Page 1 of Among the Burning Flowers (The Roots of Chaos #3)

KINGDOM OF YSCALIN

CE 1003

Long before it was a city, Cárscaro had been a mine.

In those days, the Gulthaganians ruled the northeast of the vast continent of Edin. Eager to conquer the rest, the Imperator of Gulthaga had sent his soldiers over the mountains west of their city, into land they did not know, to mine copper for armour and swords.

On the other side of the icy Spindles, the soldiers had scented copper and dug. But the western tribes of Edin, known as Yscals, had revered the mountains of their land. They cursed the newcomers for mining on Mount Fruma, for they saw in that peak a petrified god, the giant who had created their people.

The Yscals fought with flint and wood, the Gulthaganians with bronze. The fight had been lost from the start. Forced to work inside the mines, the Yscals had sliced their own skin to atone, fearing the displeasure of their god.

The Gulthaganians had named this outpost Karkara, meaning birdcage. Even when they were finally driven from Yscalin, two centuries after they came, Karkara had remained a place of exile. Anyone who fled its walls had perished on the plain below, their bones lost to the dust.

Those days were long past, for most. The old mountain gods were forgotten, supplanted by the foreign Saint. The ancient copper mines lay buried under Cárscaro, now transformed into the splendid capital of Yscalin, and its people could come and go as they pleased.

This was not so for their future queen, the Donmata Marosa.

****

On the seventh day of spring, her eyes flew open, as if the Saint had reached down from the holy court of Halgalant to wake her. Nearby, her First Lady of the Bedchamber slept on, dark curls fanned across her pillow. Priessa had always been a deep sleeper.

Marosa listened. Half of her was in her skin, the other half elsewhere, elsewhen. Three memories flared in quick succession: a whisper at her ear, a hand tight around hers, a scream.

When nothing disturbed the silence of her room, she rose and laced a sleeveless robe over her smock. The air was thick butter around her; even the smallest movements drew sweat. She opened the doors of her apartments, hoping for a cool breeze, an iced drink.

From the bruised light in the corridor, it was daybreak. She rarely woke so early of her own accord.

‘Donmata.’

The voice came from her left, where Ermendo Vuleydres stood by a window, armed with a pistol and rapier, a halberd near at hand. He must be cooking like a crab in all that gilded armour.

‘Ermendo,’ Marosa said, ‘did you feel something just now?’

‘A small tremor.’

‘Is that not the sixth in as many days?’

‘I believe so.’

His weathered face betrayed nothing. The Vardya were too disciplined to display such a base emotion as fear.

‘I will take my usual turn,’ Marosa said. ‘If you are at liberty.’

‘Of course, Your Radiance.’

There were occasional tremors in Cárscaro, but never so many, so close together. Still, Marosa was used to them. Knowing the city would shake now and then was part of being Cárscari.

They followed the path they had walked countless times, shadowed by two more guards. Here and there, Marosa glimpsed their reflections, folded into the polished walls of the Palace of Salvation. The walls that looked as if they had been painted with fresh ink.

Her prison was five hundred feet of blackstone and cinder and basalt, adorned with volcanic glass. Even on its lowest floors, with many arched windows to let a breeze through, it was always sweltering. A hundred thousand torches could not have truly lit its halls. Not only was it oppressively close, but abounding in tight stairways and trick walls to confuse intruders.

Queen Rozaria the Third had ignored her advisors when she ordered its construction. They had warned her that blackstone would hold in the heat; that only more northerly places, like Hróth, had need of such a dark fortress. Rozaria had not relented. This was her monument to Yscali strength, driven into the heart of Cárscaro. She had meant for it to look as fearsome as a wyrm, to serve as a reminder that Yscalin had risen from the ashes of the Grief.

She had succeeded, even if she had not lived to see the tower loom over the rest of the capital. It reminded the whole city of Fyredel, whose dread wings had once cast the world into shadow.

A wyrm that had never been slain.

Ermendo opened a door, and Marosa stepped on to the crescent balcony. She walked towards its balustrade and looked upon the capital of Yscalin.

Cárscaro was often called the High City. No settlement on the continent held a stronger defensive position. Built on a great cliff that shouldered out from the Spindles, it had those snow-capped mountains at its back, like a rear guard, and the Great Yscali Plain before it. The lavender there was already in bloom, mantling the land in purple all the way to the horizon.

‘It looks to be a fine day,’ Ermendo said. ‘Queen Sahar would have wanted to spend it on the plain.’

Marosa gave the barest nod. They had both often gone to the plain with her mother, who had preferred it to the city. Some Cárscari braved the descent, usually to ride or hunt, but none held court among the flowers quite like Queen Sahar.

Along with favourites and other guests, her Ladies of the Bedchamber had often joined her outings: Sennera Yelarigas, Denarva uq-Bardant, Aryete Feyalda. They would eat in the shade – spiced red sausage, cheese and grapes – and talk over the roar of the Gloriza Falls, while Marosa played with the other children. When it was especially hot, they had waded in the shallow water from the falls. Those days had given them a respite from the dark tower.

Her father had never come with them.

Marosa had no happier memories than of those golden hours. Her mother dancing with her, making her laugh until it hurt, teaching her to ride. When Marosa was old enough to be married, Queen Sahar had used their flower days to talk with her in private, to reassure her and answer her questions.

It felt as if an age had passed since then. Now the falls were gone, and so was her mother. Marosa looked away from the lavender, to the river of fire that flowed through Cárscaro.

It had come when she was seventeen, stemming from a crack in the Spindles. The sizzling light had burned a slow but steady path. Before long, it had worked its way beneath Vatana House, and there, in a great eruption of steam, destroyed the Gloriza Falls.

Most kings would have moved their capital, but not Sigoso Vetalda. He had summoned masons and alchemists to stop the lava, sparing no expense. After failing to dam it, they had diverted it into the existing canals and dug new ones to spread the light.

They had all been confident it would crust over. Almost a decade later, it had not. Now the people crossed it through enclosed stone bridges, and its branches were named after the Six Virtues.

Her father had called it the Tundana. Its branches merged at the edge of the cliff and poured on to the Great Yscali Plain, cooling to black rubble. Many tonnes had piled up beneath Cárscaro – a stain like mud on the hem of the mountains, killing a swathe of lavender. Some years the lava would thin, allowing night to fall, but this year, it had run swift and bright since early spring. Marosa had not seen the stars for weeks, such was the reddish haze of it.

She looked at it all until her eyes hurt. The city she could see, but never touch. To her father, this palace was an eyrie, protecting the fragile egg of his legacy. He behaved as if Marosa were not already five and twenty, hatched and feathered, yearning to spread her wings.

Perhaps that was the reason she felt an overwhelming need to jump.

The need she had felt every day for nine years, since the night she was told her mother was gone.

Her palms turned clammy on the balustrade. She felt herself beginning to tip, her breath constrained by the cage of her ribs.

‘Donmata?’

Ermendo came to her side. Marosa pressed her eyes shut, waiting for the feeling to pass, as it always did.

‘I am well.’ She straightened. ‘Thank you, Ermendo. I will return to my apartments.’

****

By the time she reached her bedchamber, a bath was ready for her. The water came steaming hot from the pipes. Mount Fruma had never erupted in living memory, but it still warmed Cárscaro. Priessa allowed the water to cool before helping Marosa in, scrubbing her with olive soap, and wrapping her in linen. Once she was dry, Priessa oiled and combed her long hair.

Her apartments were the same dark stone as the rest of the palace, with vaulted ceilings, floors of black Samani marble, and windows flanked by sheer curtains. Priessa used mirrors to brighten the place and had flowers brought up every morning. Today it was poppies.

When Marosa was twelve, her mother had chosen three girls to be her Ladies of the Bedchamber. Priessa Yelarigas – a distant cousin – had been one of them. Four years later, when King Sigoso had dissolved Marosa’s household and remodelled it to his own taste, only Priessa had survived the wind of change. Her father was the Secretary of State, one of the leading nobles at court.

Marosa trusted her above all others, except for Ermendo, her loyal guard, who had served her since she was a child. Ruzio and Yscabel Afleytan had also earned her confidence. The sisters had not tried to win her over with flattery, like most of the attendants her father had foisted upon her.

Four people, in a palace filled with hundreds, that she could rely on. If only they did not have to be trapped up here with her.

‘For you.’ Priessa held out a letter. ‘The dove arrived yesterday morning.’

The seal was already broken. Marosa opened it to find lines of Yscali, written in a graceful hand.

From Ascalon, Queendom of Inys

High Spring, CE 1003

Lady Marosa, we pray you send us word how that you do. We have not heard from you in too long, and though King Sigoso must rely greatly upon his dutiful heir, we should be glad to read your tidings.

Ours was a short and clement winter. The snow is already thawing in Hróth, which we understand is curious for this time of year.

We hope and trust to embrace you again at your marriage to Prince Aubrecht, whensoever that may take place. Should a religious perspective be needful, the Arch Sanctarian would be pleased to visit you in Cárscaro.

Yours in fellowship and faith,

Sabran Queen of Inys

Marosa set the letter aside, wondering how her father had reacted to it. No doubt it had wounded his pride. He had let her betrothal stagnate for so long that the head of Virtudom now felt the need to offer the aid of the royal sanctarian, who would have to travel for hundreds of miles, across sea and difficult terrain, to reach Cárscaro. It would reflect poorly on a king, who ought to be able to manage his own family matters without troubling Inys.

‘I will reply anon,’ she said to Priessa. ‘Queen Sabran is kind to ask after my welfare.’

‘Yes.’

Priessa laced her into a summer petticoat, her stays and verdugado, and a gown of tawny silk to match her eyes. A white partlet covered her neckline. In recent years, the Yscali fashion had been for gowns that sloped off the shoulders, given the rising heat, but within the palace, there was no such immodesty. Her father saw it as an insult to the Knight of Courtesy.

When Priessa stepped back, Marosa touched the golden Seiikinese pearls in her ears. A betrothal gift from Aubrecht, borne to the West from the Sundance Sea, far away from Yscalin.

‘Priessa,’ she said, ‘is today the same?’

Her friend met her gaze in the mirror.

‘Yes,’ came her soft reply. ‘It is the same.’