A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)
A Day of Fallen Night: Part 2 – Chapter 38

Dark iron came singing towards Wulf. He deflected it with his sword and swerved away as Regny hefted her shield at him. Her axe followed and caught his sleeve. They fought at the threshold of the queenswood, within sight of the castle, as snow drifted around them.

The day before, he had received a letter from his father, wishing him a safe voyage to Vattengard. He longed to visit Langarth, but there was no time. Soon the ships would leave.

Regny slammed the rim of her shield into his ribs, hard enough to bash the breath from him. ‘Wake up.’ Her cheeks held a flush from the cold. ‘The Ments will not wait for you to blink the sleep from your eyes.’

‘Do the Ments hit as hard as you?’ he asked, winded.

‘Does the sheep bite as deep as a bear?’ She pointed her axe. ‘They have not the teeth for it.’

Grimacing, he straightened, and they clashed across the clearing, trampling their own footprints. Regny always fought to win. Wulf could best her with a sword, but she swung an axe like it was part of her arm.

She thrived in these winter days. With paint under her eyes and snow in her hair, she was what he had always imagined an ice spirit to look like.

They had been training harder than ever. While Virtudom had been at peace for a long time, Bardholt had never fully trusted Heryon Vattenvarg, and there had always been a chance that the Mentish nobles would finally mount a revolt against Hróthi rule. Both would be at the wedding.

Regny charged him with her shield. He hooked his boot behind her calf. She pitched into him, and they crashed into the snow, Regny with a blinding curse. Wulf wheezed his first laugh in days.

‘You’re learning.’ Regny got her legs free. ‘Did I not tell you the cold kills courtesy?’

‘Aye.’ He held his ribs. ‘The world isn’t as soft as the Saint teaches.’

‘No.’ She leaned over him, her damp hair tickling his cheek. ‘But we are Hróthi. We are not soft.’

They were close enough for their breaths to smoke into one cloud. Remembering himself, Wulf shifted back and hitched up his gloves. Regny sat back in the snow.

‘Do I have fleas?’ she asked. ‘Rotten teeth?’

He frowned at her. ‘What?’

‘Every time I come near, you recoil.’ Her gaze was relentless. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’

Wulf looked away. ‘I can’t know for sure.’ He clasped his hands. ‘I won’t risk you, Regny.’

‘You’re a fool,’ she said, low and cold. ‘Do you mean to never touch anyone again – to fear your own body for the rest of your life?’

‘If it means I never have to see anyone die like Eydag.’ Resentment boiled in him. ‘She was your friend. Do you even mourn her? What the fuck,’ he said, ‘is wrong with you, Regny?’

‘Eydag is gone. I wept for her. But she is feasting in Halgalant now, at the Great Table.’

‘Stop it. Stop pretending.’

‘Screaming and beating my fists will not bring her back. Neither will your rage.’

Before Wulf could utter another word, she took his face in her bare hands and kissed him.

It was not a gentle kiss. Then again, Regny of Askrdal had only softened once that he recalled, the first time they had slept together, when neither of them had known what they were doing. She had been tender with him that night, and let him be tender to her in return.

Now she was full of hard resolve, as she was in all things. She tasted sharp and sweet, like lingonberry, and her hair smelled of fresh bread and snow. It swept him back to Eldyng, to that night she had kissed him under the sun, taking him by surprise, as she so often did.

Before he could stop himself, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and reached under her loose hair, grasping her nape. She stroked from the small of his back, around his hips to the clasp of his belt, the heavy lilt of breath making him rise for her. Her thumb skimmed his jaw, and she nipped his bottom lip, drawing blood.

Regny was forbidden. Until this moment, Wulf had not thought he still wanted her. Anyone could replace them here, report them to the king again, but now she was kneeling across his waist, and his lips were parting hers. The kiss deepened until he thought it would devour him.

She reached for his wrist, and he let her, expecting to be shown the way. Instead, she worked off his thick glove, clasping his fingers tight in hers before she led his hand into her shirt. He huffed as the warmth of her filled his palm, and at last, he found the will to break the kiss.

‘Regny,’ he said hoarsely, ‘we agreed.’

‘I know.’ She gripped his chin. ‘Let this serve as a reminder that I fear nothing. Not blood, not war, not a fucking plague – and not sullen boys who don’t know how to love themselves.’

Wulf sank against her with a nod of defeat. Regny kissed him once more, then stood and brushed off her surcoat, leaving him sprawled in the snow.

‘I’m going to hunt,’ she said. ‘See the physician, then return here to keep training. Thrit is leaving today.’

‘Leaving,’ Wulf said, still in a stupor. She eyed his straining trousers, and he cleared his throat. ‘Why?’

‘Ask him. I’m not his milk nurse.’ Regny picked up her axe. ‘Go. Forthard expects you.’

She strode away, towards her horse. Wulf let his head fall back into the snow and closed his eyes, his heart thrumping.

With the taste of steel and lingonberry on his lips, he walked alone to the castle infirmary and knocked on its studded door. A towhead in her fifties appeared, wearing an ivory kirtle over long black sleeves, and a leather belt with pouches and several loops for tools.

‘Doctor Forthard,’ Wulf said in an undertone. ‘The king asked me to see you.’

Her expression changed. ‘Master Glenn.’ She stood aside. ‘Thank you for coming.’ He stepped into the light of a roaring fire. ‘This is my new assistant, Mastress Bourn.’

The assistant in question was tall and slim, high of cheek, with skin of a cool light brown and thick hair that fell in black waves to their shoulders. ‘Good day, Master Glenn,’ they said. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’ Pause. ‘Did you have a mishap?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Your lip.’

Wulf dabbed it, replaceing it swollen. ‘Ah, nothing,’ he said. ‘I was riding. A low branch.’

Their deep grey eyes twinkled. ‘I see.’

While the two physicians donned thick gloves, Wulf laid his weapons on the floor and hefted off his mail and wools. Once he was down to his undershorts, Forthard had him sit on a covered bench.

‘King Bardholt has told us about the sickness, in confidence,’ she said. ‘An afflicted person touched you. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘What had you eaten and drunk beforehand?’

Wulf raided his memory. ‘Salted herring with garlic. A bite of black bread. I think that’s it,’ he said. ‘I’d not much appetite that day.’

‘Garlic is known for its curative properties,’ Bourn mused. ‘Yet I suppose your fellow retainers ate the same, and all three perished.’ Wulf bobbed a stiff nod. ‘May they rest well.’

‘Tell us everything you saw,’ Forthard said. ‘Everything that happened on the ship.’ By the time he finished, her frown had deepened considerably. ‘It may be that the Saint protected you. It may be that there is another reason.’

‘If so, we could use the knowledge to help others,’ Bourn said.

‘Yes. May I draw some of your blood, Master Glenn?’

Wulf held out an arm. ‘Anything to stop this sickness.’

‘Thank you.’

Forthard used a sharp little tool to draw blood from his elbow, then examined his eyes and took a scraping from his tongue. After, she had him spit into one jar and pass water in another. While Bourn cleaned the cut, Forthard consulted a chart depicting a rainbow of flasks. (Wulf wondered what poor bastard had ever pissed lilac.) Once they had everything, Bourn started to rinse their tools with vinegar.

‘Thank you, Master Glenn,’ they said. ‘You may go. Take care not to ride into any more branches.’

‘Aye, I’ll try.’

By the time Wulf was back outside, the sun had risen, and the smell of baking wastel filled the corridors. He glanced up at the tower where Glorian bided, seeing no face at the window.

In the clearing, Thrit was sparring with Karlsten while Sauma sat on a trunk, roasting a skinned rabbit over a fire. Despite the cold, both fighters were shirtless. Unusually for a housecarl, Karlsten wielded a northern Inysh greatsword, showing off the strength in his arms.

Thrit favoured the bearded axe, like the king, but his limber build lent itself to skin fighting as well. He swung into a hard kick, and Karlsten crashed to the ground.

‘Damn you to the fire.’ He grasped his chest with a chuckle. ‘What the fuck was that?’

‘The unexpected, Karl. Expect it.’ Thrit flipped his axe to his other hand. ‘The Ments might surprise you, too.’

‘I doubt it.’ Karlsten spotted Wulf, and his face hardened. ‘Still alive, Wulf?’

Thrit sighed. ‘Saint’s tooth, Karl.’

‘Eydag was my sister. She’s dead, and he isn’t,’ Karlsten sneered. ‘Care to explain it, Thrit?’

‘Enough, Karlsten. Only the Saint chooses who will live and who will die,’ Sauma said. ‘You should respect his judgement.’ She rose and drew her sword. ‘I’ll fight. Watch the fire, will you, Wulf?’

Wulf took her place on the log. Thrit came to sit beside him, hair scraped into a knot. Sweat gleamed on his river-gold skin, the clean lines of his chest and waist.

‘Ignore him,’ he said.

‘I’ve been ignoring him for years.’ Wulf turned the spit. ‘Regny says you’re leaving.’

‘Aye, to fetch my mother and grandparents to Eldyng. Sauma and Karl are coming with me.’ Thrit wiped his face with his shirt. ‘Bardholt gave me leave, as they live close to the Barrowmark. I want them far away from this sickness.’ Sauma parried as Karlsten slashed his sword at her. ‘If the Saint is good, I’ll be able to see the end of the wedding.’

‘I wish I could lend you whatever shield the Saint gave me.’

‘I’ll be fine. Nonetheless, I appreciate your concern.’ Thrit took out his wineskin. ‘What did the physicians say?’

‘Not much. They made me piss into a flask.’

Thrit snorted. As he opened the wineskin, he raised his eyebrows. ‘She’s up early.’

Wulf followed his line of sight to see four people approaching from the castle, led by none other than the Crown Princess of Inys.

Glorian walked into the clearing, dressed in a heavy green cloak. ‘Good morning. Forgive me for disturbing you,’ she said in Hróthi. They all knelt. ‘I heard fighting and wondered if we were being raided.’

‘No, Highness – far more serious. We’re preparing for a wedding.’ Thrit winked. ‘Dangerous affairs.’

Glorian laughed. ‘Indeed. Easier to escape a battle.’ She motioned for them to stand. ‘Speaking of which, Master Glenn promised me a spar when we last spoke. Would now suit?’

Wulf regarded her. From her tone, he might never have found her alone and shaken in the dark, but her eyes told a different story, as did the tiny crease between her brows.

‘Highness,’ Sauma said, hesitant, ‘we should not raise our blades to the bone of the Saint.’

‘I think it may be forbidden,’ Thrit mused.

‘I unforbid it.’ Glorian never took her eyes off Wulf. ‘Will you oblige me, Master Glenn?’

After a moment, he nodded. ‘Highness.’

Thrit offered him a sword, which he took. As he walked towards Glorian, he glanced at her ladies. Two were unfamiliar, but the third he did remember, from their childhood – a young woman of short stature, just shy of four feet, with an olive complexion and thick dark hair.

‘I believe you know Julain,’ Glorian said. ‘May I introduce Adeliza and Lady Helisent?’

Wulf inclined his head. Adeliza looked away, a blush climbing into her apple cheeks.

‘It’s been a long time, my lady,’ he said to Julain Crest, who smiled. ‘I heard of your betrothal to Lord Osbert Combe – my brother, Roland, speaks highly of him. I wish you joy.’

‘Thank you. It’s good to see you, Wulf,’ Julain said warmly. ‘Are the Barons Glenn well?’

‘I fear you’d know better than I do. I haven’t had time to visit.’

‘Oh, what a shame.’

Lady Helisent was looking knives at him. He took her in – eyes and skin of a deep brown, hair that sprang in tiny curls around a slender face – and suddenly remembered her. The Dowager Earl of Goldenbirch had once brought his daughter on a visit to Langarth.

Her family had guarded the south of the haithwood since the days of the Saint. If anyone knew his past, she did.

Glorian took off her cloak. Beneath, she wore a white linen shirt and breeches tucked into fur boots. As Sauma handed her a steel buckler, Helisent passed Wulf, stopping to grip his elbow.

‘Give her so much as a scratch,’ she said under her breath, ‘and you’ll regret it, witchling.’

She let go of him and followed the other two. He clenched his jaw.

So much for Saint-touched.

Glorian walked with him into the middle of the clearing. Wulf dredged up a smile. ‘Go easy on me,’ he said, so only she could hear.

This close, he saw how tired she looked, but she returned his smile. ‘I will endeavour to be gentle.’ She drew the fine blade her father had given her. ‘You have my word.’

She used her left hand, like him. Wulf nodded, and the spar began.

It was clear from the first strike that she was far better than Wulf had imagined. Though her blows lacked heft, they were precise, her form and footwork sure.

She moved far more like a Hróthi housecarl than an Inysh knight. Small wonder. Bardholt would only have trusted one of his own warriors to instruct his daughter in swordplay.

Unlike a housecarl, a princess could not devote every day of her life to the blade. She had not faced years of ruthless training in the wilds of Fellsgerd – so Wulf did see it coming when her sword clipped his mail, the first time. The shine in her eyes made it worthwhile.

‘Mind you don’t nick his throat, Highness,’ Karlsten said flatly. ‘What a shame that would be.’

Glorian glanced at him. ‘Your care for your lithsman is admirable,’ she said. ‘I’ll be sure not to damage him.’

Karlsten just folded his arms. Glorian gave her sword a very Inysh twirl, the flourish of a knight – Thrit laughed in surprise – before she thrust at Wulf again, and their steel clashed, bright and sharp.

Sparring with her was an unexpected joy. When she fought, she was the girl who had raced with him through the plum orchards, wild and free and full of mirth. The second time she hit him, with the buckler, it did catch him off his guard, a steel punch to the shoulder.

Glorian grinned. Wulf smiled and fought back a little harder, giving her a challenge. She rose to it. He forgot everyone but her, and their dance.

At last, he let her tap his thigh with the blade, and the others broke into applause Wulf knew was sincere. Glorian breathed in white gusts. ‘Thank you,’ she said, high colour in her cheeks. ‘It’s been some time since Mother let me fight.’

‘I assume Her Grace isn’t to know about this.’

‘Not unless you’d like to spend a few days in the dungeon,’ Glorian said lightly. ‘Fear not. She won’t hear it from me.’ She stepped back. ‘Good day, Master Glenn.’

‘Highness.’

Sauma took the buckler from her. Glorian sheathed her sword and walked away, her ladies following. ‘What was that about?’ Thrit wondered aloud.

‘I believe I know.’

They looked back. Regny had emerged from the woods, another rabbit slung over her shoulder. She joined them in the clearing and watched Glorian return to the castle.

‘After sixteen years,’ she said, ‘we are seeing Glorian Óthling take her first steps as a queen.’

****

As the royal wedding approached, Glorian could taste midwinter the way others smelled it – the fresh, crisp taste of skethra, the air washing itself clean. She hoped it would flush the dust from the sun.

Time was running out. As soon as the Feast of High Winter came, it would be the year she turned seventeen, and every day would take her closer to her own inevitable marriage. She would wear a small gold shackle and replace herself sharing a bed with a stranger.

The thought tightened her ribs as she sat in her Yscali lesson, trying to listen. She had stayed up for most of the night, not sure whether she wanted to risk another chilling dream.

In sixteen years, she had never had the same dream more than once. Not until this figure had appeared. She could ask a sanctarian if they were visions from the Saint, but Helisent had sown a seed.

Inys had been built on strangeness and wild things. Surely they must steal through the foundations, like weeds between cobblestones.

She shook herself. Helisent might hold to the old northern tales, but a princess could not.

Wulf and his lith trained in the queenswood every day, starting at dawn. She could see them from her window. At noon, he would always go to Blair Lake, and today she meant to join him. Her father had given her the confidence to wander the grounds again.

‘I need a walk,’ she told Adela, once her lesson ended. ‘I won’t be long.’

‘Oh, Glorian, it’s so cold today.’

‘I like the cold.’ Glorian drew up her hood. ‘It’s all right. You stay indoors and keep warm.’

Adela was only too pleased to obey. With her guards a short distance away, Glorian left the castle walls.

Wulf stood alone at the lakeside. Seeing a figure, her guards’ stances changed. ‘Peace,’ Glorian said. The wind teased a few strands of hair from her circlet. ‘It’s only Master Glenn.’

He was flicking stones across the lake. They made a silvery, juddering din as they skittered over brittle ice. Hearing her footsteps, he turned, one hand snapping to his sax.

‘Glorian,’ he said, letting go of it at once.

‘Are you so eager for another fight, Wulf?’

‘Forgive me. I didn’t realise you walked here.’

‘Well, now you know, you must leave,’ she said, keeping a perfectly straight face. ‘I require at least a league around my royal person at all times.’ He blinked. ‘I’m only teasing, Wulf.’

‘Ah. Sorry.’ He rewarded her with a rare smile. ‘Thrit’s always telling me I’m too serious.’

Glorian smiled back. ‘Father loves to skim stones,’ she said. ‘He told me the Hróthi used to live in terror of the frozen lakes, believing cruel spirits lurked under the ice. Of course, they’re far less frightened now.’

‘Aye. On dark and chilly mornings, the king likes nothing better than to sweat in the stovehouse, then have us break a hole in the ice so he can swim. Bravest of all of us, as always.’

‘I miss the stovehouses.’

‘You should build one here.’ Wulf flipped the stone. ‘Do you know why the lakes were feared, in particular?’

‘Tell me.’

His gaze went distant.

‘In winter, when the ice thickens and cracks, it makes . . . the most terrible sound,’ he said. ‘It’s like being underwater, hearing your own heart and blood. The roar when you hold a cup to your ear.’ His throat shifted. ‘I think it’s the song of the womb. A sound we know before we breathe, before words come to us. Some replace it beautiful, but I see why the Hróthi used to fear it. I suppose it’s why they started to imagine spirits in the first place. When the ice splits over and over, it sounds like a fist knocking on a door, asking to be let free.’

Glorian looked across the lake, huddling deeper into her cloak.

‘To calm the spirits, the Hróthi would sing back to the ice,’ Wulf said. ‘Herders still use those lullabies to get their animals back from the pastures – just without the words.’

For the first time, Glorian wondered about the lullaby her father sang for her.

The wind skirled around them. ‘A turn?’ Wulf offered the stone. ‘See if your throw is as strong as your swordplay.’

‘You’re flattering me.’ Glorian took it. ‘A fight with me is never fair.’

‘True, but you move well. Better than—’

He stopped himself. ‘Better than you expected?’ Glorian finished, grinning. ‘I did tell you I could fight.’

‘You did.’

She drew back her arm and hurled the stone. It made a fine clangour on the ice, then a sound like a chirping bird. Their smiles widened. There was something joyous in that clatter.

‘There. No spirits.’ Glorian looked up at him. ‘Wulf, I want to apologise for how I spoke to you, that evening.’

‘You seemed upset. Are you all right?’

She wished she could tell him the truth. The temptation to open her heart to him – her fears, her resentment, everything – was almost too much to resist.

‘I am. Shall we walk by the trees?’ she asked him. ‘The queenswood is lovely in winter.’

They trudged through the deep snow beside the oaks and pines, followed at a distance by her guards. ‘I understand you won’t be at the wedding,’ Wulf said.

‘The heir must be in Inys if the queen is not. It’s for the best,’ Glorian said, with false conviction. ‘I was supposed to marry Lord Magnaust, you see, until Princess Idrega stepped in.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ When he frowned, she said, ‘Is it so funny to imagine me with a companion?’

‘No, not at all. I just didn’t know royals married so early.’

‘We don’t, usually. My grandmother was in her thirties. It’s only in times of need, when an heir becomes more important.’

‘Ah.’ Wulf glanced at her. ‘Sixteen is very young to know if you love someone.’

‘Love has no part in it for us.’

‘Your parents love each other. King Bardholt never stops talking about Queen Sabran.’

‘Yes, that’s true. They were fortunate.’

They stopped when a man emerged from the woods, making her body stiffen, her heart hammer. Wulf reached for both his axe and her, as if to draw her behind him.

‘It’s all right,’ Glorian said, relaxing. ‘It’s only Lord Robart.’

The Lord Chancellor came towards them. Snow crusted his hair and shoulders. ‘Lady Glorian.’ He bowed, his cheeks ruddy from the chill. ‘And Master Glenn, I believe.’

He spoke with a similar burr to Wulf, though it came less from the throat than the tongue. ‘Good morrow, Lord Robart,’ Glorian said. Wulf released her. ‘I trust you are having a pleasant day.’

She had not often spoken to the councillors individually, but Lord Robart had always been kind to her. ‘Very much. My apologies for startling you,’ he said. ‘I like to take short turns among the trees. They clear my mind.’ His smile was brief. ‘Forgive me, but I was just on my way to a meeting of the Virtues Council. I shan’t keep you.’

He walked on. ‘Have you met Lord Robart before, then?’ Glorian asked Wulf. ‘He recognised you.’

‘Aye. He’s my father’s liege.’ Wulf looked troubled. ‘That’s the second council meeting today.’

‘I think we both know why.’ Glorian glanced after Lord Robart, then said: ‘Wulf, I must ask. Is there a sickness in Hróth?’ He tensed. ‘My father has ordered you not to speak of it.’

‘Don’t ask me to break my oath to him, Glorian.’

‘I never would.’

They walked in silence for a time, a silence Glorian filled with imaginings. If her father had sworn his retainers to secrecy, the sickness must be unlike anything Hróth had seen before. She glanced at Wulf, who looked troubled.

‘Helisent told me about your past,’ she said. ‘About the haithwood.’ A muscle started in his cheek. ‘I have seen nothing but gentleness and courtesy from you, Wulf. I want you to know I’m not scared of you. When I am queen, no one will show you disfavour.’

His eyes met hers, dark and wary. ‘Do you not fear the ways of heathens, Highness?’

‘Why should I think you a heathen?’ she asked. ‘I see a patron brooch. I see a virtuous man, a good man.’

Some of the heaviness lifted from his features. ‘You’re kind,’ he said. ‘Glorian, forgive me – it’s time for me to guard your father.’ He stopped and turned to face her. ‘I suppose we won’t meet again before I sail for Vattengard.’

‘No.’ She made herself smile. ‘Enjoy the wedding, Wulf. May the winds carry you well.’

‘Your Highness.’

He pressed his fist to his chest and walked away, the braided hem of his cloak gathering snow. Glorian continued along the path, her boots crunching through deeper, untouched drifts.

He was gone. The chance to unburden her soul had slipped like thaw between her fingers.

She walked until her legs ached, out to the old marcher oak on the western edge of the queenswood, where snow dusted a scattering of withered leaves. Among them, she spotted an oak gall, one that must have fallen late. Intrigued, she used one of her bone needles to work it open, hoping for a bumblebee.

What lay coiled within was a brandling worm.

It was curled around the dead white grub that had been forming in the gall. As Glorian stared at it, it unwound from the corpse and slunk over her knuckles. Sickness filled her, as it had once before. She breathed out in rushes. The thing emerged, hungry and blind.

Her knees hit the ground, and then her palms. She was aware of her guards running to her, calling out, before she fainted into the snow.