Page 2 of Among the Burning Flowers (The Roots of Chaos #3)

KINGDOM OF YSCALIN

CE 1003

Every hour of every day was meted out like precious oil. At eight of the clock, Marosa prayed in the Privy Sanctuary. Kneeling on a hassock, she voiced her unending love for the Saint – vanquisher of the Nameless One, saviour of the world – and the six members of his Holy Retinue, each symbolising one of the Virtues of Knighthood.

At nine, she broke her fast with Priessa and the Afleytan sisters. She never called on her other ladies, who lived in fine rooms on the floor below hers, content to enjoy their modest salaries and the prestige that came with serving a princess.

At ten, she practised the harp. Even if she could not change her life, she could vary the temper and pace of her music. She chose ‘The Swan Song’ – a ballad Aubrecht loved, written in praise of his ancestor.

The next hours were for studying the history and language of Mentendon, soon to be her country by marriage. Aubrecht wrote well in Yscali, and they both spoke Inysh, but to be his consort, she had to master the tongue his people had fought to preserve through centuries of Hróthi stewardship. To understand the triumphs and misfortunes of their past.

Queen Sahar, like many Ersyris, had valued education highly. Until Marosa was sixteen, she had been instructed by the finest scholars in Virtudom. They had all vanished after her mother’s death, cut loose without explanation. Now she served as her own tutor. The Library of Isalarico furnished her with the books and documents she required. It also connected to other levels of the palace, allowing her to hear the courtiers on the lower floors as they went about the business of government, even if their voices were distant and distorted.

In all the accounts Marosa had read, she had never heard of a king who kept his heir sequestered from his court. When she was nineteen, she had asked her father if she could join him in council, or at one of his audiences, so she might learn the ways of ruling.

A curious request, King Sigoso had replied coolly. Do you already seek the throne, Marosa?

It was treason to imagine the death of the sovereign. That was the last time Marosa had asked. But out of his sight, she kept building her knowledge of history and politics, agriculture and religion, philosophy and rhetoric, poesy. She refused to be ignorant when she was crowned.

That day, she returned to her readings on the Brygstad Terror, a visitation of sweating sickness that had devastated the Mentish court – the only reason Aubrecht was to rule. Since he was the son of a secondborn prince, he had expected to be a sanctarian, not a monarch.

Marosa meant to bolster him until she was Queen of Yscalin. From what she knew, the present High Prince – his granduncle, Leovart – already delegated most of his duties to his relatives. Even before Aubrecht was crowned, he would need support. At last, she would have somewhere to practise the art of politics, and to use her knowledge gainfully, after years of isolation.

At noon, when it was hottest, she retired to her apartments. At three, she proceeded to the garden terrace, where she dined on a salmon casserole. The fish was flavoured with blood orange and saffron, the pastry thick with dried grapes, pine nuts, and blanched almonds.

A bowl of red pears sat in the middle of the table. The ancient symbol of her dynasty, matching her ruby pendant. Yscabel was eating a custard apple, while Ruzio poured glasses of iced perry and Priessa observed the balustrade, her dark brows drawn.

Her patience was rewarded. A small bird came to land, drawn to the seeds they had scattered that morning.

‘Oh. How lovely,’ Yscabel breathed. ‘Is it a greenfinch, Essa?’

‘A serin,’ Priessa said. ‘Most likely from Inys.’

The serin pecked the seeds. Its plumage was black and yellow, and a forked tail kept it balanced. Ever since the molten lava had appeared, it was rare for new birds to come to Cárscaro.

‘A handsome bird,’ Marosa observed. ‘Where does it fly in the winter?’

‘Lasia or the Ersyr.’ Priessa raised a faint smile. ‘A bird that sees much of our world.’

The serin chirruped and took wing. Marosa gazed after it.

‘Donmata,’ Ermendo said, ‘Lord Wilstan Fynch, Duke of Temperance, Dowager Prince of Inys.’

Marosa set her glass aside. ‘Thank you, Ermendo.’

Wilstan Fynch stepped on to the terrace. From the sweat on his brow, it had been a hard climb, but he was hale for his age, often going to the plain to exercise with the Hróthi ambassadors. His eyes crinkled when he saw her, banishing the austerity from that long face.

‘Donmata.’ He took off his bonnet and bowed. ‘Good afternoon.’

‘Your Grace,’ Marosa said in Inysh. ‘The heat is very strong today. Would you care for some iced wine?’

‘No, thank you. I will take some nutmeg in milk, if I may.’

‘Of course.’

Priessa went inside to fetch it. Fynch chose the seat opposite Marosa. Most Inysh nobles dressed to reflect the seasons – a recent fashion – but the Dowager Prince had worn mourning grey for as long as Marosa had known him, with no jewellery but his signet ring. Quite the contrast to his daughter, Queen Sabran of Inys, who glinted with gold whenever she moved.

‘It has been far too long, Your Radiance,’ Fynch said warmly. ‘How do you do?’

‘Very well, Your Grace,’ Marosa said. ‘I trust that you are still comfortable here.’

‘The hospitality of Cárscaro is unrivalled. As is your generosity in inviting me to your table again.’

She wished it were the Knight of Generosity that moved her. The foreign ambassadors were her only means of glimpsing the world beyond Yscalin. She had long since befriended Sir Robrecht Teldan, the Mentish ambassador, who she found amiable and intelligent.

Her father had never forbidden her to extend invitations, but she sensed it was better for him not to know. Fortunately, like Sir Robrecht, Fynch understood her preference for privacy.

‘Donmata, I came to—’ Fynch stopped to accept a cup from Priessa. ‘Thank you, Lady Priessa. As swift as your name.’

Priessa inclined her head. ‘I am aware of the Inysh liking for nutmeg in the summer, Your Grace.’

‘Well, it counters the dry heat, you see, in the absence of a bloodletter.’

Marosa exchanged a glance with Priessa, whose mouth twitched. Inys was the cradle of a faith that ruled four nations, but it had also produced some of the worst physicians in history.

‘Your Radiance,’ Fynch said to Marosa, ‘I will not impose upon you for long, but there is a delicate matter I wanted to raise.’ She gave her ladies a small nod, and they left. ‘King Sigoso has refused to grant me an audience since the autumn, and even that was not for long, since His Majesty had a headache that day. He and I have much to discuss. Is he well?’

‘My father is a devout man, Your Grace. He spends much of his time at prayer.’

‘His dedication to the Saint is admirable, but he is a sovereign, not a sanctarian.’

Fynch made her father nervous. She had noticed as soon as the Dowager Prince arrived, replacing a less attentive Inysh ambassador, who had been content to enjoy the spectacular outlooks and steam baths of Cárscaro and only ever meet with the Secretary of State.

‘Yscalin was first to join Inys in worship of the Saint,’ Fynch continued. ‘There has been no greater friendship between realms in all of history. Let us not pain the Knight of Fellowship by allowing it to corrode.’

In her lap, out of sight, Marosa twisted the posy ring on her little finger.

‘I assume there is good reason,’ she said, ‘but I do apologise, Your Grace. I will ask my lord father if he will meet with you as a matter of priority, but in truth, there is little more I can do.’

‘Surely he listens to his own daughter.’

‘Not as often as you might suppose.’

The words scraped out against her will, like a cough that had burned in her throat for too long. Fynch considered her with small brown eyes, reminding her of his inquisitive namesake.

‘Donmata,’ he said, ‘may I ask when you last left the Palace of Salvation?’

‘When I attended the celebration to mark the thousandth year of Berethnet rule.’

‘That was three years ago.’

‘Indeed.’

Her father had sent her with a heavy contingent of guards. All the way down the mountain, Marosa had thought he would change his mind. And yet the coach had trundled on, out into the lavender.

After a tiring journey, she had been escorted on to a royal galleon, the Prince Therico. Her first sight of the sea, the stormy coast of Inys – and then its fabled capital, Ascalon. The seat of Virtudom.

Queen Sabran had been a generous host. Her elegance and wit had dazzled Marosa. They were close in age, and had both lost their mothers young. Perhaps that was why Sabran had paid such careful attention to her comfort, introducing her to as many people as she could. Perhaps it was also why Sabran had refrained from ruling on whether Queen Sahar had forfeited her place in Halgalant, instead leaving the decision to the Principal Sanctarian of Yscalin.

Throughout the twelve days of celebrations, Marosa had dined with Mentish courtiers, all wanting to pay their respects to their future High Princess. She had danced with lords and chieftains, played cards with the Ladies of the Bedchamber, hunted in Chesten Forest. She had even been able to see the Ersyri ambassador, Chassar uq-Ispad, who had not set foot in Cárscaro since her mother was pronounced dead. All diplomacy between Yscalin and the South had ended that day, but Inys maintained a cordial relationship with the Ersyr, and Chassar – a charming giant of a man – had wanted to assure himself of her wellbeing.

Donmata, he had said, keeping his voice low, if ever you wished to visit the Ersyr, your uncle and aunt would be overjoyed to receive you in Rauca.

You are very kind, Your Excellency, but I do not think that will be possible.

Not yet.

‘It seems a long time,’ Fynch said, jolting Marosa back to the present. ‘Do you not wish to see more of Yscalin?’

She wanted to tell him that her father had deliberated for months before permitting her to go to Inys. That he would not have let her leave, except that he had no desire to go, and the heir was the only acceptable proxy. That his grip on her had tightened ever since.

‘Of course,’ she said, ‘but His Majesty has no other children. I believe he worries for my safety.’

Fynch did not reply at once, but she knew what he was thinking. Her premature death would cause a succession crisis, but even the unwed and heirless Queen Sabran did not spend her days confined to a single palace, and her bloodline kept the Nameless One bound.

‘I understand,’ Fynch said. ‘Have you any word on your marriage to Prince Aubrecht?’

‘His Majesty will set a date in due course.’

Again, Fynch was too polite to comment, and again, Marosa read his thoughts. She was some way into her childbearing years and had no obvious reason not to marry at once.

Perhaps this sudden interest from Inys would finally spur her father to action. The thought lifted her spirits.

‘I sail for Ascalon next week,’ Fynch said. ‘This heat is proving too much for my constitution.’ He finished his drink. ‘I will return to Cárscaro in time for the Feast of Temperance.’

‘I doubt the heat will have eased by then,’ Marosa said, ‘but I understand the need for a reprieve, my lord.’

‘You are most gracious.’

Inys was a cold and rainy isle, battered by the rough winds of the Ashen Sea. It was a wonder Fynch could endure Yscalin at all, but he only sailed back to see his daughter once or twice a year.

Marosa could see why. She lived in a place that was haunted by absence, and if she had been free to choose, she would not have stayed for long.

‘I trust that you received a letter from Her Majesty today.’ Fynch rose. ‘Queen Sabran would be very glad to see you again, if you ever wished to visit. Good afternoon, Your Radiance.’

‘And to you, Your Grace.’

****

That night, Marosa knelt in the Privy Sanctuary again, her gaze fixed on a relief carving of Glorian Hartbane, tenth Queen of Inys. Her name had been inscribed beneath her, for every Berethnet queen in history had looked exactly the same as the last.

Marosa was never sure if she would care for it. While she looked a great deal like her mother, she was also herself; surely any stronger resemblance would be painful. But each Berethnet only bore one daughter, who grew into her mirror image – a line of identical women, stretching back over a thousand years. A sign of their divinity.

It had been six centuries since Isalarico the Benevolent, a former King of Yscalin, had seen that sign with his own eyes when Glorian was shipwrecked on his shores. Overcome by her beauty, he had forsaken the old mountain gods to marry her, forming the Chainmail of Virtudom. Because of love, from that day forth, Yscalin had been pledged to the Saint.

Marosa looked down at her posy ring, thinking of Aubrecht. The man who would be her companion for all eternity, even unto Halgalant.

They had only spent twelve days together, always chaperoned by the Privy Council or her ladies. The first time, Aubrecht had come to court her. It had surprised her that her father was considering the match. Mentendon was the strange bird of Virtudom, and its trade with Seiiki – an island that revered sea wyrms – was a constant bone of contention. She had always expected to marry an Inysh lord or a Hróthi chieftain.

Aubrecht had been the soul of courtesy. She recalled his dark eyes and thick copper hair, his smile at the first sight of her. Unsure of how to act, she had found herself turning stiff and reticent. Fortunately, Aubrecht was a Ment, and even quiet Ments were insatiably curious. At supper, he was full of questions about her life, her interests, her ambitions for Yscalin. And when she answered, Aubrecht had listened as if there was no one else in the room.

He was not only thoughtful and well read, but a gifted storyteller. Ments were known for their oil paintings; Aubrecht painted with his words. They took her all the way across Mentendon, so she might imagine herself as its High Princess. In the world he described, they watched ships from the windswept docks of Ostendeur, walked the cobbled streets of Brygstad, rode across the Bridal Forest. She could hear the rushing waters of the Hundert and feel the heavy furs she would need when the winter set in.

By the end of the week, his every look had made her smile. And when he had ridden away from Cárscaro, she felt as if she had lost an old friend.

Aubrecht had returned six months later, once their betrothal was legally binding. She had been afraid that their mutual warmth might have faded, but Aubrecht had seemed delighted to see her again, and Marosa had returned the sentiment. They had toasted the alliance with the finest wines of the Groneyso Valley. There had been a feast, and then a dance.

After, they had sat on a terrace, looking over Cárscaro, and he had taken her gently by the hand, placing the ring on to her finger. This is a token of troth. A promise that I will cherish you always.

Marosa was no fool. She knew that two meetings were not enough for an abiding love to bloom, even if she bore his absence like a broken rib. She knew that men could hide their true selves; that Aubrecht might wear a mask, like her father, whose smiles were only a sheath for a blade.

But she wanted to trust Aubrecht. Even if he had been old and unkind, she would have needed him.

Once they were married, she would have duties as his consort in Mentendon. Her father would have to let her go. As soon as she got with child, she would tell him that the fumes of Cárscaro were too dangerous. Then she would tell him the lava was too great a risk to her newborn.

She would not be caged in this palace again.

Even as she imagined escape, the feeling of suffocation returned. The sanctuary had no windows. To distract herself, she slid off the posy ring and read the words engraved along the inner band.

TIME ? A FRIEND ? UNTO THE END

To Aubrecht, patience was the seventh virtue. Even if they had to wait, their friendship would only grow firmer with time, forming a strong foundation for their marriage.

A strong foundation for her plan.

Her dream, kept out of sight like wine, to ripen with each passing year.

She returned the posy ring to her finger. Glancing over her shoulder, she eased up a loose floor-tile. Hidden underneath it was a mirror on a silver chain, along with a miniature of her mother.

Queen Sahar wore a confident smile. The court painter had been one of her ladies, and had captured her well. Her black hair, drawn back to show a pair of gold Ersyri earrings, and her striking brown eyes, framed by thick lashes. Marosa traced the frame, her chest aching.

Why did you have to leave me?

Now she carefully lifted the necklace, not wanting to smear the glass. The oval pendant was exquisite, a mirror bordered with filigree silver. Her mother had worn it under her partlet. A symbol of the Faith of Dwyn, which even most Southerners no longer followed.

A symbol forbidden in Virtudom.

See yourself in others. Treat them as you would treat yourself, her mother had said, and hope that they offer you the same grace. That is the way of Dwyn.

It still hurt to see the necklace and the miniature. Marosa polished the silver to keep it from tarnishing, then used the mirror to look into her own eyes, an amber so bright they were almost orange. The eyes of Oderica the Smith – a prisoner in ancient Cárscaro, and later, the first Queen of Yscalin. She, too, had been trapped in the dark for nine years.

Marosa returned the mirror to its nook and covered it.

Her plan might take her nine years or longer. Perhaps it would cost the rest of her life.

She meant to make Yscalin as safe as Lasia, where those who rejected the dominant faith did not face execution; where people like her mother did not have to convert; where she could embrace her Southern uncle and not have it be seen as a betrayal of the Saint; where people gave each other the grace they gave themselves.

Her marriage to Aubrecht was the first step, granting her the key to her cage. She hoped that he would be her ally, once she worked up the courage to tell him. Unlike the other countries in Virtudom, Mentendon did not kill unbelievers; it even allowed scholars to question the Six Virtues. The House of Lievelyn had affirmed its loyalty to the Saint, but the Ments had initially been converted by force. Surely he would understand the need for tolerance.

She would be patient. By the Saint and the Holy Retinue, for the sake of her kingdom and her sanity, she would cleave to the Red Prince of Mentendon with all her might.

Saint, you offered your mercy and compassion to the Damsel, a woman who did not share your faith. She touched her patron brooch, a shield, the symbol of the Knight of Courage. Help me return that mercy to Yscalin.