Page 6 of Among the Burning Flowers (The Roots of Chaos #3)

In Inys, the Virtues Council was led by the Dukes Spiritual – scions of the Holy Retinue, the six knights who had served the Saint. The monarchs of Yscalin were guided by the Grandees, the heads of the six families who held the highest titles and controlled the most land in the kingdom.

Marosa followed Ermendo down the Grand Stair, shadowed by her other guards. She could already hear the disarray in the Council Chamber.

Since his own family had quit the capital, King Sigoso had kept his Privy Council small. In total, they numbered eighteen, prized for their ability to flatter and obey. Most of them had assembled by the time Marosa reached the Council Chamber, a great round hall on the twelfth floor of the Palace of Salvation. Portraits of her ancestors hung on the sleek black walls. The heavy scarlet curtains had been drawn, so no one could see in or out.

The crowd was not only composed of the inner Privy Council. She recognised the Grandees – the pillars of government – but also several knights and ambassadors and other residents of court, all gathered around her father, who sat alone at the head of the table, his expression impenetrable, observing his advisors. He was arrayed as if for a banquet, wearing a crown of red gold. The Captain General of the Vardya stood close beside him.

When it came to religious matters, the Yscals submitted to the Queen of Inys, the voice of the Saint. In every other way, the king was lord and master. He was a riveting presence, keeping his subjects on tenterhooks. No one spoke without his permission. No one contradicted him. All eyes were usually pinned to his face, watching for any hint of displeasure.

Now it was only chaos that reigned. All courtly protocol had evaporated.

Marosa met his gaze across the room. Not once had she set foot here, in the heart of governance, where Yscalin was shaped. Her father had always stopped her. This time, he gave her a nod.

It took his nobles some time to notice her. ‘There must be another way,’ Lord Alvo Sánctogan was saying, his large face turning puce. ‘We cannot send His Majesty into the jaws of a wyrm!’

‘If we do not, the entire city falls,’ argued Sir Robrecht Teldan. ‘His Majesty and the Donmata with it.’

‘You low serpent of a Ment. Do you mean for your Red Prince to supplant His Majesty?’

‘Don’t be absurd.’

Marosa surveyed the chamber. If her father was allowing this degree of disorder, it had to be for a reason. He was letting them all talk over each other, so their panic would strip away their decorum, exposing their true selves. Of course he would use their fear to his gain.

Perhaps she would follow his lead. Already she could make an intriguing observation of her own. Yscalin presently had four ambassadors in residence, but only three were present.

Wilstan Fynch was nowhere to be seen.

‘Donmata.’ The Duchess of Ortégardes was the first to address her. ‘Thank the Saint you are all right.’

She was loud enough to quieten the others. Slowly, they turned to look at Marosa.

Marosa knew them all by sight. Priessa had shown her their miniatures, but only a few had accepted her invitations to meals. From their expressions, some of them had not even realised how old she was. It had been many years since she had walked among them.

‘It is a High Western,’ she said. ‘Is it not?’

Despite her fear, her voice held strong.

‘So we fear, Donmata,’ a young man said. ‘No mere wyvern ever spoke a human tongue.’

Marosa regarded him, taking in his striking face. Lord Bartian Feyalda, the Count of Oryzon. She had played with Bartian as a child, but had only seen him from a distance for nearly a decade. He had grown tall, his features had sharpened, and he sported a fashionable beard.

He and most of the others were in their lavish bedgowns and slippers. They had clearly been here since the wyverns appeared.

‘Two were slain during the Grief,’ she said to the chamber at large. ‘Which of the other three do we face?’

There was a long and deep silence.

‘Only one would be so bold as to threaten a king,’ her father said. He spoke quietly, but everyone heard. ‘One whose first act, when he revealed himself to our ancestors, was to burn a scion of the Saint. The right wing of the Nameless One has woken from his sleep.’

Nobody dared to breathe. Bartian glanced away from the king, towards Marosa.

‘Fyredel,’ Marosa said.

The profane name was like poison on her lips. A shiver passed through the whole chamber.

‘All that time,’ the Duke of Aperio said. ‘All that time, he was slumbering upon our doorstep?’

‘He was never slain,’ the Counsellor of War pointed out. ‘The Spindles hide many caves, few of which have been explored.’

‘Are we certain the Gulthaganian mines do not hold any wyverns or Draconic creatures?’ Marosa asked him. ‘Are more about to burst up from beneath our feet?’

‘Not in my opinion, Your Radiance. King Alarico sealed the mines well. There is no way in or out.’

‘Then we cannot move our subjects down there to protect them, as was done in the Grief?’

‘No.’

Marosa glanced at her father. He remained at the head of the table, unmoving.

‘Can Yscalin withstand another Grief?’ she asked the nobles. ‘Are we ready for this fight?’

She found that it was easy to speak before a crowd, even with her father watching. All she had wanted, for nine long years, was to be able to address her future advisors without restraint.

‘We Northerners certainly are,’ one of the tall Hróthi ambassadors said, eyeing her. ‘I trust you Yscals have prepared.’

‘His Majesty has taken all reasonable precautions, as did his ancestors,’ Lord Gastaldo said. Even in this calamity, he was finely dressed, down to his livery collar and lace cuffs. ‘We have invested in many siege engines and weapons since the Grief.’

‘The wyverns burned the artillery,’ Marosa said. ‘I saw it.’

‘Cárscaro is well placed to repel an attack from the Great Yscali Plain, but not from winged enemies, coming from so close,’ the Counsellor of War said. ‘They may have been observing our defences for some time.’

‘We should never have stayed here. It was foolish and arrogant,’ Marosa said, the words spilling out before she could stop them. ‘Aunt Erica was right to leave.’

‘Be silent, Marosa,’ King Sigoso said. ‘You know nothing of this matter.’

Some of the counsellors averted their eyes. Once Marosa might have quailed, but now she returned his icy gaze.

‘Here is our situation,’ the Counsellor of War said, breaking the silence. ‘All of the artillery has been destroyed, and there are clearly too many wyverns to be felled by bows and rifles.’ He paced as he spoke. ‘Until the Great Yscali Plain stops burning, there is no way out of the city, nor for our allies to reach us. Cárscaro commands an unparalleled view of its surroundings; now that very advantage will be turned against us. Even if we called for aid, the wyverns would kill any soldiers that answered.’

King Sigoso ground his jaw. His eyes were circled by shadow, and a vein ran like a river from his hairline to the side of his nose. Marosa found his silence more chilling than his words.

‘What do you propose?’ she asked the Counsellor of War, daring to speak up again. ‘Is there any precedent from the Grief?’

‘The wyrms burned cities without remorse or warning, but there were times when they withheld the killing blow.’

‘Indeed,’ the Principal Sanctarian said. ‘This summons puts me in mind of the last great Inysh battle against Fyredel, when he laid siege to Hollow Crag. He demanded that Glorian Shieldheart emerge to face him. It was only the arrival of the Saint’s Comet that saved her life.’

Marosa could not stand to look at the man, with his green robes and placid face, his cheeks hollowed by fasting. Though generosity was one of the virtues he preached, he had not shown mercy when asked to decide whether Queen Sahar would be allowed to enter Halgalant. Instead, he had formally relinquished her seat there, leaving her to wander for eternity.

‘When will it come next?’ she asked the Council Chamber. ‘Does anyone know?’

‘No one knows for certain, Your Radiance. Many comets were observed in antiquity,’ Sir Robrecht Teldan said. ‘But as far as the astronomers of Mentendon know, no comet will be seen in our skies for at least four years. Our Seiikinese trading partners say the same.’

‘Do not speak of the heretic Easterners,’ the Principal Sanctarian said coldly. ‘The Saint was the one who sent the comet, to save his beloved descendant. He will do the same for Yscalin.’

Sir Robrecht looked away, his jaw clenching beneath his silver beard.

‘High Westerns can be slain. We know this,’ Marosa said, her conviction rising. ‘Dedalugun was felled in Lasia, and Taugran in Seiiki. We may not know how it was done, but—’

‘come forth, king on the mountain.’

Marosa flinched at the sound of that voice, which seemed to grind through the very foundations of Cárscaro. If the Dreadmount could speak, she was sure that it would have sounded like Fyredel.

‘Why is this happening?’ came a whisper. ‘Why have they woken now?’

‘The commons are full of vice,’ the Duke of Groneyso said, his face tight with disgust. ‘Not all of them follow the Six Virtues as we do in His Majesty’s court. Perhaps the Saint has chosen to relinquish his protection.’

‘It’s the Saint-forsaken cullers,’ Lord Gastaldo sneered. ‘Low and greedy criminals, profiting off the commons’ fear. They have been prodding the sleepers for years, for no reason other than moneymaking. I sent the Knights Defendant to cull them, but they persist.’

As Marosa watched them, she realised that none of them had any idea why this was happening. Not even the Principal Sanctarian.

‘Enough,’ she called. ‘Peace. We must decide what to do.’

‘Well said, Donmata.’ Lord Gastaldo collected himself. ‘Majesty, we are at your command. What say you?’

King Sigoso gripped the arm of his chair. She could see his mind turning, like the cogs inside a pocket watch. If he answered the summons, Fyredel would likely burn him. If not, he failed the Knight of Courage.

‘Summon my decoy,’ he said to Lord Gastaldo. ‘Array him richly and give him the Grey Crown.’

The least valuable. Lord Gastaldo bowed and quit the Council Chamber.

‘No one is to leave the Palace of Salvation. No quake nor wyrm can fell this tower,’ King Sigoso went on, ignoring the stares. ‘Whatever Fyredel wants of us, my decoy will soon learn it.’

The Duchess of Ortégardes cleared her throat. ‘Who is the decoy, Your Majesty?’

‘Orentico Feyalda. He bears a passing resemblance.’

Bartian looked away. The Feyalda were a cadet branch of the House of Vetalda, and had always been loyal, but Marosa could not imagine that any of them would take on this risk by choice.

‘We have enough grain to last up to four years,’ the Counsellor of War said, ‘but that will be of little use if Fyredel burns us all. I have not read of any wyrms besieging a city for long.’

‘That means nothing,’ the Duchess of Samana said roughly. ‘During the Grief, the wyrms had only just emerged from the Dreadmount. We do not know how they will behave in this new era.’

For a long spell, there was silence, as if no one dared to draw attention to themselves, even with several feet of rock to shield and hide them from the wyrms. After a time, Marosa moved to stand beside Bartian, who was peering through a gap between the curtains.

‘Donmata.’ He glanced at her. ‘I wish we had reunited under different circumstances.’

‘Indeed. I am glad to see you, Bartian.’

He found a joyless smile for her before he returned his gaze to the window. ‘Why has he not already killed us?’ he said under his breath. ‘He has burned the fields. Why not destroy the city, too?’

‘Perhaps he means to watch us starve. For revenge,’ Marosa murmured. ‘Do wyrms understand that concept?’

‘I believe so.’

‘What have we done, in their minds, to deserve so much violence?’

‘A wyrm has no mind. It is evil incarnate. We worship the Saint, who vanquished his master. Is that not enough?’ Seeing her face, Bartian softened his tone. ‘The comet will come again. I am sure of it.’

‘But not today.’

‘No, indeed.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Where are your ladies?’

‘In my apartments.’ She looked at him. ‘Orentico is my second cousin, I think, but we have not met.’

‘His Majesty has no love for bastards.’

‘Is the resemblance strong?’

‘Very, but Orentico is younger. Fyredel may see through the deception.’

‘Surely he cannot know what my father looks like.’

‘Either way, Orentico is doomed.’

‘Glorian Shieldheart survived Fyredel twice. It is possible.’ Marosa laid a consoling hand on his arm. ‘Orentico is doing his country a great service. The Knight of Courage will reward him, whether here or in Halgalant.’

Bartian nodded, and pressed her hand in return.

‘Do not touch my daughter,’ King Sigoso called, sharp as a cutlass. ‘She is betrothed.’

Marosa stepped away, her face burning.

‘Forgive me, Your Majesty.’ Bartian bowed. ‘The Donmata was only—’

‘I trust you do not mean to argue with your sovereign, Lord Bartian.’

Bartian closed his mouth.

Marosa moved to a different part of the Council Chamber, finding her own viewpoint.

Soon the other nobles were looking out as well, straining to see through the smoke that choked the streets.

Past her drawn reflection, Marosa could just see a pair of wyverns on the rooftops, watching the city.

She estimated each was fifty to seventy feet in length, from their snouts to the ends of their serpentine tails.

Just as the bestiaries described, they had only two hind legs, but their leathery wings acted somewhat like arms when they landed, allowing them to crawl along the ground.

Their talons were appalling, as were the twin horns that stemmed from their skulls.

They were thought to possess hollow bones – there was surely no other way they could fly – but she had still not expected their wings to be quite so immense, with savage hooks at the tips.

Beside them was a wyverling, half the size.

Unlike its kin, it stood upright, like a bird, with its wings folded against its sides.

All three creatures looked battle-scarred, with missing scales.

The scars of the Grief of Ages, left by warriors long dead.

Marosa tore her gaze away, cold sweat on her nape.

Far below, hundreds of Cárscari had gathered at the defensive wall that surrounded the lower floors of the Palace of Salvation.

They must be seeking the protection of its thick volcanic walls, but she knew her father.

He would not let the commons into his own home.

She willed them to give up and get to shelter.

Thanks to the Act of Preservation, the entire city was made of stone or brick, with no wood or thatched roofs to be seen.

Their homes would shield them from any more fire.

At last, the gates to the palace opened. When a figure emerged from inside, the crowd parted.

The decoy. Marosa could not see his face from this high up, through so much smoke. Accompanied by city guards, Orentico Feyalda climbed into a horse-drawn coach.

As the coach rolled along the river of fire, the Cárscari made way for it. Bartian watched, his face tight, as his cousin made the slow journey towards the break in the mountainside.

After a time, they lost sight of Orentico. At some point, when the road ended, he would have to continue on foot.

‘Donmata,’ Ermendo said, ‘perhaps you should come away from the windows.’

His eyes were on a wyvern that had turned its fiery gaze towards her. Marosa retreated slowly.

Day turned to dusk, and dusk to night. A full moon rose, casting silver light into the smoke, allowing more wyverns to be seen. At last, Bartian risked cracking a window open, so everyone could hear and smell the city. It was quieter than Marosa had expected – a hush broken only by occasional hisses from the intruders, and the distant, frantic sobs of the Cárscari.

It seemed all the louder, then, when a weight fell on the balcony outside the Council Chamber.

Bartian flung open the doors. ‘Lord Bartian,’ the Captain General barked, but he was already outside, and smoke was rushing into the chamber, sending half the nobles into coughing fits. Marosa went as far as the threshold and saw Bartian crouched beside a thing with limbs.

She had never seen a corpse before. It was so charred she could not see its face. Only its teeth. All she could do was stare at it. Not an hour ago, this had been a man. A living man.

‘the mountain king seeks to deceive me,’ Fyredel said. His stentorian voice reached through the city, rattling the glasses on the table. ‘now your people know you well.’

Even at sixteen, on the darkest night of her life, Marosa had never held so much fear in her body.

‘you cannot hide,’ the wyrm proclaimed. ‘come forth, craven king, imprecation to his subjects.’

One by one, they all looked to King Sigoso.

‘There is no choice, then,’ the Duchess of Ortégardes said.

King Sigoso looked at her, and his eyes were that of a wolf, a hunter.

‘Tell me, Your Grace,’ he said, ‘do you imagine the death of your sovereign?’

She turned pale as a cloud. King Sigoso rose from his chair, watched by the terrified nobles. Marosa wondered if he would refuse to go. If he would stay inside his fort, choosing his own life over the rest.

‘I will not be called a coward by a wyrm,’ he said. ‘The Saint shall protect me, as he protected Glorian Shieldheart.’

Marosa watched him stand, and their eyes met. If he did not return, she would be queen by morning.

Do I say goodbye, or let him go with nothing more of me?

In the end, she decided not to speak. After all, he had ordered her to be silent. His gaze sharpened, and she knew that he, her own father, was wishing he could send her in his stead. And when he left to face his end, the trepidation in her chest warred against a sense of grim triumph.

Now it is your turn to disappear.

****

All night, the Privy Council watched and waited. All night, the flowers burned. Every minute stretched into an agonising hour.

More choking smoke blew up to Cárscaro, forcing its people to keep to their homes, even as they prayed for their king. Those who had fled earlier from the earthquake began to return through the Gate of Niunda, coughing and wheezing, only to find their city invaded. The wyverns let them pass unscathed, watching them in unnerving silence from the rooftops.

‘I cannot stand this,’ a noble said. ‘What are they doing?’

‘Waiting for orders, perhaps.’

‘From the High Western?’

Bartian said nothing. He was sitting on the floor, staring vacantly at the wall.

At three of the clock, a guard descended to speak to the city watch. They reported that most of those who had left had succumbed to burns, or perished from breathing in too much smoke.

Marosa sat at the end of the table, watched by the nobles. There was little change in the light outside; the reeking smoke had benighted the city. It could have been midnight or dawn.

At last, the Captain General came to the doors, looking shaken.

‘His Majesty has returned,’ he rasped. ‘He lives.’

The Principal Sanctarian made the sign of the sword, while the Counsellor of Finance slid to the floor in a faint. Marosa left the Council Chamber and rushed down the winding steps.

‘Fetch the Royal Physician,’ she called to the nearest servants.

Most of the Privy Council followed her. Only a few remained behind, rooted in place.

The whole palace had long since woken. Marosa soon reached the lower floors, where the corridors were high and wide, with balconies where one could look between several levels at once. Here, she saw more and more courtiers and servants, staring at her with surprise and dread. Only when she reached the entrance hall did she stop, her skin filmed with sweat. Lord Gastaldo and the others soon caught up with her.

‘Be calm,’ Lord Gastaldo ordered the nearest courtiers. ‘The Saint is with us.’

Marosa swallowed. She ought to have been the one to say it, but her voice had deserted her.

The ebony doors, banded with iron, were almost twenty feet in height. When they swung open, a familiar man entered, stooped and alone. Marosa started towards him.

‘Stay back.’ Her father thrust out a hand. ‘Marosa. Stay back.’

Marosa stopped. In her stead, several of the guards surrounded their sovereign.

‘Father,’ she said faintly. ‘What happened?’

Even from several feet away, she could smell his clothes. He reeked of iron and smoke.

‘Fyredel spoke to me. Now I see,’ King Sigoso said. ‘We have … been deceived, all these centuries.’

‘I don’t understand—’

‘Send out word across the world. Send every surviving bird in Cárscaro. Tell them all – every city and land – that this is no longer a kingdom chained to the legacy of Galian Berethnet, the false and wicked Saint. This is the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin, bound in worship to the Nameless One.’

He raised his head, and Marosa took a step away, almost falling into Ermendo, who steadied her.

Sigoso Vetalda, King of Yscalin, no longer had the eyes of Oderica.

They were grey as cold ash, all the way through.