Page 17 of Among the Burning Flowers (The Roots of Chaos #3)

CáRSCARO

DRACONIC KINGDOM OF YSCALIN

CE 1005

She went to the Vaulted Gallery, where the doors to the Inysh rooms were unlocked.

Wilstan Fynch was alone on his roofed balcony, gazing out at the desolation.

Still in the grey of mourning, refusing to let go, even after fourteen years. took the empty seat beside him.

‘Good morrow, Donmata,’ he said. ‘How do you do?’

‘Your Grace.’ She folded her hands in her lap. ‘I have learned of a way to escape Cárscaro.’

‘Truly?’

‘A lava cave runs from beneath the palace and emerges in the Spindles.’

‘By the Saint. Perhaps we are saved.’

‘Perhaps.’ She paused. ‘Your Grace, has my father ever seen you when his eyes are aglow?’

‘Not to my knowledge. Why do you ask?’

‘Because it means that Fyredel does not know you. Your absence would not be noted as quickly as mine. The way through the mountains is dangerous, but … it is the only plan I have.’ She paused once more. ‘Lord Wilstan, would you be willing to leave Cárscaro, to seek help from Virtudom?’

Fynch had looked hopeful, but now misgiving filled his face.

‘Your Radiance,’ he said, ‘I am honoured that you would trust me with such a grave responsibility, but I am not as strong as I once was. I would not be able to conquer the Spindles.’

‘I do not ask you lightly,’ said, ‘but you are one of the few I still trust. My father has murdered all of my other allies in the palace, with the exception of Lady Priessa and Lady Ruzio, and the latter … succumbed to grief for her sister.’

‘May the Saint receive her.’

They both made the sign of the sword.

‘Priessa would be missed,’ said, ‘but I need someone I can trust, Your Grace. And you have always been a true friend to Yscalin.’ She looked him in the eyes. ‘There is another reason I ask you to go. For your own safety. My father has openly said he has no more use for ambassadors. I fear he may wish for you to share the same fate as the others.’

His face hardened.

‘The Knight of Courage is not my patron,’ he said, ‘but … perhaps the Saint will lend me his sword and shield, even in my silver years.’ He took a slow, deep breath. ‘When would I leave?’

‘As soon as possible,’ said, ‘but before you return to Inys, I must ask you to carry out a task for me. A task of great import, to honour a promise I made to the dead.’ Fynch listened. ‘There is a way to the Ersyr through the Spindles. I need you to deliver an item to Chassar uq-Ispad. He may be at the court of Rauca, or at his own estate in Rumelabar.’

‘I remember Chassar. A virtuous man, for a heretic,’ Fynch said. ‘What is this item, Donmata?’

‘A box. I am told it contains the key to a weapon. Something that can help defeat the wyrms.’

‘Who told you this?’

‘A woman in the dungeons. Her cloak was dyed with Draconic blood.’

‘A knight-errant, then?’

That was the name the Inysh used for cullers. Queen Sabran rewarded them handsomely for their service.

‘A brave one,’ said. It seemed the simplest explanation, even if Jondu had never confirmed it. ‘Before you leave, you must armour yourself. I think it very likely that wyverns and their offspring are all over the mountains. The only way to survive them, to my knowledge, is to afflict yourself with the Draconic plague. But I am told Ambassador uq-Ispad has a cure.’

Fynch was silent for some time.

‘There is no cure. None was ever recorded,’ he eventually said. ‘The plague was eradicated by careful isolation of the sick.’ He pulled at his collar. ‘Even if there is a cure, I repeat my point about my age. It takes the old and frail more quickly than it does the young.’

‘I know,’ said softly. ‘I know what I ask, and how futile it seems. But I have nothing else, Your Grace. I have tried everything I can think to do within the city.’ She placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Leave this accursed place while you can. Save your body and your soul.’

Fynch had started to tremble, just barely.

‘If I were to agree,’ he said, ‘how must we proceed?’

‘We can use the water passages to reach my father. I will drug his wine to make him sleep, so Fyredel will not see you. All you need do is lay your hands upon his skin. You will contract the old form of the plague.’

He looked back once more at the Great Yscali Plain – as if he was giving one last thought to the possibility of crossing it. The land that stretched to the horizon without shade or shelter.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘can your father still speak with his own tongue?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I want his confession.’

‘Your Grace, if Fyredel sees you—’

‘If his eyes are lit, I will not risk it. But if they are only grey, I will hear the words that damn him to the Womb of Fire. This is my price, Donmata,’ Fynch said. ‘I hope you understand.’

And could not deny him, for she had wanted exactly the same.

****

When night fell, Fynch showed her a small ebony door concealed behind a tapestry, impossible to find by chance. He used a key to open it. Together, they slipped into the secret tunnels, past the scalding pipes that wormed like veins behind the walls.

At first, had wondered if Queen Rozaria had never considered the risk posed by these passages, which must run past the rooms of the most important people in Yscalin. But as soon as she was inside one, she knew. It felt like a space not meant to be entered. Anyone who found an entry point, even if they were inquisitive, would not risk going far into this darkness.

Fynch carried a Draconic lantern. thought she would never be free of the sweltering heat, the heavy damp. He led her up slick black steps, almost too narrow for her slippers. At the top, he unlocked another ebony door, and they both stooped to go through it.

The Flesh King was sound asleep.

They moved in silence towards the bed. As expected, the Royal Physician had left her provisions close to her charge, including a flask of dwale, which picked up. When she was young, she had seen Aryete taking dwale to promote sleep. A drop or two would be enough.

‘Your Majesty,’ she said, keeping her voice low. His guards would be close. ‘Sigoso Vetalda.’

King Sigoso slowly opened his eyes. There was no light in them.

‘Sahar?’

stiffened. He drew out the s in the name, like a snake.

‘No. Sahar is dead,’ she said coldly, ‘but I am here.’

‘I dreamed of a woman holding a shield,’ King Sigoso whispered. ‘I dreamed of a star that shackled my wings.’

looked at the fresh linen at his bedside, used to cool his brow. ‘You know the Dowager Prince of Inys has long sought an audience with Your Majesty,’ she said. ‘I have granted it.’

‘Lord Wilstan,’ came the soft reply. ‘Have you worked it out, as my clever daughter did?’

‘To my own dismay.’ Fynch wore a cloth over his mouth and nose, despite the nature of their plan, but his eyes held more than a decade of banked sorrow. ‘I will have it from your own forked tongue, Sigoso. Tell me how it was done.’

‘As you wish. I have nothing to hide.’

Fynch listened to the sordid tale. Little by little, could see his younger self emerging. The man who had loved the Queen of Inys. The spy who had ventured to Yscalin in search of justice. When the Flesh King had confessed all, Fynch gave her the smallest nod.

‘Here, Father,’ said. ‘You must be thirsty.’

The Flesh King finished the wine in three gulps. They both watched as he fell asleep.

‘I will afflict myself,’ Fynch said hoarsely, ‘but I would sooner you did not see it, Donmata. I am still afraid, and would not have you see me at my weakest, now the Saint tests me anew.’

watched his face.

‘If I leave you alone,’ she said, ‘you will not kill him, Your Grace?’

‘No. I will not sacrifice my own place in Halgalant for his sake.’

****

Time was of the essence. They used the water passages to bypass the locked door to the armoury, where gave Fynch furs to wear, along with an alpenstock and cleats, a crossbow, a firesteel and a sturdy blade, all so he could hunt and keep warm in the Spindles.

She gave him the posy ring from Aubrecht. It had pained her to work it from her finger, but it was the only jewellery that could be soundly identified as hers, so Virtudom would know she was faithful. Lastly, she gave him a bundle of letters, written over the course of a year.

Deep in the bowels of the Palace of Salvation, they stood before the entrance to the cave, both holding torches lit with red fire. He wore the satchel containing the box, with the strap across his chest.

‘Go to Rauca first, my lord,’ said. ‘If Ambassador uq-Ispad is at his estate in Rumelabar, I am certain King Jantar will help you reach him. Tell him what has happened here.’

‘I will, Your Radiance.’ Fat beads of sweat lined his forehead. The plague must already be making him too warm. ‘I feel rather like Sir Wulfert Glenn, forging into the frozen North. Perhaps it is only right that I have an adventure in my winter years.’

returned his weak smile, wishing she could embrace him. ‘Goodbye, Lord Wilstan,’ she said. ‘The Knight of Courage is with you. So is the Saint.’

Even with plague reaching its roots through him, he bowed.

‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘My lady.’

She watched him walk into the darkness, small but steady, lit by his Draconic torch. When his footsteps had gone too far to be heard, she ascended the steps and went to her apartments. For the first time in months, she dared to play music, plucking ‘The Swan Song’ on the harp.

When she tried to sleep that night, her mind wandered back to the tunnel. Something about the farewell had troubled her. She shook herself, but the feeling persisted, quashing any chance of sleep.

She lay awake until sunrise, listening to Priessa breathe. At last, she dressed in a clean shirt and kirtle. Taking a torch, she returned to the tunnel, heart almost thumping out of her chest.

In the cave, the volcanic glass reflected her torchlight. Its walls yawned around her, black and silent as a tomb. had not walked so much since she was a child; it seemed as if she would never stop. Down here, deep under the ground, time seemed out of joint.

The farther she ventured, the more she thought she was being foolish. Fynch had the plague. He was protected.

A spot of daylight far ahead, growing by the moment. She quickened her step, only to slow when she made out a shape on the ground. When she knelt, the red glow of her torch revealed it.

‘Saint,’ she whispered.

It was the box. Leaving it behind, she ran and ran for the end of the tunnel, and at last, her boots crunched into deep snow.

A bitter wind ripped at her veil. She took it off, blinking in the sudden, dazzling glare. The sky above was clear and blue, and there, in all their glory, were the mountains. When she looked behind her, Mount Fruma blocked any sight of the city.

For the first time in five years, she was outside Cárscaro. Had she not been so afraid, would have laughed in sheer relief.

As it stood, she had to keep her wits.

Her breath escaped her in white plumes. Never had she been so cold. She clutched her cloak around herself and shielded her eyes with the other hand. The tunnel had brought her to a narrow pass, with steep walls on either side, leading deeper into the mountains.

‘Lord Wilstan,’ she shouted, but the wind stole her voice. ‘Lord Wilstan!’

It took her a moment to notice the footprints. When she followed them with her gaze, she finally made out the small, distant mound in the snow. It could be a snowdrift, except that it was crimson.

Before she could think better of it, left the safety of the overhang above the cave. By the time she reached the corpse, her legs burned with exertion, and hot tears lined her eyes.

The snow was stained with blood and gore. Fynch had not met with a gentle death. One of his arms had been ripped off, and his skull was caved in on one side. collapsed to her knees.

She was no culler or historian, but she had read chronicles of the Grief. Straight after his death, the Draconic plague should have turned his hands red, and his body ought to smell of brimstone. Little by little, she peeled off his gloves, so she could see his fingers. They were still pale.

Fynch had never touched her father.

In that moment, considered forging on, even without the sickness. She considered making the journey to her uncle, carrying a box that could mean and contain nothing.

Then she saw two skeletons, farther ahead, strung up on a cliff. Like some dire warning.

Ruzio and Bartian had got no farther than Fynch.

Her stomach heaved, just as a strange hiss stiffened the hairs on her neck. She froze in place. To her right, a monstrous creature was emerging from a crack in the pass, its tongue flickering.

Its thick legless body led up to a head like that of a snake. A pair of leathern wings unfolded, and it bared a pair of terrible fangs, each slick with the blood of the Dowager Prince of Inys.

almost fainted in fear. She maintained her clarity just long enough to reach into the pouch Fynch had been carrying. Inside was the posy ring. Her last reminder of Aubrecht.

She jammed it on to her finger. The amphiptere slithered towards her, and she ran, almost stumbling in the snow. Even when she reached the cave, she kept running. Behind her, the amphiptere screeched in fury as she snatched up the box and clutched it to her chest.

At last, she reached the steps to the palace, where she buckled. Everyone who had tried to take the Pass of the Imperator was dead. If Aubrecht had sent anyone to save her, they would have long since perished. She did not even know what lay inside the box, or how to open it.

Her sobs echoed through the darkness, unheard.

Your Majesty, I scarce know how to describe the misfortune that has befallen Yscalin, nor my anguish as I choose the words to convey it to you.

A second Grief of Ages is upon us. Fyredel, that cunning old foe, has woken in Mount Fruma. Glorian Shieldheart defied him upon Cenning Moor; I pray you will exhibit the same courage and aid my people as best you may. As I write, they face the mighty wrath and vengeance of his wyverns.

Cárscaro was lost in hours. Our mountain city was a prison once; so it has become again. Alas that we did not foresee the enemy within. I cannot escape, nor resist Fyredel, with thousands of innocent souls held to ransom – but no matter the lies my father has sent, Yscalin remains faithful.

I pray that Ambassador Fynch will survive his journey across the Spindles; that your father, gentle as he is, will inform you of the grave evil that mine did in these very halls. It seems our shared grief in the loss of our mothers had only one root, and his blood is my own. I would question how to live with the knowledge, but I doubt that I will survive for much longer, though I will fight as long as I may.

Should any of my family escape this new Draconic kingdom, I ask you to grant them shelter and kindness.

Know that I was loyal to the end.

Yours in everlasting faith,

Taumargam Vetalda, Donmata of Yscalin, Crown Princess of the Ersyr