Page 18 of Among the Burning Flowers (The Roots of Chaos #3)

CáRSCARO

DRACONIC KINGDOM OF YSCALIN

CE 1005

Priessa Yelarigas stepped into the Privy Chamber.

Beside an open window, Vetalda sipped from what might be the last cup of perry she would taste in her life.

The red pears had died, defeated by the foul air on the streets, worsened by the wyverns’ breath and the Draconic plague.

For the first time in two years, there were newcomers in Cárscaro.

Lord Gastaldo made the announcement to the court first.

On the orders of Fyredel, the capital was now admitting any person who wished to serve the Draconic Army of their own free will, though they could never again leave Yscalin, except with royal permission.

Fyredel had allowed him to send a consignment of letters by coach, inviting all of humankind to join the House of Vetalda in worship of the Nameless One.

A post road had been opened from Cárscaro to the northern coast, where ships would be permitted to bear them elsewhere.

wished Lord Gastaldo could have used a cypher to conceal other messages in the letters, but her father still read every one, both with and without the embers in his eyes. Not only that, but jaculi and cockatrices pulled the coaches.

She had not expected anyone to answer the summons. Instead, the population of Cárscaro had swelled to sixty thousand.

Perhaps it ought not to have shocked her so deeply.

In recent months, several Draconic sects had sprung up throughout Yscalin, including the Cult of the Iron King, which worshipped Fyredel as a primordial god.

They wore red and black to mirror his armour – a fashion that had quickly spread across the capital.

A temple was being raised where the Great Sanctuary of Cárscaro had once stood, built in the Gulthaganian style, with columns and enormous hearths.

wanted to ask the cultists if they had always reviled the Saint, or if their outward devotion was only a means of surviving their new circumstances.

Either way, they were overtaking her city.

Now it would be even harder for the faithful to fight back.

‘My father asked me to tell you,’ Priessa said. ‘Aubrecht Lievelyn has broken your betrothal.’

did not weep. Instead, her body turned numb by increments. It was its only means of self-defence.

‘I see,’ she said. ‘How does your father know?’

‘We still have intelligencers in other countries. Now a post road is open, some of them sent word.’ Priessa lowered her gaze. ‘It also seems the High Prince intends to marry Queen Sabran.’

‘High Prince?’

‘Leovart died.’

Aubrecht was not just a crown prince now, but the ruler of the Free State of Mentendon, as he should have been for years.

He could not maintain a betrothal with someone whose kingdom was pledged to the Nameless One.

Neither could she blame him for seeking a second betrothal. Mentendon still needed a strong alliance with another country in Virtudom.

But the thought of their future in Mentendon – their life, their children, the world they would build – had been her last thin shred of hope. She had clung to the memories of their courtship.

Now her only future was the inside of the iron helm.

She could take her own life to deprive Fyredel of a puppet.

In the dark hours after Fynch died, she had considered it.

But the wyrm might burn Cárscaro in retribution for her defiance, and she would not condemn her people to that fate. Her folly had already killed her friends.

If her soul was the price for Yscalin to be safe, she would pay it.

The box remained hidden under her bed. Another source of hope, perhaps, if Jondu had been right.

She could not stop seeing the mountains beyond Cárscaro. She saw them in her dreams, in her nightmares, even when she was awake. For a few heartbeats, she had been on the verge of freedom. She had seen the sky of her childhood, blue and wide, without the constant haze of the Tundana. It had been the sweetest sight in the world, and a poison to her soul.

Priessa sat opposite her. She studied , reading her thoughts.

‘I know we have discussed this,’ she said, ‘but I could still go to the Ersyr. You know I would not fail you.’

‘No.’ continued to look out of the window. ‘You are all I have left, Priessa. You are my sanity.’

‘There may be another way.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Not long after the post road opened, a letter arrived at the Customs House of Perunta, addressed to His Majesty. It was from Lord Seyton Combe, the Principal Secretary of Inys. This letter was apparently courteous, seeking to restore diplomatic ties with Yscalin. He offered to send two ambassadors. Their names are Lord Arteloth Beck and Lord Kitston Glade.’

‘What of other countries?’ asked her. ‘Will they send anyone?’

‘No word yet from the South. I imagine they are debating what to do,’ Priessa said. ‘Mentendon and Hróth have demanded that their existing ambassadors are sent back to them safely before they will treat with us.’ clenched her jaw. ‘Fyredel has sanctioned the Inysh embassy.’

‘Inys is the last country I would have expected to send one, and not just on religious grounds. After her father vanished here, why would Queen Sabran want to risk any more of her courtiers?’

‘To see inside Cárscaro. To find him,’ Priessa said. ‘Lord Wilstan would not do what was needful, but Her Majesty must have faith that these ambassadors will be strong and shrewd enough to learn the truth and escape Yscalin. Perhaps they can be persuaded to make the journey in our stead.’

‘And if they break our trust, like Fynch?’ asked her. ‘If the box is lost for good this time?’

‘They must have great courage, to enter a Draconic land by choice.’

finished her drink, rolling the perry around her mouth.

‘Lord Arteloth is a close friend of Queen Sabran,’ she murmured. ‘Perhaps you are right.’ She put the cup down. ‘The box may be empty, or filled only with dust. All of this could be false hope.’

‘That is better than none.’ Priessa took her by the hands and sought her gaze. ‘Let us say that we succeed in convincing these men to go. While they make their way to Ambassador uq-Ispad, you must appease the cultists by emphasising your descent from Oderica the Smith.’

‘Why?’

‘They venerate her as an early oracle and worshipper of Fyredel.’

‘I will never be one of them.’

‘No, but the fact of it will protect you. There are more and more of them arriving by the day. Securing their respect will keep you safe and allow you to maintain control of Cárscaro. And if you appear loyal to the cause, Fyredel may not see any need to make you his puppet by force.’

Her gloved hand resting on his scales. His eyes searing into hers, as if he recognised her.

‘This is about surviving long enough for help to come, as our ancestors did. The Grief of Ages was not won by the sword, but through endurance,’ Priessa said. ‘The Saint will forgive us.’

set her jaw. Even if the idea of such a performance was repulsive, she saw the wisdom in it.

‘Find out as much as you can about the Cult of the Iron King,’ she concluded, ‘and I will attempt to mirror its followers. Let them bow to the heir of Oderica.’

****

The candles were burning, red and intense, when her guard disturbed her three nights later. Once a member of the Knights Defendant, he was now a nameless cultist of the Iron King. had never seen his face, for he covered it with a mask, like all the others.

‘Lord Gastaldo is here,’ he informed . ‘With your permission, Your Radiance.’

gave him a nod. Once the guard had retreated from the Privy Chamber, Lord Gastaldo strode into it, wearing a black cape that rode on one shoulder.

‘Your Radiance,’ he said, bowing to her. ‘Fyredel will speak with you again this night.’

‘At the Fell Door?’ Priessa stood at once. ‘If so, let me go in her stead.’

‘No,’ said to her. ‘Fyredel would realise the deception, Essa.’

‘Perhaps not if I wear your clothes and carry a vial of your blood, so I smell of you. We can ask the Royal Physician to—’

‘The Donmata is right, daughter. The Iron King sees all,’ Lord Gastaldo said. ‘It is time to give up our thoughts of resistance. All of it has come to naught. There is no Saint to keep us safe, no Halgalant to receive us. That much has become apparent.’

He walked to stand beside the hearth, gazing into the flames that danced there.

‘It is clear that our ancestors, the early Yscals, had it right. They saw a god in Mount Fruma,’ he said. ‘Now that god has revealed himself to us, just as he did to Oderica the Smith.’

As he spoke, took in his fine garments again. His black cloak had a red lining. Priessa tensed as she, too, grasped the danger. She had known about the cultists, but not that her own father had joined their ranks.

‘Yscalin should always have rejected the Saint, Donmata. He is an Inysh god, not ours,’ Lord Gastaldo said. ‘Galian Berethnet was forced on us by your ancestor, Isalarico the Betrayer. But you are not just his descendant. You are the scion of Oderica, with eyes lit by a holy fire.’

maintained her composure as Priessa sent her a glance.

‘I believe,’ she said, ‘that we understand each other, my lord.’ She rose from her settle. ‘You are right. If there was indeed a Saint, he has abandoned us in our hour of need. He is unworthy of devotion.’ She forced a smile. ‘Let us embrace our roots as Yscals, and our independence from Virtudom, by worshipping the Iron King.’

Lord Gastaldo listened in rapt silence. So did the cultist by the door.

‘Too long have we been chained to the Queendom of Inys. Oderica drove out the Gulthaganians; let us do the same to the usurping Saint,’ said, her tone commanding. ‘If we are loyal – if we aid him – then Fyredel will spare us when fire rages from shore to shore.’

His face relaxed. Some part of him must have needed her approval, so he could persuade himself that succumbing was the right decision. In the absence of the Saint, Gastaldo Yelarigas needed to believe in something else. He needed to be reassured that he was not a monster.

‘Radiance,’ he said, raising a gloved hand to his chest. ‘We are ready to serve.’ He nodded to the doors. ‘Fyredel does not ask you to come to him in person. He will speak through His Majesty.’

She expected to be escorted upstairs. Instead, the Flesh King entered the Privy Chamber, out of bed for the first time in weeks. Two masked Vardya stood on either side of him, close enough that they would catch him if he fell. His eyes had the piercing embers in them.

‘Donmata of Yscalin. Glassbearer,’ he ground out. ‘Do you hear me?’

‘Yes, my liege.’ sank into a low curtsey, her skirts fanning around her. ‘I hear.’

It was easy to act in front of her father.

‘The Queen of Inys sends envoys to my kingdom. Perhaps she wishes to treat with me,’ Fyredel said. His puppet coughed, blood and spittle leaking from the corners of his mouth. ‘I will grant her desire, for I owe the seed of Shieldheart a death.’

His loathing of Glorian Shieldheart had not waned in five hundred years. went over his words again.

‘Then you mean to leave us?’ she asked him. ‘To go to Inys?’

‘Not for long.’ Fyredel looked into her eyes. ‘Enact my will in Yscalin. Do not seek to escape or resist, or flesh will burn as flowers do, all across this land. You know what is expected.’

The iron helm, wrought like a wyrm.

‘Yes,’ said. ‘I understand, my liege. You will find no disobedience in Cárscaro.’

‘So be it.’

The Flesh King crumpled. While Lord Gastaldo and the Vardya tended him, left the Privy Chamber, her skin turning cold, and rushed to her balcony for the first time since Ermendo died. She had not been able to bear walking that familiar path without him.

In the distance, she heard the first screams, followed by cries of joy.

It was not yet dawn, so she only saw Fyredel when he passed over the lava, which lit his colossal form. The architect of the Grief of Ages, free of his lair in Mount Fruma, taking to the sky for the first time in centuries.

His wings stretched wide enough to plunge Cárscaro into shadow. Now she saw that he had four legs rather than two, separate from those wings, and his tail was as broad as the trunk of a stone pine, with spikes at the end, each twice as long as she was tall.

Every scale looked as hard as a shield.

As he passed the Palace of Salvation, his gaze scraped hers for a moment. She gripped the balustrade as he soared towards the Great Yscali Plain, watched by all who were awake. With three mighty sweeps of his wings, the wyrm disappeared into the night.

slid to the ground, strands of hair blowing free of their braid. Priessa came to kneel in front of her.

‘And so a second Grief begins,’ said softly. ‘If he kills Queen Sabran, all is lost. The Nameless One will rise. This time, humankind will be extinguished. Not even bones will remain.’

Priessa cupped her face. searched hers for hope, for salvation.

‘I care not if my father is a cultist,’ Priessa said, her voice taut. ‘We two may be quite alone, but we are Yscals. We are strong.’ Her freckled cheeks glistened. ‘I believe Queen Sabran will survive Fyredel, as Glorian Shieldheart did. And I believe in you, even above the Saint himself. One day, you will be Queen of Yscalin. The n era will heal this scarred country.’

They pressed their foreheads together.

‘The Knight of Fellowship is good,’ whispered, ‘to have given me you, at the end of our days.’

They stayed there until the sun rose, bleeding its light on to the dead and barren plain.

At last, a chirp made them both look up in surprise, their faces tearstained.

After two long years, the serin – that lovely, merry little bird – had dared return to Cárscaro.

It cocked its head, seeming to look in the eyes, before it flew away again.

****

Outside, the Tundana kept flowing.

The wyverns kept their constant watch.

Under the eye of Lord Gastaldo, the Privy Council fell to the cult. Meanwhile, the Flesh King rotted in his bedchamber, dreaming of flight and scarlet fire, of a woman with the sun in her grasp.

By the time the new Inysh ambassadors arrived in Cárscaro, Fyredel had not returned, but stood ready.

They might only have a small window of time to send the box away once more.

Priessa had gone to meet the Rose Eternal, the ship that had brought the pair to Yscalin.

By feigning her devotion to the cult, convincing her father that she was loyal, she had earned the freedom to leave Cárscaro.

And soon stood at a hidden entrance to the Presence Chamber, wearing a black gown with a red sash, pinned by a brooch showing an iron tongue of flame.

The Privy Council would be in the audience.

They looked to her now, instead of her father, just as she had once desired.

If only it had not happened like this.

The Inysh ambassadors waited for her.

Lord Arteloth Beck and Lord Kitston Glade, two men who did not know that she would soon ask them to risk their lives for her people –

but who had risked their own, by choice, by coming to a harrowed land the Saint had forsaken.

And she – a puppet, a prisoner, a princess – would remain on the throne, unable to leave, until the day that Fyredel fell, as he had once before, on the last day of the Grief of Ages.

She wore her suit of armour, made up of her fear and pain, but underneath, she was still burning.

She donned the head of Fyredel, and inside, all was quiet. Watched by her court, and by the two men, she took her place on the obsidian throne, carved from the Dreadmount itself.

‘Lord Arteloth and Lord Kitston,’ she said. ‘My beloved father and I bid you welcome to the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin.’