A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)
A Day of Fallen Night: Prologue 2

She was named Glorian to strengthen her dynasty, in Ascalun, Crown of the West. That had once been the eke name of the city – until the Century of Discontent, when Inys suffered three weak queens.

First came Sabran the Fifth. Queen since the day she was cut from her mother, she loved that her existence kept the Nameless One from rising. In her eyes, it was only fair that she spent her life rewarding herself for that service.

The Virtues of Knighthood had no hold on Sabran. There was no temperance in her greed, no generosity in her hoarding, no justice in her want of mercy. She doubled taxes, her treasury bled, and within a decade, her queendom was a shadow of itself. Those who dared question her were pulled apart by horses, their heads set on the castle gates. Her subjects called her the Malkin Queen, for she was to her enemies as the grimalkin to the mouse.

There was no revolt. Only whispers and fear. After all, the Inysh knew her bloodline was the great chain on the Nameless One. Only the Berethnets kept the wyrm at bay.

Still, with only foulness to inspire them, the people lost all pride in their capital. Hounds and rats and swine ran wild. Filth choked and slowed the river, so the people renamed it the Lumber.

In her fortieth year, the queen remembered to fulfil her duty to the realm. She wed a noble of Yscalin, whose heart gave out not long after the ceremony. Her councillors prayed she might die in childbed, but she strode triumphant from the birthing chamber, a plump baby girl squalling in her wake – a new link in the chain, binding the beast for the next generation.

The queen made a sport of mocking the child, seeing in her daughter a feeble imitation of herself, and Jillian, in turn, grew hard and bitter, and then cruel. Whatever her mother gave, she returned, and the two pecked at each other like a pair of crows. Sabran married her to a drunken fool, and soon Jillian had a girl of her own.

Marian was a fragile soul, afraid to raise her voice above a whisper. Her relatives ignored her, and she thanked the Saint for it. She lived quietly, and wed quietly, and quietly got with child.

Into this decaying house, a third princess was born.

Sabran was her name, to please the tyrant. No sound escaped her, but a crease rumpled her tiny brow, and her bottom lip poked out.

‘Saint, poor lamb,’ the midwife said. ‘How stern she looks.’ Marian was too weary to care.

Not long after the birth, the Malkin Queen deigned to visit, shadowed by the crown princess. Marian shrank away from them both.

‘Named after me, is she?’ The white-haired queen laughed at her. ‘How you flatter me, little mouse. But let us see if your bantling amounts to more than you, before we draw comparisons.’

Not for the first time in her life, Marian Berethnet wished the earth would crack open and swallow her.

****

Like every other woman of her house, Lady Sabran grew to be tall and striking. It was a well-known fact that each Berethnet queen gave birth to one girl, who came to look just like her. Always the same black hair. Always the same eyes, green as southern apples. Always the same pale skin and red lips. Before old age changed them, it could often be hard to tell them apart.

But the younger Sabran did not have her mother’s fear, her grandmother’s spite, or the tyrant’s cruelty. She carried herself with purpose and dignity, never rising to a taunt.

She kept her own company as much as she could, and the company of her ladies, who she trusted above anyone. Her tutors educated her in the history of Virtudom, and when she excelled in those lessons, they taught her to paint and sing and dance. They did this in secret, for the queen hated to see other Berethnets happy – and to see them learn to rule.

For ten years, the entire court watched the youngest of the four.

Her ladies were the first to hope that she might be their saviour. They saw the line that never left its seat between her brows. They walked with her to the castle gates, where she took stock of the rotten heads, her jaw clenched in disgust. They were there when the Malkin Queen tried to break her, the day she first woke to blood on her sheets.

‘I was told you are ready to make a green-eyed bairn of your own,’ the old queen said. ‘Fear not, child . . . I shall not let your beauty wither on the vine.’ Her face was like the skin on milk, powder sunk into its creases. ‘Do you dream of being queen, my lamb?’

Lady Sabran stood at the heart of the throne room, in sight of two hundred courtiers.

‘I dare not, Your Grace,’ she said, her voice quiet yet clear. ‘After all, I could only be queen if you were no longer on the throne. Or, Saint forbid . . . if you were dead.’

The court rippled.

It was treason to imagine the death of the sovereign, let alone speak of it. The queen knew this. She also knew she could not kill her granddaughter, for it would mean the end of the bloodline and her power. Before she could reply, the child left, followed by her ladies.

By that time, the Malkin Queen had held the throne for over a century. For too long, no one had been able to imagine a world free of her, but from that day on, hope was reborn. From that day on, the servants referred to Lady Sabran – always in whispers – as the Little Queen.

The tyrant died, aged one hundred and six, in her bed of finest Ersyri silk, Lasian gold on every finger. Jillian the Third was next to sit the marble throne, but few rejoiced in earnest. They knew Jillian would take all that her mother had denied her.

Not a year after her coronation, a man slipped into the hall where Queen Jillian was dining. The late queen had ordered him tortured to madness. He stabbed her daughter in the heart, thinking she was his tormentor. She was laid beside the tyrant in the Sanctuary of Queens.

Marian the Third wore the crown as if it were a poisonous snake. She refused to see petitioners who sought help from their sovereign. She feared even her councillors. Sabran pressed her mother to demonstrate more strength, but Marian was too afraid of Inys to control it. Not for the first time, there were rumblings – not just of discontent, but rebellion.

Blood averted blood, for war awoke in Hróth.

****

The snowbound North had ever been strange to the Inysh. Some years Hróth had offered trade, while in others, raiders had come in their boar ships to burn and ransack Inysh towns.

Now, across ice cascades and deep forests, the clans took up arms and marched to the slaughter.

It began with Verthing Bloodblade, who lusted after Askrdal, largest of the twelve domains. When its chieftain refused an alliance, he killed her, taking her land for his own clan. Those who had loved Skiri Longstride sought vengeance, and soon the feud had all Hróth in its grip.

By midwinter of that same year, as blood continued to soak the snow red, violence flared again, to the south, in the peaceful land of Mentendon. A devastating flood had struck its coast, sinking entire settlements, and Heryon Vattenvarg, the Sea King, hardest of all Hróthi raiders, attacked in its wake. With Hróth still at war, he had gone seeking greener lands and found one floundering. This time, he meant not to sack, but to settle.

In Inys, Sabran Berethnet listened to the Virtues Council bicker over what to do. At the head of the table, her mother was gaunt and silent, hunched beneath her crown.

‘I agree we should not interfere with the war in the North,’ Sabran told her in private, ‘but let us help the Ments oust this Vattenvarg in exchange for their conversion. Yscalin could lend them arms. Imagine how the Saint would smile – a third realm sworn to him.’

‘No. We must not provoke the Sea King,’ Marian said. ‘His salt warriors slaughter without pity, even as the Ments reel from this dreadful flood. I have never heard of such wanton cruelty.’

‘If we don’t assist the Ments now, Vattenvarg will crush them. This is no ordinary raider, Mother,’ Sabran said, losing her patience. ‘Vattenvarg means to usurp the Queen of Mentendon. If victory emboldens him, he will come for Inys next. Do you not see?’

‘Enough, Sabran.’ Marian pressed her temples. ‘Please, child, leave me. I can’t think.’

Sabran obeyed, but bridled inside. She was sixteen and still had no sway.

By summer, Heryon Vattenvarg had most of Mentendon, ruling from a new capital, Brygstad. He claimed the land for Clan Vatten. Weakened by flooding, famine and cold, the Ments ceased their fight and knelt. For the first time in history, a raider had taken a realm.

Two years after the conquest of Mentendon, the war in Hróth came to an end. The chieftains had pledged to a young warrior of Bringard, who had won their loyalty with his sharp mind and tremendous strength. It was he who had slain Verthing Bloodblade, avenging Skiri Longstride, and united the clans, as none ever had. Soon Inys heard the news that Bardholt Hraustr – bastard son of a boneworker – would rule as the first King of Hróth.

He would also sail to meet the Inysh queen.

‘This is a fine state of affairs,’ Sabran said curtly, reading the letter. ‘Now two nearby countries are ruled by heathen butchers. If we had aided the Ments, it would only be one.’

‘By the Saint. We are doomed.’ Marian wrung her hands. ‘What does he want from us?’

Sabran could guess. Like the wolves that stalked their forests, the Hróthi could smell wounded things, and Inys was a realm still bleeding.

‘King Bardholt fought long for his crown. I am sure he wants no further hostilities,’ she said, if only to soothe her mother. ‘If not, Yscalin is with us.’ She rose. ‘I have faith in the Saint. Let the bastard come.’

****

Bardholt Battlebold – one of his many names in Hróth – came to Inys on a black ship named the Helm of Morning. Queen Marian sent her consort to meet him. All day, she paced the throne room, plaits swaying. She wore a deep green overgown on ivory, which swamped her. Sabran countered her with absolute stillness.

When the King of Hróth appeared, shadowed by his retainers, the whole court turned to ice around him.

The Northerners wore heavy furs and goatskin boots. Their king dressed like the rest. Sabran was tall, but if she had stood on her toes, she doubted her head would have reached his chin. Thick golden hair coursed to his waist. His arms strained with muscle, and his shoulders seemed as wide and sturdy as a dowry chest. She thought he was in his early twenties, but he could also have been her age, weathered by the toll of war.

That war was etched into his tanned and well-boned face. A scar carved from his left temple to the corner of his mouth; another marked his right cheekbone.

‘Marian Queen.’ He raised a giant fist to his heart. ‘I am Bardholt Hraustr, King of Hróth.’

His voice was low and somewhat coarse. It drove a chill through Sabran, as did his crown. Even at a distance, she could see that it was pieced together from splinters of bone.

‘Bardholt King,’ Marian said. ‘You are welcome to Inys.’ She cleared her throat. ‘We congratulate you on your victory in the Nurthernold. It brings us joy to know the war is over.’

‘Not as much joy as it brings me.’

Marian twisted her rings. ‘This is my daughter,’ she said. ‘Lady Sabran.’

Sabran straightened. King Bardholt gave her a fleeting glance, then looked again, his gaze nailed to her face.

‘Lady,’ he said.

Without breaking his gaze, Sabran curtseyed, the pale sleeves of her gown caressing the floor. ‘Sire,’ she said, ‘this queendom offers its esteem. Fire for your hearth, and joy for your hall.’

She spoke in perfect Hróthi. He raised his eyebrows. ‘You know my tongue.’

‘A little. And you know mine.’

‘A little. My late grandmother was Inysh, from Cruckby. I learned as much as felt needful.’

Sabran inclined her head. It would not be needful if this king had no interest in Inys.

King Bardholt returned his attention to her mother, but throughout their exchange of courtesies, it drifted back to Sabran. Beneath her sleeves, her wrists and fingers warmed.

‘Be at ease,’ he said. ‘The violence in my land will spill no farther, now Bloodblade is dead. I have all of Hróth – and I will have Mentendon, once Heryon Vattenvarg swears his allegiance to me, which he must, as a man of Hróth.’ He smiled with a full set of teeth. Sabran thought that must be a fine rare thing after a war. ‘I only wish for a friend in Inys.’

‘And we accept your friendship,’ Marian said, her relief so potent that Sabran could almost smell it. ‘Let our realms live in perfect peace, now and always.’ Since the danger seemed to have passed, she was steadier. ‘Our castellan has prepared the gatehouse for your retinue. I am sure you must return to Hróth very soon – though if you wish to stay to celebrate the Feast of Fellowship, which falls a week from now, it would be our honour.’

‘The honour would be mine, Your Grace. My sister and chieftains will manage in my absence.’

He bowed and strode from the throne room.

‘Saint. He was not supposed to accept the invitation.’ Marian looked sick. ‘It was a courtesy.’

‘Your courtesies are hollow, then, Mother?’ Sabran said coolly. ‘The Saint would not approve.’

‘Nay, the sooner he leaves, the better. He will see the treasures of our sanctuaries and want them for himself.’ When the queen rose, one of her ladies took her by the arm. ‘Guard yourself well in the days to come, daughter. I could not bear you to be taken for ransom.’

‘I should like to see them hold me,’ Sabran said, and left.

****

That night, after her ladies had finished the long task of washing her hair, Sabran sat beside the fire and pondered what the King of Hróth had said. The words that had betrayed the truth.

There has been enough bloodshed for now.

‘Florell, you know all secrets.’ She glanced up at her closest friend. ‘Is King Bardholt promised?’

‘Not as far as I’ve heard.’ Florell combed her hair. ‘I’ve no doubt he’s taken lovers, looking the way he does. They don’t follow the Knight of Fellowship there.’

‘No,’ Sabran said. ‘They do not.’ A log in the fire crumbled. ‘Is he a man of faith?’

‘I’ve heard the Hróthi worship spirits of the ice, and faceless gods that dwell in the forests.’

‘But you have heard nothing of his faith.’

Florell slowed as she worked on a stubborn knot. ‘No,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Not a whisper.’

Sabran reflected on that. As the idea formed, she said, ‘I need a private audience with him.’

In the corner of the room, Liuma lowered her needlework. ‘Sabran, he has taken many lives,’ she said in Yscali. ‘He has no place in Halgalant. Why would you want to speak with him?’

‘To make him a proposal.’

Only the crackle of the fire broke the stillness. When Liuma realised, she drew a sharp breath.

‘Why?’ Florell said, after a silence. ‘Why him?’

‘It would bring another realm under the holy shield – two, if Heryon Vattenvarg kneels to him,’ Sabran said softly. ‘The Sea King would have to submit if Bardholt stood with us.’

Florell sank into a chair. ‘Saint,’ she said. ‘He would. Sabran, you’re right.’

‘Your mother would never agree,’ Liuma whispered. ‘You would plot this behind her back?’

‘For Inys. Mother fears her own shadow,’ Sabran said darkly. ‘You must see what will happen next. Either Bardholt or Heryon will claim this queendom, to show his strength over the other.’

‘Bardholt said he would not attack us,’ Florell reminded her. ‘I hear the Hróthi take oaths seriously.’

‘Bardholt Hraustr is not cut from the same ice as his ancestors. But I can make sure he poses no threat.’ Sabran turned to them. ‘It has been over a century since the Malkin Queen sowed the rot in Inys. That rot has set too deep for us to win a war against the heathens. I will be a peaceweaver. I will save the House of Berethnet, and make sure it rises stronger than ever – the head of four realms sworn to the Saint and the Damsel. We will rule the Ashen Sea.’

Florell and Liuma held a wordless conversation. At last, Florell knelt before Sabran and kissed her hand.

‘We will see to it,’ she said, her voice resolute. ‘My lady. My queen.’

****

Just before dawn, Sabran slipped from her bedchamber, dressed for riding, leaving Florell and Liuma to conceal her absence. She stole into the castle grounds, through the wildflowers and oaks. Never, in her eighteen years, had she gone this far without her guards.

It might be folly. So might her idea – her dangerous and wild idea, curled within her like an adder, ready to sink its teeth into a king. If she could convince him, she would change the world.

Saint, give me strength. Open his ears.

The sun had almost risen by the time Sabran beheld the lake, and the heathen who bathed in its shallows. When he saw her, the king scraped his hair from his eyes and waded towards her, stripped to the waist. Loaves of muscle shifted under his many scars.

When he reached the shore, her nerve almost failed. He kept just enough of a distance for her to face him without craning her neck.

‘Lady Sabran,’ he said, ‘forgive my undress. I always swim at dawn, to spur my blood.’

‘If you will forgive me,’ Sabran said, ‘for inviting you here as I did, without ceremony.’

‘Boldness is admirable in a warrior.’

‘I am no warrior.’

‘Yet I see you came armed.’ He nodded to the blade at her waist. ‘You must fear me.’

‘I heard some call you Bearhand. Foolish to face a bear with no blade.’

For a tense moment, he only looked at her, still as a beast before the pounce. Then he chuckled low in his throat. ‘Come then,’ he said, folding his huge arms. ‘Speak your mind.’

Water glistened on his chest. His voice polished her senses. She smelled the sweetness of bedstraw and grass, felt the hammered gold of her bracelet where her wrist had warmed it.

‘I have a proposal,’ she said. ‘One I must make in confidence.’ She took a step towards him. ‘I am told the snowseers have not yet declared a religion for the new Kingdom of Hróth.’

‘They have not.’

‘I would know why.’

His gaze held steady. This close, she saw his eyes were hazel, more gold than green.

‘My brother,’ he said, ‘was murdered during the war.’

Sabran had not grieved for her grandmother, and she doubted she would mourn her parents for too long. Still, she imagined the loss of a loved one would hurt like an arrowhead lodged in the body. Life would grow and twine around it, but it would remain, always hurting.

‘When I found him, crows were feasting on his eyes,’ King Bardholt said. ‘Verthing Bloodblade had slit his throat and cast him off like an old pelt. My young nephew only escaped the same fate by cutting off his own hand.’ His jaw worked. ‘My brother was a child. An innocent. No god or spirit worth my praise would have allowed his death.’

The only sound between them was the fissle of the nearby trees. If Sabran had been born a heathen, she might have thought that something in those oaks had heard his treachery.

I must strike now, with force, or not at all.

‘In Inys, we no longer answer to such things. We honour the memory of a man – my own ancestor – and live according to his Six Virtues,’ she said. ‘Like you, the Saint was a warrior in a land of small and feuding kingdoms. Like you, he united them all beneath one crown.’

‘And how did he do this, your Saint?’

‘He slew a vicious wyrm, and so won the heart of Princess Cleolind of Lasia. She forsook her old gods to stand at his side.’ The wind spun long strands of hair from her circlet. ‘Inys and Yscalin are united in praise of him. Join us. Swear Hróth to his Virtues of Knighthood. With two ancient monarchies at your side, you will leave the Sea King no choice but to kneel.’

‘Heryon will kneel regardless,’ was all he said.

‘Winning his loyalty by force would mean another war. Many would die. Even children.’

‘You appeal to my heart.’

‘More than you think.’ Sabran raised her eyebrows. ‘You cannot have me unless you convert.’

That made him smile. It was a baleful thing, that smile, and yet it did hold warmth.

‘What makes you think I would have you, Lady Sabran?’ Her name was a dark thrum in his throat. ‘How do you know I don’t already have a consort in my own kingdom?’

‘Because I saw how you looked at me in the throne room.’ (He had not said no.) ‘And how often.’

King Bardholt offered no reply. Sabran stood tall before him, for she was not her mother.

‘I think,’ she said, ‘that you are a man familiar with having what you want. This time, you need not seize it with blood and force. I offer it all to you. Be my consort.’

‘Your religion began with a love story. Am I the heathen in this tale, or the great slayer?’

Sabran only held his gaze. She imagined herself as a hook in water, still enough to lure a circling fish.

‘I have heard the Berethnet queens bear only one child. Always, as far back as the songs go,’ he finally said. ‘I will need an heir for Hróth, to consolidate the House of Hraustr.’

‘You have a sister. And she has a son,’ Sabran said. ‘With Virtudom behind you, your new house will be unassailable.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I know you will need to convince the snowseers to embrace the Saint. I know the Six Virtues are yet strange to you – but your realm is weeping, Battlebold. So is mine. Marry me, so all wounds may be knit.’

It was some time before he moved, reaching for her waist. Her heart beat thick and heavy as he slid her small blade from its sheath.

He could stab her where she stood, and Inys would be his to conquer.

‘I will consult the snowseers,’ he said. ‘If we choose your way, I will swear it with your blade, in my blood.’

He walked back to the castle with her knife. As Sabran watched him disappear, she knew she had already won.

****

On the first day of midsummer, the Issýn, highest of the snowseers of Hróth, emerged from her cave to share a vision. She had dreamed of a chainmail that covered the world, and a sword of polished silver, passed from a long-dead Inysh knight to the new King of Hróth.

In the new capital of Eldyng, King Bardholt declared that Hróth, like Cleolind of Lasia, would abandon the ancient ways and follow the everlasting light of Ascalun, the True Sword.

In Inys, Sabran Berethnet received a letter, smeared with the blood of a king, saying only one word: yes.

In the weeks after they announced their betrothal, Heryon Vattenvarg made an announcement of his own, declaring loyalty to the King of Hróth, who named him Steward of Mentendon. Heryon converted. So did his subjects. Within a year, the King of Hróth wed the Princess of Inys, and across the realms pledged to the Saint, there was revelry and song.

Inys, Hróth, Yscalin and Mentendon – the unbreakable Chainmail of Virtudom.

Queen Marian yielded the throne before long. Having had more than her fill of court, she retired to the coast with her companion. The day Sabran the Sixth was crowned before her subjects, her Northern king was at her side, grinning as if his face would crack.

An heir did not arrive at once. Bardholt spent most summers in Inys to escape the midnight sun, while Sabran sailed across the water in the spring, but duty always stole between them. Their lands were still too fragile to abandon in the darker, harder months.

On her island, Sabran ruled alone. There was time for an heir, and she wanted as much of it as possible alone with her court, and with her consort, whose passion for her was ever strong.

One year, a few months after Bardholt had left Inys, Liuma afa Dáura found she could no longer lace the queen into her gown.

The next year, as the woodruff bloomed, Sabran bore a daughter, who screamed loud enough to bring down the Great Table. The attendants threw the shutters open for the first time in a month. As Florell sponged the sweat from her brow and Liuma nursed the baby, Sabran felt as if she was taking the first easy breath of her life. It was done, all of it.

She had made the world new.

When he heard the news, King Bardholt left Eldyng and boarded a ship with a handful of retainers, disguised as a seafarer. Five days later, he reached Ascalun Castle, fear gripping him harder than it ever had during the war. It faded when he found Sabran waiting for him, alive and well. He took her in his arms and thanked the Saint.

‘Where is she?’ he asked her hoarsely.

Sabran smiled at his excitement, placing a kiss on his cheek. Liuma brought the child.

‘Glorian,’ Sabran told him. ‘Her name is Glorian.’

Bardholt gazed in wonder at their child as Sabran was dressed for the day. When she emerged on to the royal balcony at Ascalun Castle, with her consort beside her and their black-haired daughter in her arms, a hundred thousand people roared in welcome.

Glorian.