A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)
A Day of Fallen Night: Part 3 – Chapter 56

The downpour lasted three full days. As soon as it had smothered the last fire in Ascalun, Lord Robart had sent riders to the provinces. They reported that a flock of wyrms had destroyed countless fields and orchards in the Leas – the breadbasket of Inys – and left the pastures soaked in blood before they flew south, heading across the Saintsway to Yscalin.

Glorian watched her people jostle and shout beyond the castle gates. Another riot in as many days. All she wanted was to ride out and console them, but instead, she was confined to the Queens’ Tower, stored like a cask of wine in a cellar, waiting for Prince Therico.

Florell came at noon. ‘Your Grace,’ she said, ‘the Lord Protector requests your presence. A royal messenger has arrived.’

Glorian stood at once. ‘From my betrothed?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘He must get here soon,’ Glorian said, more to herself than to Florell. She paced the bedchamber. ‘I must be on the battlefield as soon as possible.’

‘Glorian, your life will not be of any less value once you have borne a child. Would you leave your newborn an orphan?’ Florell protested. ‘Remember your temperance. You have Hróthi blood in you, but also Inysh. Not everything can be solved with a sword.’

I must believe it can, Glorian thought, or I will lose my mind.

Her ladies arrayed her in a tunic and skirts of middle grey. Julain braided her hair, while Adela and Helisent brushed her cloak and sleeves. Helisent still had a stubborn cough.

‘Florell,’ Glorian said, ‘will you fetch me a padded coat?’

Florell slowed. ‘For armour?’

‘Yes.’

A sleeveless gambeson matching her measurements was brought, quilted dark wool with a high collar, iron sewn into its lining. It was heavier than Glorian had expected, but she found its weight a comfort. Florell fastened its buckles before she positioned her crown.

Still Glorian felt like an imposter playing at queens. Everything she wore was a trapping, with no meaningful power behind it.

Lord Robart waited at the bottom of the Queens’ Tower, a sword at his side. ‘Your Grace,’ he said, taking in her choice of attire as he bowed. ‘Thank you for joining me so quickly.’

‘I would be obliged if I could join you more often, my lord, so I might stay abreast of what is happening in Inys.’ Glorian walked with him into the garden. ‘I am of little use in the Queens’ Tower.’

She spoke with a resolve that took her by surprise. Since facing Fýredel, something had changed within her. Having looked evil in the eye, she had less fear of everything.

‘Your Grace, you will be informed of all you need to know,’ was his composed reply. ‘Of course, you may leave the Queens’ Tower as you wish, but it is the safest place for you. Let us not forget the attack at Glowan Castle.’

They passed a group of courtiers, who parted for them. They wore the same grey as the sky.

‘As for your claim to be of little use there,’ Lord Robart said, ‘I must object to that assessment.’ He walked past his own ancestor, the Knight of Generosity, who held a sheaf of wheat. ‘You are remaining safe and well, in preparation for your greatest service to the queendom. Now more than ever, your people crave the comfort of knowing their queen has an heir.’

‘On that subject, is this messenger from Prince Therico?’

‘I know as much as you, Your Grace. I may not receive a royal messenger without the Queen of Inys.’

They walked into the throne room, enormous and carved of pale stone, made to evoke the entrance to Halgalant. Glorian took in the arch of its ceiling, its towering windows and polished floor.

‘What is happening in the city?’ she asked.

‘We are dealing with the people’s most pressing needs. Food will be brought from the Marshes and the Downs. Those without homes will have to rely on the sanctuaries until we can rebuild.’

Whenever that may be, Glorian thought. What point was there in rebuilding, when the wyrm had promised to return?

‘You are the Duke of Generosity,’ she said. ‘What of the almshouses?’

She was breaking her mother’s rule: never ask questions. Still, she saw no harm in it. She had no power. Knowledge might secure her some.

‘Overwhelmed. I will ensure they receive as much relief as possible,’ Lord Robart said as they neared the steps. ‘While we consider our options.’

‘What of our defences?’

‘We have none, other than archers and warships. I have seen the state of the city, Your Grace. I am convinced there is no shield or weapon that could keep the wyrms from wreaking the same violence again.’

‘I would have stood beside you on the streets.’

‘Of course.’

Glorian wished she could read this man.

‘What is your plan, Lord Robart?’ she asked him. ‘Even if we can’t defeat Fýredel, the smaller wyrms might be beaten in the field. Surely we must set about calling the people to arms.’

Her frustration must have shown. Lord Robart stopped and turned to face her.

‘Queen Glorian, I am not a man given to strong passions. I often think I should have been descended from the Knight of Temperance,’ he said, a little drily. ‘I have always preferred to scrutinise every situation from a distance, not allowing myself to give in to grief or fear. It allows me to think clearly, rationally – but do not mistake my dispassion for a lack of care. I care very much for this queendom, and I will do what is necessary to save it.’

Glorian nodded, placated. ‘I understand.’ They kept walking. ‘My mother was not given to strong passions, either.’

‘But you are. Just like your father,’ Lord Robart said, with a rare smile. ‘You are like him in many ways.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Your tribute to him after the entombment was marvellous.’

‘It has long been tradition at funerals in Hróth. They call it sithamál – the last tale. It was the same before the Saint,’ Glorian said, ‘except they used to burn their dead.’

‘They sang so the land itself would remember the departed,’ Lord Robart said. She gave him a curious look. ‘I have an interest, Your Grace. No matter how deep we bury the past, it always wells back up. I replace it best to understand, rather than fear.’

At the top of the six narrowing steps, made steep for a dynasty of tall queens, Glorian stopped. Before her stood the high throne of the Queendom of Inys, cut from creamy Morgish marble, elegant in its simplicity. A faldstool had been placed beside it. Overhead soared a vinous canopy emblazoned with the True Sword, which towered above the throne.

Glorian turned and lowered herself into it. Even through the cushion beneath her, it was hard and cold.

‘Your Grace.’

Lord Robart had come to stand over her. ‘I’m afraid I must sit on the throne,’ he said quietly. ‘It signifies royal authority in Inys, which I presently hold.’ He nodded to the faldstool. ‘Forgive me.’

Her face burned. ‘I understand.’

Lord Robart waited politely for her to move to the faldstool before he sat upon the throne, seeming to take no joy in it. He motioned to the stewards, who pulled the doors open again.

A woman strode into the throne room. Chestnut hair streamed to her waist. Her clothes were damp and dishevelled, her cheeks flushed.

‘Come forward.’ Lord Robart beckoned her. ‘Who stands before the Queen of Inys?’

‘Your Grace. Lord Protector.’ She bowed to them both. ‘My name is Mara Glenn. My father is Lord Edrick, Baron Glenn of Langarth.’

‘Wulf’s sister,’ Glorian said, realising.

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘I’m very sorry.’

‘Thank you.’ Mara paused to cough into a gloved hand. ‘Forgive me. The smoke.’ It still formed a dark hood over the city. ‘Your Grace, my deepest condolences. Queen Sabran was—’

‘If you please, Mistress Glenn,’ Lord Robart cut in. ‘I was told you bear a royal message.’

‘Aye, from Lady Marian Berethnet.’ Mara gripped one hand in the other. ‘Lord Robart, you sent my lady and her household to Cuthyll, but the wetness of the Fens is not good for her, and the castle is in disrepair, cold and leaking. I beg you to let her come here, to court. She is already heartbroken to have been refused attendance to her own daughter’s entombment.’

Glorian looked aslant at her regent, who remained expressionless.

‘With this threat facing Inys, Lady Marian wants to be with her only remaining family – Queen Glorian – so she might support and counsel her, and share the burden of her grief.’ Mara looked to Glorian. ‘Please, Your Grace, a drop of generosity. All she desires is to be at your side.’

Lord Robart sat back a little. ‘Is Lord Edrick aware of your journey, Mistress Glenn?’

‘No, my lord. I came from Cuthyll.’

‘Then I can forgive your ignorance. Lord Edrick was alive during Queen Marian’s reign,’ Lord Robart reminded her, ‘and would recollect how close Inys came to ruin in that time. I believe your own birthparents were killed. If she believes she can return simply because Queen Sabran is not here, I’m afraid she is mistaken.’

‘Lady Marian means no disrespect, Lord Robart,’ Mara said, her voice firming, ‘but surely she can do no more harm as a private individual. She is old and unwell. If she could just have—’

‘That will be all, Mistress Glenn. I have much to do to protect this queendom in the weeks to come.’ He sat back. ‘I will send a stonemason to seal the leaks at Cuthyll. Good day.’

Mara pressed her lips together. ‘My lord,’ she said. ‘I shall pass on your message.’

She made to leave. Before she knew it, Glorian had called out, ‘Mistress Glenn.’ Mara turned back at once. ‘Please send my lady grandmother my regards, and my condolences.’

‘I will, Your Grace.’ Mara gave her a relieved smile. ‘Thank you.’

As she walked towards the doors, Lord Robart said, ‘That may not have been well done, Your Grace.’

‘May I not comfort my grandmother, who is my own flesh, and the blood of the Saint?’ Glorian asked, frowning. ‘Why have you sent her to a castle in disrepair, Lord Robart?’

‘Cuthyll is a strong and remote fortress. Lady Marian is safest there. I only ask you not to give her false hope. We cannot allow her to return when Inys is so fragile.’

Suddenly the doors were thrown open again. A red-faced squire came running in, almost falling over his own boots, and Mara stood back in surprise.

‘Queen Glorian,’ the squire cried out. ‘A survivor! From the Conviction – from the ships, the lost ships!’

Glorian stood at once. A long moment later, so did Lord Robart, though his face remained a picture of calm. ‘I assume you have some way to prove this,’ he said. ‘What say you?’

‘He was among them, my lord. I can attest to it,’ the squire insisted. ‘I remember him well.’

‘Bring him inside. Quickly, boy, bring him.’

Outside, there was a great commotion before several figures entered the throne room, followed by a crowd of courtiers. With a cry, Mara flung herself on to a tall and windswept man. When she finally let go, Glorian saw his unshaven face. His hands were dressed in linen, he was damp and gaunt, and fatigue had nailed horseshoes under his eyes.

Yet there he was, alive.

‘Wulf,’ she whispered.

****

Wulf stepped towards the marble throne. He and Thrit had ridden hard from Caddow Hall, across the rotted causeway that snaked through the fog and black peat of the Fens, down to a smoking capital, chased by fear of the plague all the way.

‘Lord Robart,’ he said, ‘I am Wulfert Glenn of Langarth, younger son of the Barons Glenn.’

‘Two Glenns.’ Lord Robart Eller regarded him. ‘You were a retainer to King Bardholt.’

‘Until his last breath. I come to you now, sent by Einlek King of Hróth, to tell you what I witnessed on the Ashen Sea, aboard the Conviction. And to bring you a dire warning.’

‘I wonder at the likelihood of this, Master Glenn – if that is, indeed, who you are,’ Lord Robart said, eyes narrowed. ‘No one could survive the Ashen Sea in midwinter.’

‘I beg your pardon, my lord, but I did.’

Even though the stewards had tried to shepherd people away, more were jostling to see. ‘This is Wulfert Glenn, Lord Robart.’ Glorian had found her voice. ‘I can attest to that myself.’ She stepped forward. ‘Please, Wulf, tell us what you saw.’

‘Your Grace, there is something I must do first.’

He was so saddlesore he feared he might fall on his backside, but he managed to kneel at the foot of the steps.

‘Queen Glorian,’ he said, ‘I offer my sword and my axe to you, as I did to your lord father, and then to your cousin, Einlek King. Though I serve him now, I would also serve you, who share his blood – the blood of a man who was, for a decade, my liege and chieftain. I pledge, once again, to the House of Hraustr. I pledge to you. If you will have me.’

Glorian held out a hand, the one that bore a Hróthi ring.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I bid you stand, Wulfert Glenn, as a knight-elect of the Queendom of Inys.’

‘Your Grace.’

When he rose, Mara stayed close to him on one side, Thrit on the other. His sister gripped his arm, as if she were afraid to let him go.

‘I will tell you what happened aboard the Conviction,’ he said, loud as he could with his damaged throat. ‘But first, I must tell you of another threat, a few miles south of Yelden Head. There is a plague, Your Grace – a sickness that began in the village of Ófandauth, and spreads in mighty strides through Hróth. It is here in Inys, somewhere in the Fens.’

Mutterings from the courtiers. Among them, Kell Bourn, the bonesetter, looked grim.

‘I urge you to close your ports. Find where it has taken root and make sure it goes no farther here.’ Wulf released a heavy breath. ‘Now I will tell you. I will tell you everything I saw.’

****

Alone in her solar, Glorian wept bitterly and wrathfully, pulling at her hair. Wulf had spared no detail. He had told her that her parents had faced Fýredel with courage, at the end.

If they had done that, she could suffer a prince in her bed. She could give Inys an heir.

She could also now be formally crowned. Wulf had witnessed the death of the sovereign. He had come through fire and snow and swamp, from the brink of death itself, to warn her of what was to come.

A few lights guttered in the city. By the glow of her own candle, she broke open the letter from her cousin, sealed with the crest of the House of Hraustr. Einlek had given it to Wulf.

Cousin, I will keep my words concise, for time is short, and the fire is surely closing in. I wake each morning still loath to believe this has happened – that I should see the fall of a legendary king, and the rise of an evil so terrible, it far eclipses the war of my childhood.

My mother and I send our bitter condolences. I send my gratitude for the kingdom that was rightly yours. Above all else, I affirm, in the strongest terms, my loyalty to you, who now replace yourself with a heavy burden, at so young an age. It is unfair, and it is cruel, but so are all tests from the Saint. He, too, was tried, and suffered, to vanquish evil from our world. Now you must stand in his place, at half the age he was when he faced the Nameless One. You must be the sword and shield.

I am not too much your senior, Glorian, but if you will permit me to offer you one piece of guidance, as one who found himself plunged into war at a tender age. On every battlefield, there are warriors and ravens – the warriors on the snow, the ravens waiting in the trees. Look to those closest to you, and decide which is which. Work out who will fight, and who will feast on your flesh. Who will stand beside you, and who will wait for you to fall. Knowing this may save your life.

She traced the dark wing where he had smudged the ink.

In the months or years to come, we must each look to our own shores, our own people. I am now head of a very young house, the successor of a king who brought a country to its knees, and for that reason, I must keep my eyes on the North. But be assured, cousin, that Hróth is with you always. Our sea realms will fight under the Saint’s banner, to rise from the fire, brightened by it, stronger than before.

There may be no victory in this war. There are too many foes. I do not believe the Saint intends us to win. He seeks the absolute destruction of the world, to usher in the new. Our test is to survive, and to keep our realms together. And so, together, let us hold the Chainmail of Virtudom.

Remember, Glorian, that evil is earthly, and you are something else. All great rulers heed to counsel, but you are answerable only to the Saint, who lives within you, the voice of the divine. Look to him first, and to yourself.

Glorian committed the words to memory. She pressed a brief kiss to the letter, then put it in the fire.

For several days, she paced and waited – for Prince Therico, for other news. She tried to reach her mirror self, but the Saint was quiet again. Outside, her people cried for bread.

At last, after what seemed to be a short eternity, something changed. A hand shook her awake. ‘Glorian.’ Florell was at her bedside, holding a candle. ‘The Virtues Council wishes to see you.’

Glorian sat up. The sun had only just risen. ‘Why do they summon me so early?’

‘I don’t know.’

The Council Chamber held a chill, the fire young in the hearth. Glorian entered to replace only three of the Dukes Spiritual waiting for her.

‘Your Grace,’ Lady Brangain said quietly. They all dipped their heads. ‘Forgive us for disturbing you at this hour. We thought it right that you heard as soon as possible.’

‘Where is the Lord Protector?’ Glorian asked her.

‘He rode out with Lord Damud and Lady Gladwin before dawn. They are on their way to instruct the earls and barons of the northern provinces, so they can muster your people to defend our queendom. He should be back before long.’

‘What is it you need to tell me?’

‘There is no easy way to say this,’ Lade Edith said softly. ‘Prince Therico of Yscalin is dead.’

The words woke her like a fall through ice. ‘How?’

‘As I believe you were informed, the wyrms flew south after their attack on the Leas. From what we understand, they fell upon the Yscali port of Tagrida and burned it almost to the ground. Prince Therico was aboard one of the ships docked there.’

It took Glorian a moment to digest the news. He had been just days away from Inys. ‘May he replace his place at the Great Table.’ She caved into a chair. ‘Sixteen is no age to die.’

‘No, Your Grace.’

‘What is to be done, then?’ Glorian finally asked. ‘You all agreed that I should have an heir as soon as possible.’

‘There is a way to remedy the situation quickly,’ Lord Randroth said, dabbing his nose. ‘A proposal that Lord Robart wishes us to submit for your consideration.’

‘Yes?’

‘Your late mother made arrangements for you to wed Prince Therico, but the contract includes a clause. In the event of his death, the heir to Inys may wed another relative of Queen Rozaria of Yscalin – in the first or second degree, specifically – within the next month.’

‘Usually the clause is included because one of the parties has some illness, or partakes in dangerous pursuits,’ Lade Edith said.

‘A sensible precaution. Prince Therico had a fragile constitution.’ Lord Randroth set the document in question on the table. ‘Two members of the House of Vetalda who fit the description were, tragically, killed with him. However, there is another, who is free to wed. If you were to accept him, it would mean we could proceed as planned. We would not have to seek other candidates or negotiate favourable terms, which will prove almost impossible in wartime. We would preserve our historic union with Queen Rozaria.’

‘I thought all her other grandchildren married,’ Glorian said.

‘You had it right, Queen Glorian.’ Lade Edith loosened their collar, looking a little faint. ‘Forgive me. I truly do not believe we should consider this, but the Lord Protector—’

‘—is in favour,’ Lord Randroth finished. ‘He knows the man well, and vouches for his conduct.’

Glorian nodded. ‘Who is it?’

‘Prince Guma Vetalda.’

Florell, who had been waiting outside the Council Chamber, now ventured into it. ‘Prince Guma,’ she echoed. ‘Lord Randroth, you can’t possibly be talking about the Duke of Kóvuga.’

‘You are not permitted to enter the Council Chamber, Lady Florell.’

‘Who is Prince Guma?’ Glorian asked. ‘Who is he to Queen Rozaria?’

Florell stared at the three councillors, then let out a high, queer laugh that unsettled Glorian.

‘Prince Guma,’ she said, ‘is her twin brother.’

‘Queen Rozaria is . . . at least seventy years old.’

Lade Edith drained their entire goblet of wine. ‘Seventy-four in a few weeks’ time.’

In the hearth, the fire crackled and spat.

‘What in the Saint’s name is this madness?’ Florell whispered.

‘The Lord Protector stresses that it would be your choice, Queen Glorian,’ Lady Brangain said, though her face was pinched. ‘He told us we should be honest with you, and that he trusted you to take the wisest course of action.’ She slid an envelope across the table. ‘He left you a letter.’

It was sealed with green wax, the seal shaped like a crowned sheaf of wheat. When Glorian broke it, she found lines of neat handwriting.

Your Grace, I must leave to instruct the Earls Provincial, and so I write in haste. I trust you have been informed of the tragedy clause in your marriage contract.

Prince Guma is a good and canny man, who spent much of his youth defending Yscalin from free raiders and other threats. I have met him several times during my visits to the mainland and found him amiable, honourable and kind.

His castle sits in the Saurga Mountains, giving him command of the Ufarassus, the largest gold mine in the West. I am reliably informed this mine is nowhere close to playing out. I will be frank: after the Century of Discontent, our coffers are all but drained, thanks to mismanagement and greed. We are in no position for war, or for rebuilding after fire.

I would understand if you refused this match. I would not usually endorse a union between two people so disparate in age, but I have no fear for your safety or comfort with Prince Guma, whose virtue I trust. He would be an asset to Inys. It would be remiss of me, as regent, not to inform my sovereign that this option exists. The choice is yours.

Your servant,

Robart Eller, Duke of Generosity, Lord Protector of Inys

‘Time is of the essence,’ Lord Randroth said. ‘Refuse this, and we could waste months on replaceing a suitable consort.’

‘For the love of the Saint, he is old enough to be her grandsire! Just marry her to a lesser Yscali lord, a Hróthi chieftain,’ Florell erupted. ‘You are all lusting for gold, and it has overcome your—’

‘Lady Florell, you are not a duchess,’ he snapped. ‘Queen Glorian is half Hróthi. Our bond with the North is already strong. Meanwhile, our last Yscali prince consort was shackled to the Malkin Queen, and died under mysterious circumstances. The Vetalda will not have forgotten. Nor we must we forget that they conciliated the Vatten for—’

‘None of that, none of it, justifies this!’

Their voices were becoming distant, lost to a dull roar in her ears. Glorian gripped the table.

‘And in exchange?’

They all stopped talking to stare at her. ‘Glorian.’ Florell came to her side. ‘Nothing in the world is worth—’

‘What will Inys receive in exchange?’

Lord Randroth shot Florell a galled look, and composed himself.

‘Prince Guma will bring a far more significant dowry than Prince Therico – an enormous sum,’ he said. ‘The Yscals have strong trade connexions with the South, which could be priceless in the months ahead, for salt and so forth. Most importantly, he would bring a large company of trained soldiers, including archers.’

‘Queen Sabran weeps in Halgalant.’ Florell was choking with rage. ‘As for King Bardholt, he would have killed you all with his bare hands if you had dared voice this in his presence.’

Lord Randroth rose in a fury. ‘Lady Florell, you will hold your tongue, or you will quit this Council Chamber!’

‘Stop,’ Glorian said, silencing them. ‘How soon can Prince Guma be here?’

The Duke of Fellowship returned to his seat, cheeks red. ‘He could be here as soon as he secures a ship.’

‘So be it. I will marry him,’ Glorian said quietly. ‘For his gold, and for my people.’

‘Glorian, no,’ Florell croaked. ‘There are other ways.’

‘I see none that unlock the wealth of the Ufarassus.’

Lade Edith seemed unable to look at her. ‘If this is truly what you want, Your Grace,’ they said, ‘we will summon Prince Guma to Ascalun. Since he has already agreed to the match, he has given his assent for a marriage by proxy. You could be wed tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow, then. Let it be done.’

Florell covered her mouth. Glorian sleepwalked from the Council Chamber, sending her thoughts as far from her body as she could, imagining herself into that dream realm, with her secret self.