide. After all they had lost and endured, he had been afraid to risk his friendship with Thrit, the last of his lith.

Three years before, he had promised himself he would needlebind his heart, and so he had. Unpicking those tight stitches had been a complicated task, but Thrit was patient. All through the spring and into the summer, he had never once mentioned the matter.

After the Dukes Spiritual had found Wulf in the barrow and taken his daughter into their custody, he and Thrit had gone straight to Calebourn, to await the first ship that would bear them to Hróth. Einlek Ironside had survived another war, and had welcomed them back with open arms, to serve for as long as they wished.

Einlek had made brutal choices. Shrewd as he was, he had spied an advantage few others had – that the wyverns and their servants did not appear to see those with the plague. Gathering a large group of people in the final stage, before the blood caught fire, he had offered them a chance for a glorious ascent to Halgalant. They had walked straight into a flock of small wyverns, armed with every tool and weapon that could be spared, and butchered them by surprise. Most others with the plague had chosen to jump from the Hólrhorn, their bodies left to rot on the beach.

Wulf tried very hard not to think of that place. The skeletons on the black sand of Márevarr.

For weeks, he and Thrit had ridden with Einlek, to help gather and burn the dead and start to rebuild homes. Wulf had spent that time as more of a carpenter than a housecarl. Meanwhile, Einlek had managed the politics that would help Hróth survive until the next harvest.

In his bones, Wulf knew Sabran would be part of them. He said nothing. A single protest would betray her bastardry. All he could do was trust Glorian to protect their daughter.

Thrit had always slept like a rock. Today was no exception. Careful not to wake him, Wulf sat up and dressed.

By the Feast of High Summer, he had made his choice. He meant to let himself be loved, and to love in return.

He had thought for days on how best to resurrect the subject. Thrit was fond of romantic gestures. In the end, Wulf had decided to take him to Averóth, a cliff that commanded a dazzling prospect of the longest firth in Fellsgerd, where they had first met. On a clear day, it was beautiful.

Naturally, the sky had opened as they climbed, rain turning the ground slack. Naturally, Wulf had fallen arse over chin, making Thrit cry with laughter. It was the first time either of them had truly laughed since Cenning Moor. Only once they had reached the top – covered in mud, still chuckling – had Wulf finally kissed him. It might not have been elegant, but Thrit had been overjoyed, and that had been worth the pain in his tailbone.

Now he fastened his belt and walked from the bedchamber, down the stairs and into the gardens. The sun was almost back to its old self, though it might take years for the harvests to recover. The dead were still being counted, but Inys had lost at least half of its people, with more still falling prey to the plague. Finding enough hands to work the fields would not be easy.

Wulf splashed his face with water from the keg before he went to the rose garden. Riksard had returned to Mentendon, and their loyal gardener had died at Cenning Moor, leaving the flowers untended. Taking up a pair of scissors, Wulf started to clip away the faded heads.

His family had already left for the capital, so they could stop to visit Caddow Hall. Tomorrow, he and Thrit would follow them to Ascalun.

‘You did learn some lessons from us.’

The voice was familiar. Wulf turned to see a young woman, hair curling around her face. It took him a moment to recognise Siyu uq-Nāra, the last person he had expected at Langarth.

‘Siyu,’ he breathed.

Siyu laughed and ran into his arms. Wulf held her close, shaking his head in amazement.

‘I didn’t think I’d see you again for a long time,’ he told her. ‘Least of all in Inys.’

‘I am trying to like this place, but these clothes are so dowdy, and they itch,’ Siyu sighed, huddling into her cloak. ‘Is the wind always so hard and cold?’

‘You’ve not seen the half of it,’ Wulf said. ‘I’m afraid this is a bonny autumn day, by Inysh reckoning.’ She looked in dismay at the sky. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘Some weeks. I came to learn more Inysh. I knew you would come back to see your family, so I waited for you.’

‘Why do you need to learn more Inysh?’

‘The Prioress sent me. I will explain.’ Siyu nodded to the trees. ‘We should go out of sight. Your angry knight would not want you to meet a strange girl in your garden.’

His mouth twitched. ‘Which one is the angry knight?’

‘The one who thinks people must all be married, or he is very upset.’

‘Ah, that’ll be the Knight of Fellowship. You’ll find they’re all a wee bit angry.’ Wulf hung the scissors up. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go for a stroll. Thrit is here, but he’s still asleep.’

Siyu went to collect her horse. Leading it by the reins, she walked with Wulf along the boundary of the haithwood.

‘You’ve been wounded,’ he said, noticing a stiffness to her posture. ‘Did it happen in battle?’

‘Yes, at Nzene. Is this it – the wood where you were left alone?’ she added. ‘It is beautiful.’

‘Aye.’ Wulf glanced at it. ‘How is Tunuva?’

‘Very well. The Priory is trying to find where the wyrms have gone to sleep. That is our important task now – to hunt them, and make sure they do not return,’ Siyu said. ‘Tuva told me to send her love to you.’ She linked his arm. ‘You know, our birthmothers slew Dedalugun.’

‘They did?’

Siyu nodded. ‘No one else will ever know, but it was Esbar and Tuva.’ Wulf smiled. ‘Dedalugun is the one who hurt me. I can’t fight while I heal. Esbar sent me here, so I could be useful, now I am an initiate.’ She stopped beside a gnarled oak. ‘But I need your help.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Esbar has two favours to ask. The first is that you find somewhere to hide this.’ She detached something from her saddle and removed the cloth that covered it. An iron box of unusual shape. ‘One of my sisters forged it. It can only be unlocked by a mage, and contains a key that cannot stay any longer in the Priory.’

‘Why?’

‘Canthe wants it, and we must keep it from her, Wulf.’ When he furrowed his brow, Siyu said quietly, ‘It was Canthe. She took you from Meren. She was the witch in the wood.’

Wulf stared at her in disbelief.

‘Canthe,’ he said. He thought of the white light that had come from him, the one the comet had seemed to awaken. It had never returned. ‘Do you know why she did it?’

‘No, and Tuva is afraid she will return. She has a magic we do not know.’ Siyu grasped his elbow. ‘The box must be put somewhere very safe. You must tell its place to me, and I will tell Esbar, so if we ever need it, our sisters in the future can bring it back to Lasia.’

‘What if Canthe comes for me?’

‘Better not to find out. You should leave Inys.’

Canthe had laughed with him, translated for him, reunited him with Tunuva. All the while, it had been her.

Wulf said, ‘Is there anywhere she won’t find me?’

‘Perhaps not,’ Siyu conceded. ‘But the Priory will help you. There is safety in a family.’

Wulf thought on the matter of the box for a time, taking the weight in his hands.

‘The Sanctuary of the Sacred Damsel,’ he murmured. ‘The false tomb of the Mother. It’s a meaningful spot – that’s where we could put this. What was the other favour Esbar asked?’

‘It is a gift to you, in a way. Now the Berethnet queens have Melim blood, the Prioress has decided they will have the protection of the Priory, like the Southern monarchs. Since you are friends, can you ask Queen Glorian to give me a place in her court?’

Wulf realised what she was saying. ‘You’d stay in the Deceiver’s land just to protect my daughter?’

‘I have always wanted to see the world. It will help us, to know what the West is doing, and what they say of the Mother,’ Siyu said, eyes full of resolve. ‘Esbar did this for Tuva, to protect her grandchild, but I do it for you, too, Wulf. I will try to help Sabran.’

‘Thank you. I know this must have shaken the Priory.’ Wulf grasped her elbow. ‘I’m leaving for Ascalun soon, to be knighted. Let’s see if there’s an opportunity. Come with me.’

‘I will,’ Siyu said, ‘and on the way, you must tell me all I should know of Queen Glorian.’

****

Months after the coming of the comet, Ascalun was still a skeleton of its old self. Pale rubble had piled up around the castle. Houses had burned to the ground or been pulled down to stop the fires. The Sanctuary of the Sacred Damsel was missing the bulk of its roof. Every building in sight had signs of damage. It would take decades to undo the destruction.

Still, the wealth of the Ufarassus was helping, so Wulf had heard on the road. He had no idea how Glorian was handling the marriage, but she must have kept the upper hand over Prince Guma.

Ascalun Castle was full to bursting. The Queen of Inys had summoned many people to be knighted, from all across Virtudom. In the vast white hall that was the throne room, a crowd had gathered to watch the first accolades. Wulf washed his hands in a stoup of vinegar before he entered, earning a nod from Kell Bourn, who still wore a thick cloth over their nose and mouth.

His fathers were both inside, as were Mara and Roland. Returning their smiles, Wulf waited for his turn with Thrit, Siyu just behind him.

‘Góthur of Eldyng,’ the steward called, and the slayer marched forward, chest puffed out.

Glorian stood before her marble throne. It was the first time Wulf had seen her since Cenning Moor. Then, she had worn her bloody shift, a fearsome warrior. Now she was arrayed in red silk, intricate needlework along the sleeves and neckline. Her hair was still short beneath her gold crown, and a scar curved across her forehead from the battlefield.

Glorian the Third, saviour of Inys.

Glorian Shieldheart, who had sacrificed herself to Fýredel, only for its flame to wither before her. Some said her willingness to die had called the comet from the heavenly court – the light of Ascalun, sent by the Saint, to cut down the servants of evil once more.

Wulf risked a glance at the people closest to the throne. No sign of Prince Guma, which made him breathe a little easier. When he saw Lady Florell Glade, his heart soared.

In her arms was a baby girl, wrapped in a crimson mantle. A baby girl with tufts of black hair, her cheeks rounder than they had been. Florell patted her back as she looked about the hall with big green eyes, silent and curious. He tried his best to hide his smile.

Sabran.

Each knighting was a long affair, with readings from the Arch Sanctarian. Wulf watched his daughter until a voice called, ‘Wulfert Glenn of Langarth, housecarl to Einlek King.’

Wulf stepped forward, to murmurs of interest, and knelt before Glorian. Some of them must have heard about his ride from Cenning Moor, the newborn princess in his arms. Glorian kept her face expressionless throughout the readings, but her eyes smiled. Wulf hitched up a tiny smile of his own.

There were so many things he wanted to say to her. He wanted to ask if she was happy, now she had fulfilled the duty she most feared. He wanted to tell her that she had never had to do it, because her house stood on a lie. Perhaps he would, somehow, one day.

They could not meet in private for a very long time. To keep Sabran safe, they would have to be strangers.

The Arch Sanctarian closed his prayer book, and Glorian said, ‘Wulfert Glenn.’ She was still eighteen, but spoke with authority, as if she had aged a decade since their last meeting. ‘You are called to knighthood for your deeds in the Grief of Ages. You saved Princess Sabran from the Siege of Hollow Crag. In doing so, you protected Inys from the Nameless One.’

Wulf bowed his head. Glorian took her Hróthi sword and set the flat on his shoulder.

‘In the name of the Saint,’ she said, ‘I dub you Sir Wulfert Glenn, a knight of Virtudom.’

The sword touched his other shoulder. Two years ago, this would have meant everything to him, when he still craved acceptance. Now he had it, the title sat heavy on him.

All of it was a lie.

‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ was all he could say.

The Arch Sanctarian presented him with his golden spurs, and a girdle lined with green cloth, its plaques inscribed with the representations of the Virtues of Knighthood. Wulf ran his thumb over the wheat of generosity, the virtue he had shared with Lord Robart Eller.

‘For your courage in saving Princess Sabran,’ Glorian said, ‘I will grant you any gift in my power, Sir Wulfert. Tell me, what do you desire?’

Wulf stood, holding the trappings of his new rank.

‘Your Grace,’ he said carefully, ‘I would ask you to take a lady into your household.’

Siyu came forward with a smile. They had chosen a fine ivory gown, a pair of earrings, and a bonny necklace at Langarth – Mara would understand – and a seamster in Wulstow had taken the gown in for her. Wulf had to admit that she made an excellent show of being a noble lady.

‘This is Siyu uq-Ispad, a distant cousin of Queen Daraniya of the Ersyr,’ Wulf said. ‘Lady Siyu once followed the Faith of Dwyn, but during the Grief of Ages, she saw the light of Ascalun.’

‘Your Grace,’ Siyu said, ‘it would be my honour to serve you and your daughter, Princess Sabran, so I might follow the Six Virtues.’

Giving Siyu a noble background, to protect her, was an easy lie to uphold. Glorian would never confirm it with the Ersyri queen. In the unlikely event that she did, Apaya uq-Nāra would smooth it over.

Glorian glanced once more at Wulf. He raised his eyebrows. ‘If you are sure this is all you want, Sir Wulfert,’ she said, ‘then your request is granted. Lady Siyu, if you will come to the Queens’ Tower this evening, my First Lady of the Bedchamber will see to it.’

‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ Wulf said, rising with Siyu, who echoed him. ‘Your generosity is unrivalled.’

‘Farewell, then, Sir Wulfert Glenn.’ Now Glorian did smile, small and faint. ‘Fire for your hearth.’

‘Joy for your hall.’ Wulf looked her in the eyes, one last time. ‘Goodbye, Queen Glorian.’

****

Fire had torn through the Sanctuary of the Sacred Damsel. Swathes of floor had shattered beneath its fallen roof. While the sun was up, an army of stonemasons and glassworkers had made it impossible for them to enter, but once night fell, it was left in silence.

Siyu had made short work of the lock. She wore trousers and a shirt now, and a hooded cloak, like Wulf. Inside, they walked through the rubble and dust, which had been swept into mounds.

‘Why are there no statues of her?’ Siyu asked him. ‘I saw in other places – the Deceiver is never shown with his queen.’

‘The Saint destroyed all images of the Damsel personally, they say. In Inysh history, she died giving birth to Princess Sabran. He was too lost in grief to ever look upon her again.’

‘So he erases her, to protect his own feelings?’

‘His own legacy.’

Siyu pressed her lips together, looking at the remains of a plinth. ‘Cleolind Onjenyu sleeps in Lasia,’ she said. ‘Whose bones lie in this tomb?’

‘I doubt we’ll ever know.’

The coffin was a block of unadorned marble, with no apparent lid or seam. All the dust had been swept off the baldachin that covered it.

‘She’s meant to be in a vault underneath that,’ Wulf told Siyu. ‘You’ll be all right, finding somewhere to put it?’

‘Yes.’ Siyu cradled the iron box to her chest. ‘You go, Armul. I will find my way back to Ascalun Castle.’

‘If you ever need help in Inys, my family will give it. They won’t ask questions. Just go to Langarth,’ Wulf murmured. ‘I’ll see you again one day, I hope. In the Priory.’

‘You will come back to us?’

‘I don’t know when,’ he said. ‘Thrit wants to travel, once the world stops smoking – maybe to the East, if we can get there. I don’t know if the Priory would ever let him in. But if they can set their minds to it, then I’d like that, Siyu. I’d like to come home.’

‘I hope to see you there.’ Siyu freed an arm to embrace him once more. ‘Goodbye, brother. Live well.’

‘May the Mother always protect you, sister.’

Wulf kissed her brow before he turned to face the doors of the false tomb, a monument to an ancient lie. As he walked towards them, he unclasped the heavy girdle from his waist and let it fall into the dust.

Thrit was waiting outside, and so was the world.