Page 12 of Among the Burning Flowers (The Roots of Chaos #3)

Marosa angled the spyglass towards the Plaza Vetalda, the largest public square in the city, where the Cárscari had once lingered to talk and trade,to hear from the herald. Now it was wholly deserted,

She had tried to establish a pattern in the wyverns’ behaviour, to no avail. They came and went from Cárscaro, but there were never less than twenty in or around the city at any given time.

After a long moment, she turned the spyglass on the Gate of Niunda. Several corpses dangled from it, some with missing limbs.

The vestiges of her secret rebellion.

Marosa lowered the spyglass, sick to her stomach. After the requisition of weapons, all of the guns had been stored in the Palace of Salvation. On her orders, Ermendo had convinced some of the Vardya to smuggle matchlocks and gunpowder to a group of willing subjects, so they could make the journey for help. They had intended to slip away under cover of night and get to Lasia, but the wyverns must have caught their scent. Now they hung in chains.

She sleepwalked towards her apartments, followed by a silent Ermendo. Each plan that came to mind seemed futile with Fyredel so nearby. She was as much a captive as Oderica had been, and there was no Fruma to swallow her into the mountain. Her father had been a fool to stay here, hundreds of miles from the sea, with no escape.

Her food was served at the usual time. There were stores of grain and livestock, but the Privy Council had no idea how long this state of affairs would last, so only small amounts were served.

She pushed her food around her plate. Priessa watched her dully.

During the Grief of Ages, the wyrms had declared their presence, then burned the land without remorse or explanation. There had never been a situation like this, where a king and his court had been held to ransom, with submission as the price. As far as she knew, the doves had instructed city officials to quell the people, succour the wyrms, and destroy all trace of the Saint.

Every day, Marosa hoped the rest of Yscalin would find a way to fight back. She hoped that other countries had not already fallen. There was no longer any news from outside.

She usually spent the mornings at prayer. Now she went straight to the library, where she read every bestiary and chronicle she could find, looking for some way to defeat the creatures. Ordinary weapons could be used to slay wyverns – harpoons, javelins, even bows – but it was impossible to bring them all down at once. Only the Saint’s Comet had that power.

An enormous banner had always hung between the floors of the Library of Isalarico, displaying the crest of the House of Vetalda. The new one showed the True Sword on a red field, torn in twain, flanked by wyverns. Marosa tried not to look at the blasphemous image.

‘Donmata?’

The voice came from her right. Marosa looked up to see Lord Wilstan Fynch.

‘Your Grace,’ she said, surprised. ‘I have not seen you in some time.’ She closed her book. ‘How are you?’

‘As well as I can be. We are confined to the Vaulted Gallery,’ he said. ‘After what happened to Sir Robrecht, I was happy to obey.’ He sat beside her. ‘But I convinced the Vardya to let me take a brief turn this morning. I hoped that I might find you here.’

‘I hoped that the pages of history might yield a way out. So far, they have not.’ She looked him over. ‘You should wear gloves, my lord. None of the creatures are inside, but my father—’

‘Yes. It is the plague, then?’

Whatever Fyredel had done to her father in the bowels of Mount Fruma, it was eating away at his body.

Sometimes he appeared to be himself, other than his misty eyes. When Marosa had first seen them, she had thought he was blind, but from what she could tell, he saw more than ever. On lucid days, he commanded the Privy Council in person. More often, he walked the corridors like a boneless soul, with a strange fire in the grey, staring at every servant and courtier.

He seemed to understand the risk that he might spread his condition. His Grooms of the Stool made certain to cover his body, except for his face, which drooped like melting wax, gradually sinking away from the bone. From time to time, blisters appeared on his skin, as if he had been scorched. They scarred the way deep burns did, leaving raised welts in their wake.

‘Some new form of it, perhaps. Otherwise he would already be dead,’ Marosa said. ‘I am sorry that you are trapped here with us.’

Fynch looked away.

‘I came to find you,’ he said, ‘to make a confession, Your Radiance. I did not mean it to be so, but … I may have thwarted any chance of aid from Virtudom.’

‘Your Grace?’

Fynch took some time to continue.

‘A few days before Fyredel woke,’ he said, ‘I sent a message to my daughter, telling her a terrible suspicion I had formed. A suspicion that will have made her see your father as her enemy, and prejudiced her against the idea that his turn to evil was forced.’

‘What suspicion?’

‘It is better that you see for yourself.’

‘Whatever it is, surely our allies in Virtudom would never think us willing servants. What would we gain from pledging allegiance to Fyredel, who burned Yscalin once before?’ Marosa leaned towards him, even as he avoided her gaze. ‘You told me that ours is an old and strong friendship. For more than seven hundred years, we Yscals have been loyal to the House of Berethnet.’

‘Had I had foreseen what was to come, I might have chosen my words with more care. Alas, I cannot take them back. But if you wish to understand my reasons, go to the Privy Sanctuary.’

‘The Privy Sanctuary has been sealed. I am forbidden to pray to the Saint.’

‘Lady Priessa may be able to obtain the key. Her father has it in his possession,’ Fynch said. ‘When you have seen, come to visit me, if you can.’

He was gone before she could answer.

Marosa stayed where she was for some time, heart thumping behind her stays. Returning her book to the shelves, she strode back to her apartments.

Priessa sat beside the window, circles under her eyes. She closed her prayer book when Marosa arrived.

‘Essa,’ Marosa said, ‘does your father ever let you into his study?’

‘Not alone.’ Her eyes were raw, curls pouring to the small of her back. ‘Why do you ask?’

She wore only a black kirtle and linen shirt over her smock. With King Sigoso distracted, most of the courtiers were dressing for the heat. The Knight of Courtesy would forgive them.

‘Lord Gastaldo has the key to the Privy Sanctuary,’ Marosa said. ‘I need it.’

‘To retrieve your pendant?’

‘In part.’

Priessa considered. ‘My father carries his keys on his person,’ she said. ‘It may take me some time to liberate them.’ She concealed the prayer book. ‘Did you find anything of use in the library?’

Marosa shook her head and sat. They both gazed out of the window. Priessa was likely thinking of her mother, who lived at the Mentish court, where Aubrecht must be in an agony of confusion.

She had been so close to being with him, far away from her father. For an indulgent moment, she imagined herself in his arms, warm and safe and cherished, watching their children laugh and play.

And then she brushed the picture away, before it could destroy her. Aubrecht would not be able to save her from Cárscaro. She did not want him to try.

‘A year of desolation,’ Priessa murmured. ‘Why has no one come?’ When Marosa was silent, she rose. ‘Let me bring your supper. I will send Ruzio and Yscabel up.’

Marosa remained on the settle. After a time, her two other handmaidens arrived.

‘I saw Lord Bartian this morning,’ Ruzio said. ‘He says that some Cárscari have been called to the Fell Door.’

The news was like cold water soaking through her clothes, leaving her covered in goosebumps. The Fell Door was the name the people had given the crack in the mountain.

‘Why?’ she asked, fearing the answer. ‘What does Fyredel want with them?’

‘I do not wish to know.’ Ruzio reached for the cosmetic box. ‘You ought to sleep after supper.’

Marosa nodded. Ruzio combed rose oil through her thick hair, smoothing it with one hand as she went.

‘Yscabel,’ Marosa said gently, noting her wan face. Yscabel started. ‘How are you this evening?’

Yscabel wore her walnut hair in a braiding cap, like many women did at court after their commendations. She could no longer hide behind it, as she often had when she was younger.

‘I am well, Donmata,’ she said. ‘I believe the Saint will protect us in the palace.’

‘I am sure that you are right.’ Marosa patted the settle. ‘Come. Let us try our best not to think of Fyredel tonight.’ Yscabel moved to sit beside her. ‘Tell me, have you ever played whist?’

‘I’ve never taught her,’ Ruzio said.

‘That will not do. It is an Inysh game,’ Marosa told Yscabel. ‘I played it with Queen Sabran.’

Ruzio finished her combing and joined them. Yscabel managed a weak smile as Marosa dealt their cards.

Priessa soon returned with supper. By then, Yscabel looked a little better. When it was time for them to retire, she curled up on the truckle bed. Ruzio sat beside her, like a guard, while Marosa lay down and let her eyes close; sleep took her as quickly as a comet crossed the sky. She dreamed she was in the corridors, running towards Aubrecht, surrounded by candles with red flames. No matter how desperately she tried to reach him, he never came any closer.

Ruzio suddenly grasped her elbow, waking her with a jolt. Marosa opened her eyes and looked around in confusion, still mired in the dream. When she saw the disturbance, she sat up.

Her father stood in the doorway, observing them all without blinking. In the gloom of the bedchamber, his eyes were tiny embers burning in beds of ash.

His gaze snapped to Ruzio, who pulled Yscabel to her side. Priessa must be tending the candles in another room, as she often did during the night. Marosa willed her to stay away.

‘Father,’ she said, wary. ‘Are you well?’

‘Only seeing that you are here, daughter,’ King Sigoso said. ‘Where I can see you.’ His jaw seemed to work very hard as he spoke. ‘How did those weapons get to the commons?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Then I must ask others.’

He turned and left without a word, trailing the smell of bonfires. Yscabel was shaking.

‘That was not His Majesty,’ Ruzio said in a hoarse voice. ‘It was Fyredel, looking at us.’

Marosa looked at her. ‘How do you know this, Ruzio?’

‘I have seen his eyes like that before, when he walks about the palace. He moves and speaks differently, as if his own mouth and limbs were strange to him. They say the High Westerns could see through their wyverns’ eyes. I am certain this is the same connexion.’

‘Then Fyredel has seen us?’ Yscabel whispered. ‘He knows of us?’

Ruzio drew her close.

‘When His Majesty’s eyes are only grey,’ she said, ‘I think his mind is still his own, to some degree, though the sickness must torment him. But when the light comes … yes, I think the wyrm sees through him, the better to know the workings of our court.’ Yscabel let out a wordless sound, and Ruzio firmed her embrace. ‘It will be all right, Yscabel. The Saint protects us.’

Marosa felt a pang of envy as they held each other. She had never wished for a sister – Priessa had always been that for her – but their closeness made her miss her mother terribly.

‘Go back to sleep, both of you,’ she said quietly. ‘Let Fyredel see we are harmless as babes.’

****

For the next few days, Marosa followed her usual routine, not wanting to arouse suspicion.

In that time, she never saw her father.

To distract herself from the danger, which kept her body rigid at all times, she found out what she could about the present state of Yscalin.

From what Priessa could glean, the Privy Council had mounted no resistance.

Quite the opposite.

Across Yscalin, the Knights Defendant – now the wyverns’ soldiers – killed or imprisoned those who rebelled.

Their ranks had apparently tripled in size. The Principal Sanctarian, protesting the blasphemy, had been hung from the Gate of Niunda and left to die of thirst.

The freedom and dignity of the Yscals, sacrificed to buy the lives of everyone in Cárscaro.

No one had done this in the Grief of Ages.

No country had submitted to the wyrms.

Each night, when her eyes stung from reading, Marosa prayed in her bedchamber.

As a child, she had been loyal to the Saint alone, never doubting his Six Virtues.

It was only when she was fourteen that her mother had secretly told her about other faiths, including hers.

Now Marosa did not know whose help she ought to seek.

The Faith of Dwyn was a way of life, lacking any god or figurehead, and she doubted that even the Saint could rid Cárscaro of this many wyverns.

She still asked him to deliver her fellow Yscals to safety, and to set her city free.

And then, in the silence of her mind, she asked the same of Fruma, the neglected god of the mountain, who had taken Oderica into himself and taught her the art of smithing.

Nine years later, she had emerged to face the Gulthaganians, meeting their bronze swords with iron.

Later, the story had changed.

Now it was the Saint who taught Oderica, even though the Saint had not been born.

Fruma, hear the blood of Oderica, she whose eyes were lit by the mountain.

Marosa did not know how to pray to a mountain, but she would try.

Fruma, firstborn, your body has been overtaken.

I beg you, keep the beast within, so he may never fly.

****

The next morning, the first violence broke out in the palace.

Knowing they had the protection of thick walls, its hundreds of residents had not made too much of a stir, even though their king was possessed.

Many of them had friends or relatives in the city, whose lives they feared to risk.

Marosa overheard the commotion from the Library of Isalarico.

She rushed down the Grand Stair, Ermendo hard on her heels, halberd at the ready.

They reached a wide arched corridor, where several of the Vardya stood with Bartian.

He sported a long cut on his cheek.

‘Donmata,’ he said hoarsely.

‘Bartian, what happened?’

‘His Majesty was walking here. One of the scullions attacked him with a cleaver,’ he replied, breathing hard. ‘Your father seized him by the throat. His Majesty was not wearing gloves.’

‘Where is this scullion now, my lord?’ Ermendo asked.

‘Confined to his room in the servants’ quarters,’ another guard said. ‘His Majesty is safe, thanks to Lord Bartian.’

Bartian touched his wound, grimacing. His ruff was flecked with blood. Marosa passed him a silk handkerchief. ‘How were you hurt?’ she asked him. ‘Did the scullion attack you both?’

‘No. I stepped in front of your father,’ he said. ‘I suppose it was instinct.’ He pressed the handkerchief to his cheek. ‘Perhaps it would have been better if I had not.’

Marosa glanced at the guards, but they were deep in conversation. ‘This will not end with his death,’ she said to Bartian, keeping her voice low. ‘Fyredel would only choose someone else.’

‘Let us hope it is Gastaldo. He claims to speak for His Majesty. The Grandees do as he asks without question, forcing our subjects to abjure the Saint. He hangs the faithful on the Gate of Niunda, leaving them there as fearful examples. The Knight of Courage spits upon that chamber,’ Bartian said under his breath. ‘They should be looking to you, not Gastaldo.’

‘I doubt it would improve our situation. In any case, I would sooner not draw attention from Fyredel.’

‘No,’ Bartian conceded. ‘We need our heir.’ He looked her in the eyes. ‘Donmata, I do not know if you’ve heard, but the wyverns have been taking people to the Fell Door.’

‘Yes, Lady Ruzio told me. Is there any pattern to the abductions?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’ The corners of his mouth tightened. ‘Marosa, the wyverns’ offspring were known to eat flesh in the Grief. What if there are Draconic beasts in the mountains?’

Even as he spoke, a wyvern flew past the window with a scream, making them both flinch.

‘Donmata,’ Ermendo said, ‘you should not be here, with plague still in the air.’

‘Very well.’ Marosa looked up at Bartian. ‘Be safe, my lord.’

‘And you, Your Radiance.’

****

For days, Marosa waited for news of the scullion, reading every record she could find of the Draconic plague. During the Grief of Ages, it had started with a vivid redness in the fingers. Over weeks, it would take root and spread, betrayed only by fever and discomfort. And then, with little warning, a fire would ignite every vein in the body, leading to an agonising death.

But their eyes had always been unchanged. Not grey, nor lit by strange embers.

Her father had a different strain, sown in him by Fyredel. Perhaps the scullion would be resistant to it. But then Ermendo came to Marosa one evening, while she was leafing through an Inysh treatise called The Wyrm Sicknesse, written fifty years after the Grief of Ages.

‘His fingers are red.’

Marosa looked up. ‘And his mind?’

‘Still his own, and no sign of grey eyes. He complains of aches and fever. It looks to be the old form of the plague.’ Ermendo paused. ‘Should we kill him now, or let it progress?’

Her stomach tightened as she considered it. Whatever her decision, the scullion was doomed.

‘See how long it takes the plague to move through him,’ she concluded. ‘We must know our enemy, to see if it is changed from the Grief. But when he begins to feel the pain, end it.’

Ermendo bowed and left. Marosa closed The Wyrm Sicknesse, not wanting to see any more of the illustrations.

Three weeks later, the scullion was dead.

****

It was another two days before Priessa made good on her promise. During that time, a butcher threw a boar spear at a flying wyvern. The creatures had thick armour, but that spear had struck it under the left wing, penetrating its heart. It had fallen dead across Shamble Lane, destroying several buildings.

No sooner had it crashed down than a panic had started. Thousands of people had run in fear of the other wyverns, ending in a crush at the Gate of Niunda. Most of them had been torched alive.

Marosa had not been able to move for hours after she heard the news. She lay alone in bed, behind the drapes she rarely closed, her pillow damp with tears. There had been children among the dead, even newborns. And she, their future queen, was powerless to stop it.

Priessa came to her the next evening. She touched Marosa on the shoulder, lifting her from the dark pit, and showed her an ornate key.

‘Father went to the Fell Door for an hour today,’ Priessa said. ‘He left all his valuables in his study.’

Marosa looked at her. ‘Your father spoke to Fyredel?’

‘Apparently so. When he returned, he went straight to the Privy Council. His eyes are not grey.’ Priessa pressed the key into her grasp. ‘We should go to the sanctuary now, before he realises this is missing.’

Marosa followed her. Ermendo let them pass without remark, as if he had not even seen them.

They descended to a lower floor, avoiding the servants as best they could. Better no one saw their crime. At last, they came to the studded door of the Privy Sanctuary.

When King Sigoso pledged to the Nameless One, he had ordered that all relics and ritual objects be destroyed. The second rib of the Saint – a gift from Inys – had been discarded with as much care as the contents of a chamber pot. But the objects of material worth, the gold and the precious jewels, had been shoved into the Privy Sanctuary before it was sealed. That was the only reason this place of worship had been spared the destruction wreaked on the others.

Marosa turned the key in the lock. As soon as she was inside, she retrieved her mother’s pendant and the crumpled note. Priessa picked up a silver brooch depicting the True Sword.

‘The Principal Sanctarian wore this,’ she said. ‘He helped to tear Queen Sahar from grace. How swiftly he fell in turn.’

‘I wish I could take more pleasure in it, but no man deserves to die as he did.’

Priessa watched her pace the chamber. ‘Why else have we come here, Marosa?’

‘Lord Wilstan believes there is something in here I should see,’ Marosa said. ‘Something that … incriminates my father.’

‘In what?’

‘I do not quite know.’

They searched the sanctuary in silence, sifting through crates and heavy chests. Priessa came upon the green samite robes of a sanctarian, dark with dried blood at the collar, while Marosa found box upon box of patron brooches, ornate girdles, and pairs of spurs, confiscated from the courtiers. Children received all three when they reached the age of twelve, formally embracing the Six Virtues. When she looked up, a shape on the opposite wall gave her pause.

‘Wait,’ she said. ‘What is that?’

Following her line of sight, Priessa turned to look. A large rectangular object, covered by a dusty shroud, was propped against the wall behind her. She uncovered it to reveal a portrait.

The woman in the painting had no face; it had been scoured and ripped away. The sight disturbed Marosa. Her river of black hair was still discernible, as were her pale hands, clasped in front of her. She wore a gown of blue silk in an old-fashioned Inysh style, with a square neckline, revealing a pendant shaped like a seahorse, hung from a rope of white Ersyri pearls.

‘Rosarian the Fourth,’ Marosa murmured. ‘Mother sent her that necklace for her fortieth birthday.’

‘Saint,’ Priessa said. ‘Why is her face like this?’

The late Queen Mother of Inys. It was blasphemy to damage her image.

‘Perhaps my father did it to please Fyredel,’ Marosa said. ‘The wyrm must despise the Berethnet queens. They are descendants of the Saint, the knight who vanquished his master.’

Without answering, Priessa drifted away to search the dusty shelves. After a time, she found a small coffer. ‘There are letters here,’ she said, reading one. ‘My father uses this cypher, but I do not recognise the hand.’

She took a scrap of parchment and a charcoal from her girdle. Marosa came to look over her shoulder as she converted the symbols to letters. The message was not written in Yscali, but Inysh.

Your gift has been received. It will be done on the Feast of Midwinter. Soon the sanctity of Virtudom will be restored, and a brighter age will be upon us. The Saint shall grant us places of honour at the Great Table.

Yours in courage,

Cupbearer

‘Cupbearer.’ Marosa read it again, unsettled. ‘Queen Rosarian died on the Feast of Midwinter.’

The Regency Council of Inys had called it a tragedy, but given no particulars. Priessa sat down to read the other letters.

‘There are details of some transactions and shipments,’ she said. ‘His Majesty purchased a bolt of Seiikinese watersilk from a merchant in Kantmarkt. He also granted a considerable pension to an Yscali seamstress.’ She leafed through the small pile. ‘The ink is faded. This must all have happened long before Fyredel woke, but … they are all innocent purchases.’

‘I would not be so sure,’ Marosa said. ‘My father despises the trade with the East. He craves the coin it brings to the West, but I cannot imagine him personally buying Seiikinese goods.’

‘A bolt is enough to make a fine gown.’ Priessa took the last few letters from the coffer, then reached into the bottom and held up a glass vial, as long as her finger. ‘What is this?’

‘Let me see.’

Priessa handed the vial over. The glass was thicker than any Marosa had ever seen, full of something translucent and slippery, with a yellowish tinge. She worked off the stopper with care.

A curl of steam escaped, releasing a faint, acrid smell. Sensing danger, she poured a few drops on to the corner of a table. It sizzled before it burned through the wood and dripped on to the floor.

She snapped the stopper back into the vial. A chill pierced her through as she slotted the pieces together.

She knew why Wilstan Fynch had come to Yscalin.

She knew why her mother had died.