Page 9 of Among the Burning Flowers (The Roots of Chaos #3)

brYGSTAD

FREE STATE OF MENTENDON

CE 1003

The Free State of Mentendon often changed its clothes, but it favoured grey, no matter the season.

One day it wore a cap of clouds; the next, a cloak of fog, a veil of rain.

Still, when the sun did shine, Lievelyn fancied there was no finer place in the West than Brygstad.

His writing desk faced a bow window.

From that vantage point, he could see the whole of Lievelyn Square, where his people were enjoying the warm spell.

They ate cherries and strawberries, cooled themselves by the Fountain of Ebanth, let their children run wild on the cobblestones.

Not for the first time, wished he could join them. When he was only a young count, he often had, despite his parents’ concern for his safety.

And then the Brygstad Terror had changed everything. Now here he was, the future High Prince, ever discouraged from leaving the palace. And when he read the letter, he knew why.

To Leovart Lievelyn, Grey Prince of Mentendon, wishing you well upon the occasion of your eightieth birthday. May you not suffer a feather death, for that would be a shame for all the ages to behold.

The message was in Low Hróthi, a dialect had not seen or heard in many years, but the hand was familiar, as was the wax seal. It showed the breaking wheel of Clan Vatten.

looked up from the page, beholding his own reflection in the forest glass. No wonder his granduncle was ignoring these letters.

Brygstad was a Hróthi name. There was some debate over whether it should be changed to a Mentish one – Thisunath, after the lost capital, or the simpler Brudstath – but for now, it remained as it had been for centuries. A constant reminder of the Hróthi occupation.

He glanced back at the people in the square. For centuries, the Ments had been unwanted guests in their own country, ruled and exploited by the Hróthi. Now they were independent once more, but Clan Vatten still saw fit to send these petty threats.

Not for much longer. Soon Marosa would be here, and the Vatten would never dare to threaten the House of Lievelyn again. Not with the Donmata of Yscalin knit into the family.

The thought of Marosa eased the tension from his jaw. Only a few weeks to go, and they would be married in Ortégardes. At last, she would be his companion, and he would be hers.

He wondered how she would feel when she realised his situation.

Taking a deep breath, gathered up the letters that required the attention of the High Prince himself. He left the peace of his Privy Chamber and prepared to face his granduncle.

The sweating sickness had killed more than half of his family. Since Edvart and Lesken – the ruler and the heir – had both succumbed, it was deemed that , at two and twenty, should rule next.

And then Leovart had convinced everyone that he really ought to be on the throne, given that poor was clearly numb with grief. It would be cruel to crown him at such a tender age. Mentendon did not have to be like other monarchies, burdening the young. The Hróthi prized age and wisdom in their leaders – why could the House of Lievelyn not follow suit?

And that was how found himself here, a decade later, watching as Leovart squatted on his throne, and the Council of State remained too paralysed by courtesy to comment.

He found Leovart dozing in the Privy Library, where he must have been pretending to do something of use. Above him, like a judge, was a painting of a better ruler. Kathel Lievelyn, the first High Princess of Mentendon, who had led the Mentish Defiance against Hróth.

Her portrait showed her with a head of magnificent red curls. According to legend, that hair was the reason their early ancestors had been driven from the North, accused of being agents of a fire god named Mentun. knew he was called the Red Prince across the West – apparently to distinguish him from the Grey Prince, a moniker that had been kept out of the palace with as much force as if it were the pestilence. Leovart did not like to be reminded of his age.

If only anyone else could forget it. looked with pity and frustration at the old man, sound asleep in his chair. The last batch of letters was piled on a shelf behind him, clearly unread.

‘Your Royal Highness.’ approached the desk. ‘Granduncle. It’s .’

Leovart kept snoring.

‘Granduncle,’ bellowed, and Leovart startled awake with a snort. ‘Good morrow.’

‘Saint above, boy, what is it?’

‘Skuldir Vatten has written again.’

‘What does he want?’

‘He offers you belated wishes for your birthday, but he also … raised the subject of death. We ought to ensure the coastal defences are—’

‘Bah, let Skuldir rot. Queen Sabran will not brook any more carping from Hróth.’ Leovart squinted at . ‘For the life of me, I can’t remember why we didn’t offer you up to her, rather than plight you to the Donmata. Now I’ve squandered my only eligible relative.’

You were too busy trying to court Queen Sabran yourself, thought.

‘I am very happy to marry the Donmata,’ he said. ‘And grateful that a time has finally been set.’

‘You can blame Sigoso the Cold for the tarrying. He must have lost his faith in marriage after what tha—’ Leovart paused to cough, ‘what that wretched Southerner did to him. He’s lucky we’re taking the girl, frankly. Our future princess consort, and he wants her back within the year.’

‘King Sigoso is not old, Granduncle. Marosa will have many years in Mentendon before she is crowned.’

‘No.’ Leovart coughed again, harder. ‘No. He wants her back as soon as she’s with child.’

was sure no one had told him that.

‘I see,’ he said, after a pause. He would digest the knowledge later. ‘How are you feeling, Granduncle?’

‘Very well, thank you.’

‘What have you been doing today?’

‘Oh, the … accounts.’ Leovart dabbed his mouth. ‘I’m very busy, . Come back later.’

might once have stayed, to coax and wheedle until he was blue in the face, but he had long since learned that Leovart would feign a headache, or some other ailment, to avoid the matter of Hróth.

By the time he reached the doorway, Leovart was asleep again.

In spite of his better judgement, still loved him.

Lievelyns had to stick together, through thick and thin.

There were too many circling wolves for swans to turn upon themselves.

He went back to his study, rubbed his temples, and picked up the next letter.

At the time, Leovart had made a fair point about the succession.

had been newly orphaned, left to care for his three younger sisters, including a weakened Betriese, who had barely survived the sweat.

He had also been trained to enter the faith, despite living at court.

His uncle had wanted him to be Principal Sanctarian of Mentendon, to raise Mentish standing with the Berethnets.

Crippled by grief, with no knowledge of politics, would not have been able to rule a country.

Now that he was ready, Leovart seemed resolved to die on the throne.

The wind that fought the barge of progress Mentendon had otherwise become.

‘?’

Suddenly he had sympathy for Leovart never getting anything done. He glanced up to see his twin sisters at his threshold. ‘Perhaps we could speak later,’ he started, but they had already marched in. ‘I have a great deal to do today.’

‘You sound like Granduncle.’ Betriese leaned over his shoulder. ‘What is it you’re doing?’

‘I am attending to the needs of Mentendon.’

‘Do stop pretending to write letters every time we step into your eyeline.’ Bedona snatched one up and raked her gaze over the crabbed writing. ‘This looks dull. Saint, is this about sewers, Brecht?’

Both of them followed the Inysh manner of dress, like many of the younger courtiers.

At this time of year, they wore apricot and spring green, paired with rose-gold jewellery.

The latter clashed with their scarlet hair, but knew better than to point this out.

‘Even dull letters need answering. Especially the ones about sewers,’ he said patiently, ‘unless you would like Brygstad to be overrun with night soil.’ He slid the letter from the Vatten out of sight. ‘Nonetheless, I am at your disposal. How may I help you this morning, Bedona?’

‘We’d like to write to the Donmata Marosa,’ Betriese said in her delicate voice. ‘Does she speak Mentish?’

‘She is learning.’ touched her rosy cheek, making her smile. ‘I am sure she would appreciate a letter in Mentish, Bette. Let me know when it is done, and I will send it for you.’

‘At least we’ll have something to do,’ Bedona drawled.

‘Be grateful for your empty days. Ermuna will take on a great burden when she becomes my heir apparent.’

‘While we stand around looking beautiful until you marry one of us off?’

‘Bedona, I told you. You will marry who you please on my watch.’

‘Oh, good.’ She lounged on the edge of his desk. ‘I always thought the stable lad was handsome.’

‘Within reason.’ attempted a stern look. ‘Begone, both of you, please. I am working.’

‘Stop working and get ready for your wedding.’

‘I agree.’ Betriese sat on the arm of his chair and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. ‘The Donmata hasn’t seen you for years, Brecht. You’ll need to work terribly hard to impress her.’

‘You are boring,’ Bedona remarked.

‘Bedona.’ could not help but smile again. ‘You shame the Knight of Courtesy.’

‘Leave be,’ a welcome voice said. ‘Bedona, your dancing master is looking for you.’

‘Oh, hang the dancing master.’ Bedona sighed. ‘Why in Halgalant do I need to dance?’

‘To save you from idleness,’ Ermuna said crisply. ‘Go, before I call your manners tutor to assist him.’

In perfect unison, the twins flanked and kissed his cheeks. He embraced them both. His mother had died to give them both life, but he could not have done without them. They left the room, arm in arm, whispering in the language they had invented as children.

‘Thank you,’ said to Ermuna.

His eldest sister gave him a nod. Unlike the twins, Ermuna was dressed like a Mentish courtier, in contrasting ebony and ivory, with a blackwork partlet. It made her long red curls stand out. She looked so much like Kathel Lievelyn, she might have been her living ghost.

‘Bette does make a sound point,’ she told him. ‘You ought to write to the Donmata.’

‘How do you know I have not?’

‘Because I have seen the number of other letters you have to answer.’ She eyed the pile. ‘Does she write often?’

‘Every few weeks.’ stood. ‘Leovart claims Sigoso wants her back as soon as she is with child.’

‘That will not happen.’

‘It was agreed that our first heir would be for Yscalin.’

‘Yes, and the second for Mentendon. We need both before the Donmata leaves.’

‘We may not be able to conceive at all.’

‘Ever the pessimist.’ Ermuna studied his face. ‘What else is troubling you, Brecht?’ When he passed her the letter from Skuldir Vatten, she opened it and read, gaze darting across the page. ‘They are shaking their fists. Let them wear themselves out, like children in a strop.’

‘It has been over a century since the Mentish Defiance. Are they not already tired?’

‘A century is not long to the Hróthi. They are proud,’ Ermuna said. ‘But King Raunus is a virtuous man. He and Queen Sabran will keep the Vatten on their leash.’ She put the letter down. ‘Without Mentendon, they are not the great power they were, even on the sea.’

‘That makes us more of a temptation. Mentendon is richer than it ever was under their rule.’

‘The Hróthi intermarried with too many Ments during the last decades of the stewardship. Half of our nobility has Vatten blood,’ she reminded him. ‘They still respect the old way of peaceweaving. Unless they have no other choice, they will not attack kin.’

‘But our house has no Vatten blood. Granduncle refuses to see this.’

‘As ever.’ Ermuna turned to face him. ‘To soothe your fears, when you are crowned, you ought to betroth me to one of their rivals. Clan ókyrr, perhaps. Clothild would be pleased.’

regarded her. ‘You would be willing, Erma?’

‘If that is what we feel is best for Mentendon. When you are High Prince, I will be Archduchess of Ostendeur,’ Ermuna pointed out. ‘A worthy and tempting match for a chieftain.’

Her face was as hard to read as ever. had always had the impression that she did not care for the idea of marriage, but his eldest sister, his closest friend, remained a mystery to him.

‘Would it not provoke the Vatten?’ he said.

‘A wolf is no threat without teeth or claws, even if you goad it.’

His queenly sister, always comporting herself with such dignity and pride. She should have been firstborn.

‘We can speak of this another time,’ said. ‘It has taken Granduncle long enough to arrange my marriage to Marosa. A Hróthi match would need more care in its negotiation.’

‘The sun has set on his rule now. He could abdicate with dignity and serve as your advisor.’

‘He fears irrelevance. You and I may feel the same at his age.’

‘I would not put myself above Mentendon.’

believed her.

‘A happier question for you,’ Ermuna said. ‘Aunt Liuthe has asked me to help oversee the preparations for your progress. We have it all in hand, but I wonder if you could tell me which jewels the Donmata likes to wear, and which flowers she favours.’

‘She often wore amber or sard to match her eyes. And the flowers she loves most are lavender, pear blossom, and rose.’

‘I will ensure the cities are adorned with them for her.’

‘Thank you.’ let out a slow breath. ‘I hope all of this will not cost too much.’

‘, you speak as if we are still a beggared realm. I have checked the accounts. Our trade with Seiiki continues to grow. It is worth a little expense to introduce you both to the people and display our alliance with Yscalin. Another show of strength to the Vatten.’

‘Very well.’ smiled. ‘You were always Mother’s daughter when it comes to coins.’

‘I know.’

They looked at their parents’ marriage portrait.

Paltar Lievelyn, the former Archduke of Ostendeur, and his companion, Fralet Dabanon utt Brudstath, from the Dabanon banking dynasty.

A love match between Ments, made despite the pressing need for more foreign alliances.

‘May the Saint cheer them in Halgalant.’ made the sign of the sword. ‘I wish they had been able to meet Marosa.’

‘We will make her feel safe and welcome, as they would have,’ Ermuna said. ‘I promise.’

‘Thank you, Erma.’ He kissed her pale forehead. ‘What would I do without you?’

‘You would forget you were a prince.’

She left him to his thoughts. He scrunched up the letter from Skuldir Vatten and threw it into the fire.

****

Brygstad Palace had been built over the course of forty years. A breathtaking feat of Mentish marblework, it had long been a safe haven for the House of Lievelyn, except for when the sweat had slipped between its cracks. Now there were stoups of wine in the corridors, meant for handwashing, and the courtyards and gardens abounded with medicinal herbs, like lemon balm and lavender.

In his apartments in the North Pavilion, bathed and drew on a silk nightshirt. It was balmy enough that his Privy Chamberlain had opened the windows and iced his evening wine.

In a few weeks, this bedchamber would no longer be his alone. Marosa would have her own rooms, but at night, they would often be together. He took out her miniature and studied it, the smile returning to his face.

He had always thought the fabled eyes of Oderica must be a lie. The legend of a dying prisoner, taken into the mountain for nine years. The god Fruma had lit her eyes, allowing her to see in the dark, and taught her to smelt iron to defeat the invading Gulthaganians. A heathen origin for a Saint-fearing dynasty, one they had tried to reframe over time.

The court painters showed almost every Vetalda with those strange eyes, like gold or bronze. But when he met Marosa, they had robbed him of breath. He could have easily believed she held dominion over some divine forge.

He was not yet High Prince of Mentendon, but to be a companion to the Donmata of Yscalin, the great military power of the West, would be a formidable task on its own. Politically, they made a strong match, if unusual. Mentendon had a monopoly on the Eastern trade, while the House of Vetalda was old and wealthy, with the largest army in Virtudom. Marosa was also niece to King Jantar of the Ersyr, a connexion that meant to nurture.

They could not put religious differences ahead of progress. The history of Mentendon proved that. So did the flourishing trade with Seiiki, which had saved the Ments from ruin. only hoped that Marosa would understand the Mentish tolerance for heretics and freethinkers.

The friendship that had flowered between them felt as delicate and precious as a rosebud. He wanted to water it with care; to let it bloom with time and warmth. But as soon as they were married, the court would be waiting. Ideally, they would have two children, at the least.

It was usual for monarchs in their position. knew that, but the prospect troubled him. Marosa had been watched so closely in Cárscaro, and now she would be watched again.

He saw it then, so vivid he could smell and hear it. His beloved mother, her bedsheets soaked in blood, her copper hair darkened by sweat. A pair of babies in cradles beside her. She had never stopped bleeding, even though the physicians had tried to save her life.

Look after your sisters, .

And then, eight years later, the sweating sickness. The smells of vinegar and rosemary as more and more of his relatives perished. His mouth filled with a sour taste as he remembered burial after burial. Liuthe howling with grief, a sound no human ought to make. The fear that the Vatten had plotted it all.

Betriese in her sickbed, pale as death.

tried to remain in the present, but the memory was already worming its way through him. The sight of her small, clammy face, the sound of her uneven breaths. He had ignored the physicians’ desperate pleading when he entered that room. For hours, he had prayed at her bedside, willing her to open her eyes, knowing he might be next to catch the sickness.

Please, Saint above, not her, not Bette. Mother told me to look after her. I will give you anything.

And now Marosa was joining their family. A family stalked by sorrow. And what if it was her the Saint would take in exchange for Betriese?

What if Marosa died like his mother, in childbirth, and he was the cause?

pressed his fingers to his forehead, where a dull pain was building. Sometimes his thoughts became so intense, they physically hurt. Only Liuthe knew of this affliction, this incontrollable fear of loss. Part of him wished he could love less acutely, so his wild imaginings would not hold so much power over him, but he knew himself too well to think that it would ever change.

He slowed and counted every breath, trying to break his plummet. Many women gave birth several times and survived. Marosa was still young. But knowing that she would be in pain – that she might lose her life – was enough to keep wrenching him back to the past.

Just as he had stayed with Betriese, he would stay with Marosa. He would pray until his voice was hoarse. He would send for the best midwives, even if he had to look for them beyond Virtudom. He would do anything to keep her alive – even if the child was lost, even if they had to try again.

On his watch, no one else he loved would die before their time.

, we are overtaken.

Fyredel has woken in the Spindles; he was sleeping in our midst all along.

Our voices passed through the rock of Cárscaro and into his accursed ear.

Rozaria built a palace from a fire mountain, and in this act of arrogance was our undoing.

They came from within; our defences were useless.

Now we are under the eye of his wyverns.

I try to rebel, but I cannot be seen.

I beg you, shelter any Yscals you can, if they flee as far as Mentendon.

Leave me to my fate – do not imperil your own life for me – but be happy, and rule well, as you were meant to do.

Know that my last thoughts will be dreams of the life we might have shared.

I will see you again in Halgalant.

Yours,

Marosa