The Priory of the Orange Tree (The Roots of Chaos)
The Priory of the Orange Tree: Part 1 – Chapter 3

Dawn cracked like a heron’s egg over Seiiki. Pale light prowled into the room. The shutters had been opened for the first time in eight days.

Tané gazed at the ceiling with raw eyes. She had been restless all night, hot and cold by turns.

She would never wake in this room again. Choosing Day had come. The day she had awaited since she was a child—and risked, like a fool, when she decided to break seclusion. By asking Susa to hide the outsider in Orisima, she had also risked both their lives.

Her stomach turned like a watermill. She scooped up her uniform and wash bag, passed the sleeping Ishari, and stole out of the room.

The South House stood in the foothills of the Bear’s Jaw, the mountain range that loomed over Cape Hisan. Along with the other three Houses of Learning, it was used to train apprentices for the High Sea Guard. Tané had lived in its halls since she was three.

Going outside was like stepping into a kiln. The heat varnished her skin and made her hair feel thicker.

Seiiki had a scent to it. The perfume of the heartwood in the trees, unlocked by rain, and the green on every leaf. Usually Tané found it calming, but nothing would comfort her today.

The hot springs steamed in the morning haze. Tané shed her sleep robe, stepped into the nearest pool, and scrubbed herself with a handful of bran. In the shade of the plum trees, she dressed in her uniform and combed her long hair to one side of her neck, so the blue dragon could be seen on her tunic. By the time she made her way indoors, there was movement in the rooms.

She took a small breakfast of tea and broth. A few apprentices wished her luck as they passed.

When the time came, she was first to leave.

Outside, the servants waited with horses. In unison, they bowed. As Tané mounted her steed, Ishari rushed from the house, looking flustered, and climbed into her saddle.

Tané watched her, a sudden thickness in her throat. She and Ishari had shared a room for six years. After the ceremony, they might never see each other again.

They rode to the gate that separated the Houses of Learning from the rest of Cape Hisan, over the bridge and past the stream that ran down from the mountains, joining the apprentices from elsewhere in the district. Tané caught sight of Turosa, her rival, sneering at her from his line. She kept hold of his gaze until he kicked his horse and set off at a gallop toward the city, shadowed by his friends.

Tané looked over her shoulder one last time, taking in the lush green hills and the silhouettes of larch trees against the pale blue sky. Then she stitched her gaze to the horizon.

It was a slow procession through Cape Hisan. Many citizens had woken early to see the apprentices ride to the temple. They threw salt flowers on to the streets and filled every pathway, craning for a glimpse of those who might soon be god-chosen. Tané tried to concentrate on the warmth of the horse, the clop of its hooves—anything to stop her thinking of the outsider.

Susa had agreed to take the Inysh man into Orisima. Of course she had. She would do anything for Tané, just as Tané would do anything for her.

As it happened, Susa had once had a liaison with one of the sentinels at the trading post, who was keen to win her back. With the landing gate unlocked, Susa had planned to swim to it with the outsider and deliver him to Orisima’s master surgeon, with the empty promise of silver if he cooperated. The man apparently had gambling debts.

If the trespasser did have the red sickness, it would be trapped in Orisima. Once the ceremony was over, Susa would anonymously report him to the Governor of Cape Hisan. The surgeon would be whipped raw when they found the man in his home, but Tané doubted he would be killed—that would risk the alliance with the Free State of Mentendon. If torture loosened his tongue, the trespasser might tell the authorities about the two women who had intervened on the night of his arrival, but he would have little time to plead his case. He would be put to the sword to contain any risk of the red sickness.

The thought made Tané look at her hands, where the rash would appear first. She had not touched his skin, but going anywhere near him had been a terrible risk. A moment of true madness. If Susa had caught the red sickness, she would never forgive herself.

Susa had risked everything to make sure today was as Tané had always dreamed. Her friend had not questioned her scruples or her sanity. Just agreed that she would help.

The gates of the Grand Temple of the Cape were open for the first time in a decade. They were flanked by two colossal statues of dragons, mouths open in eternal roars. Forty horses trotted between them. Once made of wood, the temple had been burned to the ground during the Great Sorrow and later rebuilt with stone. Hundreds of blue-glass lanterns dripped from its eaves, exuding cold light. They looked like fishing floats.

Tané dismounted and walked beside Ishari toward the driftwood gateway. Turosa fell into line with them.

“May the great Kwiriki smile on you today, Tané,” he said. “What a shame it would be if an apprentice of your standing were to be sent to Feather Island.”

“That would be a respectable life,” Tané said as she handed her horse to an ostler.

“No doubt you will tell yourself that when you live it.”

“Perhaps you will, too, honorable Turosa.”

The corner of his mouth twitched before he strode ahead to rejoin his friends from the North House.

“He should speak to you with more respect,” Ishari murmured. “Dumu says you score better than him in most combat.”

Tané said nothing. Her arms prickled. She was the best in her house, but so was Turosa in his.

A fountain carved into the image of the great Kwiriki—the first dragon ever to take a human rider—stood in the outer courtyard of the temple. Salt water poured from his mouth. Tané washed her hands in it and placed a drop on her lips.

It tasted clean.

“Tané,” Ishari said, “I hope all goes as you desire.”

“I hope the same for you.” They all desired the same outcome. “You were last to leave the house.”

“I woke late.” Ishari performed her own ablutions. “I thought I heard the screens in our room opening last night. It unsettled me … I could not sleep again for some time. Did you leave the room at all?”

“No. Perhaps it was our learnèd teacher.”

“Yes, perhaps.”

They proceeded to the vast inner courtyard, where the sun brightened the rooftops.

A man with a long moustache stood atop the steps with a helm under his arm. His face was tanned and weathered. Clad in armored sleeves and gauntlets, a lightweight cuirass over a coat of darkest blue, and a high-collared surcoat of black velvet and gold-brocaded silk, he was clearly both a person of high rank and a soldier.

For a moment, Tané forgot her dread. She was a child again, dreaming of dragons.

This man was the honored Sea General of Seiiki. Head of Clan Miduchi, the dynasty of dragonriders—a dynasty united not by blood, but by purpose. Tané meant to have that name.

Upon reaching the steps, the apprentices formed two lines, knelt, and pressed their foreheads to the ground. Tané could hear Ishari breathing. Nobody rose. Nobody moved.

Scale rasped against stone. Every sinew in her body seemed to tighten.

She looked up.

There were eight of them. Years she had spent praying before statues of dragons, studying them, and observing them from a distance, but she had never seen them this close.

Their size was breathtaking. Most were Seiikinese, with silvery hides and lithe, whiplike forms. Impossibly long bodies held up their splendid heads, and they each had four muscular legs, ending in feet with three claws. Long barbels swirled from their faces and trailed like the lines of kites. The majority were quite young, perhaps four hundred years old, but several carried scars from the Great Sorrow. All were covered with scales and ringed with sucker marks—keepsakes from their quarrels with greatsquid.

Two of them possessed a fourth toe. These were dragons from the Empire of the Twelve Lakes. One of them—a male—had wings. Most dragons were wingless and flew by means of an organ on their heads, which scholars had named the crown. The few that did grow wings did so only after at least two thousand years of life.

The winged dragon was largest. If Tané had stretched to her full height, she might not even have been able to reach between his snout and his eyes. Though his wings looked fragile as spidersilk, they were strong enough to whip up a typhoon. Tané spied the pouch beneath his chin. Like oysters, dragons could make pearls, one in a lifetime. It never left the pouch.

The dragon beside the male, also Lacustrine, was close to his stature. Her scales were a pale, clouded green, like milk jade, her mane the golden-brown of riverweed.

“Welcome,” the Sea General said.

His voice rang out like the call of a war conch.

“Rise,” he said, and they obeyed. “You are here today to be sworn to one of two lives: that of the High Sea Guard, defending Seiiki from sickness and invasion, or a life of learning and prayer on Feather Island. Of the sea guardians, twelve of you will have the honor of becoming dragonriders.”

Only twelve. Usually there were more.

“As you will know,” the Sea General said, “there have been no hatchings of dragon eggs for the past two centuries. Several dragons have also been taken by the Fleet of the Tiger Eye, which continues its repulsive trade in dragonflesh under the tyranny of the so-called Golden Empress.”

Heads bowed.

“To bolster our ranks, we are honored to receive these two great warriors from the Empire of the Twelve Lakes. I trust this will herald a closer friendship with our allies to the north.”

The Sea General inclined his head toward the two Lacustrine dragons. They would not be quite as accustomed to the sea as Seiikinese dragons, since they preferred to live in rivers and other bodies of freshwater—but dragons from both countries had fought side by side in the Great Sorrow, and they had ancestors in common.

Tané sensed Turosa looking at her. If he became a rider, he would say his dragon was the greatest of them all.

“Today, you will learn your destinies.” The Sea General took a scroll from his surcoat and unraveled it. “Let us begin.”

Tané braced herself.

The first apprentice to be called forward was raised to the noble ranks of the High Sea Guard. The Sea General handed her a tunic the color of a summer sky. When she took it, a black Seiikinese dragon huffed smoke, making her startle. The dragon wheezed.

Dumusa of the West House also became a sea guardian. The granddaughter of two riders, she was of Southern descent as well as Seiikinese. Tané watched her accept her new uniform, bow to the Sea General, and take her place on his right side.

The next apprentice became the first to join the ranks of the scholars. His silk was the deep red of mulberry, and his shoulders trembled as he bowed. Tané sensed tension in the other apprentices, sudden as a rip current.

Turosa went to the High Sea Guard, of course. It seemed a lifetime before she heard her own name:

“The honorable Tané, of the South House.”

Tané stepped forward.

The dragons watched her. It was said they could see the deepest secrets of a soul, for human beings were made of water, and all water was theirs.

What if they could see what she had done?

She concentrated on the placement of her feet. When she stood before the Sea General, he looked at her for what seemed like years. It took all her strength to remain standing.

At last, he reached for a blue uniform. Tané breathed out. Tears of relief pricked her eyes.

“For your aptitude and dedication,” he said, “you are raised to the noble ranks of the High Sea Guard, and must swear to practice the way of the dragon until you draw your final breath.” He leaned closer. “Your teachers speak very highly of you. It will be a privilege to have you in my guard.”

She bowed low. “You honor me, great lord.”

The Sea General smiled.

Tané joined the four apprentices on his right side in a stupor of bliss, blood rushing like water over pebbles. As the next candidate stepped forward, Turosa whispered against her ear, “So you and I will face each other in the water trials.” His breath smelled of milk. “Good.”

“It will be a pleasure to fight against a warrior of your skill, honorable Turosa,” Tané said calmly.

“I see through your mask, village chaff. I see what’s in your heart. It’s the same as what’s in mine. Ambition.” He paused as one of the men was sent to join the other side. “The difference is what I am, and what you are.”

Tané glanced at him. “You stand on equal ground with whatever I am, honorable Turosa.”

His laughter made her neck prickle.

“The honorable Ishari, of the South House,” the Sea General called.

Ishari made her slow way up the steps. When she reached him, the Sea General handed her a roll of red silk.

“For your aptitude and dedication,” he said, “you are raised to the noble ranks of the scholars, and must swear to devote yourself to the furtherance of knowledge until you draw your final breath.”

Though she flinched at the words, Ishari took the parcel of cloth and bowed. “Thank you, great lord,” she murmured.

Tané watched her go to the left.

Ishari must be distraught. Still, she might yet do well on Feather Island, and she could eventually return to Seiiki as a master teacher.

“Pity,” Turosa said. “Wasn’t she your friend?”

Tané bit her tongue.

The principal apprentice from the East House joined their ranks next. Onren was short and burly, her sun-browned face sprayed with freckles. Thick hair fell to her shoulders, stripped dry by salt water and brittle at the ends. Shellblood darkened her lips.

“Tané,” she said, taking the place beside her. “Congratulations.”

“And to you, Onren.”

They were the only apprentices who rose without fail each dawn to swim, and a kind of friendship had risen from that foundation. Tané had no doubt that Onren had also hearkened to the rumors and stolen out to immerse herself once more before the ceremony.

The thought unsettled Tané. Cape Hisan was scalloped with small coves, but fate had made her choose the one the outsider had arrived in.

Onren looked down at her blue silk. Like Tané, she was from an impoverished home.

“They are marvelous,” she whispered, nodding at the dragons. “I take it you hope to be one of the twelve.”

“Aren’t you too small to ride a dragon, little Onren?” Turosa drawled. “You might be able to perch on one’s tail, I suppose.”

Onren looked over her shoulder at him. “I thought I heard you talking. Have we met?” When he opened his mouth, she said, “Don’t tell me. You’re plainly a fool, and I have no interest in befriending fools.”

Tané hid her smile behind her hair. For once, Turosa closed his mouth.

When the last apprentice had accepted his uniform, the two groups turned to face the Sea General. Ishari, whose cheeks were tear-stained, did not look up from the cloth in her arms.

“You are children no longer. Your paths are before you.” The Sea General glanced to his right. “Four of the sea guardians have performed above expectations. Turosa, of the North House; Onren, of the East House; Tané, of the South House; and Dumusa, of the West House—turn to face our elders, so they might know your names and faces.”

They did. Tané stepped forward with the others and pressed her forehead to the floor again.

“Rise,” one of the dragons said.

The voice made the ground quake. It was so deep, so low, that Tané hardly understood at first.

The four of them obeyed and straightened their backs. The largest Seiikinese dragon lowered his head until he was at eye level with them. A long tongue lashed from between his teeth.

With a great push of his legs, he suddenly took flight. The apprentices all threw themselves to the ground, leaving only the Sea General standing. He let out a booming laugh.

The milky-green Lacustrine dragon displayed her teeth in a grin. Tané found herself locked in those wild eddies of eyes.

The dragon rose with the rest of her kin over the rooftops of the city. Water made flesh. As a mist of divine rain streamed from their scales, soaking the humans below, a Seiikinese male reared up, gathered his breath, and expelled it in a mighty gust of wind.

Every bell in the temple rang out in answer.

Niclays woke with a dry mouth and a fearsome headache, as he had a thousand times before. He blinked and rubbed a knuckle in the corner of his eye.

Bells.

That was what had woken him. He had been on this island for years, but never heard a single bell. Niclays grasped his cane and stood, his arm trembling with the effort.

It must be an alarm. They were coming for Sulyard, coming to arrest them both.

Niclays turned on the spot, desperate. His only chance was to pretend the man had hidden in the house without his knowledge.

He peered past the screen. Sulyard was sound asleep, facing the wall. Well, at least he would die in peace.

The sun was sweating too much light. Close to the little house where Niclays lived, his assistant, Muste, was sitting under the plum tree with his Seiikinese companion, Panaya.

“Muste,” Niclays shouted. “What in the world is that sound?”

Muste just waved. Cursing, Niclays jammed on his sandals and picked his way toward Muste and Panaya, trying to ignore the sense that he was walking to his doom.

“Good day to you, honorable Panaya,” he said in Seiikinese, bowing.

“Learnèd Niclays.” The corners of her eyes crinkled. She wore a light robe, white flowers on blue, the sleeves and collar embroidered in silver. “Did the bells wake you?”

“Yes. May I ask what they mean?”

“They are ringing for Choosing Day,” she said. “The eldest apprentices at the Houses of Learning have completed their studies, and have been placed into the ranks of the scholars or the High Sea Guard.”

Nothing to do with intruders, then. Niclays took out his handkerchief and mopped at his face.

“Are you well, Roos?” Muste asked, shading his eyes.

“You know how I loathe the summer here.” Niclays stuffed the handkerchief back into his jerkin. “Choosing Day takes place once a year, does it not?” he said to Panaya. “I have never once heard bells.”

Not bells, but he had heard the drums. The inebriating sounds of joy and revelry.

“Ah,” Panaya said, her smile growing, “but this is a very special Choosing Day.”

“It is?”

“Do you not know, Roos?” Muste chuckled. “You have been here longer than I have.”

“This is not something Niclays would have been told,” Panaya said gently. “You see, Niclays, it was agreed after the Great Sorrow that every fifty years, a number of Seiikinese dragons would take human riders, so we might always be prepared to fight together once again. Those who were chosen for the High Sea Guard this morning have been given this chance, and will now endure the water trials to decide which of them will be dragonriders.”

“I see,” Niclays said, interested enough to forget his terror about Sulyard for a moment. “And then they fly their steeds off to fight off pirates and smugglers, I presume.”

“Not steeds, Niclays. Dragons are not horses.”

“Apologies, honorable lady. A poor choice of word.”

Panaya nodded. Her hand strayed to the pendant around her neck, carved into the shape of a dragon.

Such a thing would be destroyed in Virtudom, where there was no longer any distinction between the ancient dragons of the East and the younger, fire-breathing wyrms that had once terrorized the world. Both were deemed malevolent. The door to the East had been closed for so long that misunderstanding about its customs had flourished.

Niclays had believed it before he had arrived in Orisima. He had been half-convinced, on the eve of his departure from Mentendon, that he was being exiled to a land where people were in thrall to creatures just as wicked as the Nameless One.

How frightened he had been that day. All Mentish children knew the story of the Nameless One from the moment they could fathom language. His own dear mother had relished scaring him to tears with her descriptions of the father and overking of all fire-breathing creatures—he who had emerged from the Dreadmount bent on chaos and destruction, only to be grievously wounded by Sir Galian Berethnet before he could subjugate humankind. A thousand years later, the specter of him still lived in all nightmares.

Just then, hooves thundered across the bridge into Orisima, jolting Niclays from his musings.

Soldiers.

His bowels turned to water. They were coming for him—and now the moment was at hand, he found himself light-headed rather than afraid. If today was the day, so be it. It was either this, or death at the hands of the sentinels for his gambling debts.

Saint, he prayed, let me not piss myself at the end.

The soldiers wore green tunics beneath their coats. Leading them, of course, was the Chief Officer—handsome, ever-so-good-natured Chief Officer, who refused to tell anyone in Orisima his name. He was a foot taller than Niclays and always wore full armor.

The Chief Officer dismounted and strode toward the house where Niclays lived. He was surrounded by his sentinels, and one hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

“Roos!” A gauntlet-covered fist rapped on the door. “Roos, open this door, or I will break it down!”

“There is no need to break anything, honored Chief Officer,” Muste called. “The learnèd Doctor Roos is here.”

The Chief Officer turned on his heel. His dark eyes flashed, and he walked toward them.

“Roos.”

Niclays liked to pretend that nobody had ever addressed him with such contempt, but that would be a lie. “You’re very welcome to call me Niclays, honored Chief Officer,” he said, with all the false cheer he could muster. “We’ve known each other long en—”

“Be quiet,” the Chief Officer snapped. Niclays shut his mouth. “My sentinels found the door to the landing gate open last night. A pirate ship was seen nearby. If any of you are hiding trespassers or smuggled goods, speak now, and the dragon may show mercy.”

Panaya and Muste said nothing. Niclays, meanwhile, did brief and violent battle with himself. There was nowhere for Sulyard to hide. Was it better to declare what he had done?

Before he could decide, the Chief Officer motioned to his sentinels. “Search the houses.”

Niclays held his breath.

There was a certain bird in Seiiki with a call like a babe beginning to wail. To Niclays, it had become a torturous symbol of his life in Orisima. The whimper that never quite turned into a scream. The wait for a blow that never came. As the sentinels rummaged through his house, that wretched bird took up its cry, and it was all Niclays could hear.

When they returned, the sentinels were empty-handed. “Nobody there,” one of them called.

It was all Niclays could do to stop himself sinking to his knees. The Chief Officer looked at him for a long time, his face a mask, before he marched to the next street.

And the bird kept calling. Hic-hic-hic.