A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)
A Day of Fallen Night: Part 3 – Chapter 72

Once more the sun had darkened in the eastern sky. Standing at the window to her bedchamber, Glorian gazed at it, wrapped in her mantle. The Dreadmount must be smoking.

Perhaps it was the sight of it that twisted her insides yet again. As she heaved over her chamberpot, Helisent rushed to her and held back her hair. When Glorian had spat out the last of it, Helisent locked a hand over hers, over her womb and the green shoot within it.

When her blood failed to appear a second time, she had known. Her grandmother had advised her to wait until at least the third month before sharing the news with the Regency Council. She would be further along than they knew.

On the surface, her body was unchanged. Newness surged within. She was exhausted. Her teeth hurt to their roots. All she could imagine was the sort of world her successor would inherit, dead and scorched and grey.

There was another grief, for herself. Her father had fought so hard for her to have a childhood, and here she was, at seventeen, a new Berethnet in her belly.

Papa, you tried.

Helisent took her to the only bath in the castle, where Julain and Adela were waiting. ‘Is he kind to you, Glorian?’ the latter said as they rinsed her hair. ‘Prince Guma. He’s so old and stern.’

‘Hush, Adela.’ Helisent collected the linen. ‘Glorian had little choice. Things are as they are.’

‘Why are you not upset by this, Helly?’ Adela demanded. ‘And you, Jules – doesn’t it trouble you?’

‘Adeliza.’ Glorian caught her hand. ‘You and I are milk sisters. We must trust one another, always,’ she said gently, ‘so you must believe me when I say it’s all right. I have everything under control.’

Adela frowned in confusion, tears in her soft brown eyes. Glorian pressed her hand.

In the solar, she picked at her supper, willing herself not to be sick again, and waited for her hair to dry. It seemed heavier on her back. When a knock came at the door, Helisent let Marian in.

‘Glorian,’ her grandmother said with a sigh. ‘Forgive me, child. It seems I am condemned to be a bearer of bad news.’ Glorian stood. ‘I have yet to establish how, but Robart Eller escaped Glowan Castle. A forester found his body in the haithwood, hanged from the branch of a yew, drained of blood. From what they could tell, he cut his own throat.’

‘Saint save us,’ Julain murmured. ‘What sort of madness could have seized his mind?’

Glorian quelled an absurd twinge of sorrow. He had seemed kind, all that time he was plotting.

‘We will tell Prince Guma that it was the plague,’ she said. ‘The Ellers may choose what to do with the body. I suppose he would not have wanted to enter Halgalant, so we need say no prayers for his soul on its journey. I do not know where heathens go when they die.’

****

Inys seemed too still. Too quiet. A queendom with its breath held and its eyes for ever on the sky. As the days wore on, heat enclosed it in a clammy fist. Tempers flared in the city; a riot in the market square, another in a line for bread. A baker was accused of using bone instead of flour.

Glorian could not sleep, so she paced. She was sick, and her chest burned. When she woke, she could never remember her dreams, though she was sometimes filmed with ice. Robart Eller haunted her. His family had chosen to burn his body, to bolster the lie that he had died of the plague.

Your ancestor was not a hero. His words gnawed at her mind. You do not need to bear the fruit of his eternal vine. It is a lie, meant to perpetuate his legacy, no more. Still those words refused to leave her.

The next time she was sick, threads of hair clung to her tears and her mouth. As soon as they knew she was pregnant, the Regency Council would lock her away from the world. When she could stand, she picked up the mirror her mother had given her, and panic gripped her with such force that she almost retched again. Her face was the truth. Her face was her crown.

Her supper had gone cold. She took the knife in one hand and grasped a lock of hair with the other – her black hair, one aspect of the Saint’s Marvel. The hair of a Berethnet queen.

All her life she had worn it to her waist. She pulled the knife through the gathering of strands, watched her hair drift to the floor, and the world did not end. All lay quiet. Now exhilaration stole her fear. She cut and cut, wrenching the blade through all that heavy darkness, and the more she hacked away, the lighter her breathing. This small thing, she could still control. Her womb was not her own – but her hair, surely that could still be hers, surely.

By the time the first bell clanged, she was slumped on the floor, surrounded by tufts and reels of black, her hair scruffy around her face. Florell came straight in.

‘Glorian—’ She stared down at the floor, the knife. ‘Sweeting, why have you done this?’

‘To remind me that I am still mine.’ Glorian looked at her. ‘Tell the Regency Council it’s time.’

****

They had been packed for weeks. In the gloom, Helisent and Adela helped with her armour. On the streets, torchbearers flocked out to guide the people to Hyll Sanctuary. Many wept and protested and tried to fight their way ahead, too fear-stricken to keep their retreat calm. Others waited with grim acceptance for their turn to descend into the mining tunnel.

Glorian watched the sanctuary devour one candle after the next, then scores at once. She buckled on her scabbard and sheathed her sword. Finally, Lady Gladwin arrived.

‘Your Grace,’ she said, ‘I bid you come with me at once. The wyrms will be upon us soon.’

The Regency Council and some of the other nobles formed a restless gathering in the courtyard, where Sir Granham Dale stood ready to lead them to the tunnel. Prince Guma was among them, armoured in mail and a breastplate, a gold circlet above his brows. Glorian wore hers, too, thanks to Marian reminding her of its importance at the last.

‘Are you well, Your Grace?’ he said in his usual steely tones, speaking over the bells.

‘Yes, Your Highness. Thank you.’

‘I heard what happened to Lord Robart,’ he said, keeping pace with her. ‘Perhaps he is fortunate. He sleeps peacefully tonight, while we must face the fire of the Dreadmount.’

‘That fire was in his blood. I do not envy him.’

The castellan led them into Hyll Sanctuary. In the undercroft, he ushered them down a steep set of steps, which led into the base of the hill. From there, they strode through the utter blackness of the escape tunnel, where the air was thick as unwashed wool. Dry stonework lined its battered walls, where the Inyscans had burrowed through the earth.

Sir Granham went at the front with a torch. All the way, Glorian expected the ancient tunnel to collapse and bury them, but its walls held fast. The miners had worked hard to strengthen it.

It was two miles’ walk to Stathalstan Knott. By the time they reached it, Marian was weak with exertion, and even Prince Guma could no longer hide his fatigue. Some of his Yscali guards slowed to wait for him. Keeping hold of her grandmother, Glorian stepped into the first tall cavern, taking in the limestone that had lengthened into long knives overhead.

It smelled of tallow and livestock. She was already sweating under her mail and gambeson. City guards and Yscali soldiers were shepherding people into the deeper caverns, but some had clustered near the entrance to wait for their loved ones, either in small groups or alone. Glorian watched them from under her hood. Somewhere in the dark, chickens fluttered, and cows lowed their disquiet, while conversations joined into a hum. Bourn knelt beside an unattended child, who had skinned her knee and wept pitifully.

‘This was a better choice than trying to fight,’ Helisent said under her breath to Glorian. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

‘My heart is Hróthi,’ Glorian replied, ‘but my wits are more Inysh, I think.’

‘The Saint is merciful.’

‘I only hope my cousin relents and sends his people to safety. There are no caves near Eldyng, but—’

‘Queen Glorian.’ Lade Edith appeared from the shadows. ‘Welcome to Stathalstan.’ They bowed. ‘We’ve prepared a cavern for you and your ladies.’

‘Thank you, my lade. Does all go to plan?’

‘So far, thank the Saint,’ they said, glancing at the tunnel. ‘Now everyone is here, I will order the undercroft sealed. We do not want any creatures following our scent.’

‘No one was left behind?’

‘No one. The guards were thorough.’

‘Good.’

Glorian heard a short gasp. The nearest people had realised who she was. She watched them, just as they watched her – searching for any trace of anger or hatred in the haunted eyes that reflected the candlelight, like that in the man who had wanted to kill her.

But none of them moved; none of them spoke. They were waiting to be addressed.

‘Do not be afraid. The Knight of Courage is with you,’ Glorian said. ‘We are as safe in here as we can be. Together, I believe we will survive what lies ahead, as my ancestor survived, against all odds, on the red sands of Lasia. Trust now in the Saint, who watches us in darkness.’

Her voice was so much louder in the cave. So were their voices as they echoed: ‘Who watches us in darkness.’

Glorian nodded to them all. Only then did she follow Lade Edith away from the whispers, up a creaking set of steps the miners must have raised. The caves grew colder by the step.

Lade Edith had tasked their personal servants with escorting the nobles. When Glorian was shown to her makeshift chamber, the relief was immense. Her cave was warm and silent, lit by fine wax candles that burned without the smell of tallow – a mercy for her unsettled insides.

‘Sir Bramel will be just outside,’ Lade Edith told her. ‘If you will excuse me, I must see to the people.’

‘Thank you, my lade. You have gone far beyond the duties of the Duchet of Courtesy.’

When Lade Edith had gone, Glorian sank on to the bed. Her grandmother had the next cave, with Mara Glenn to attend her.

‘Adela,’ Glorian said, ‘will you try to replace me some warm milk and honey?’

‘Yes.’ Adela looked at the dark way out and swallowed. ‘May I take a candle?’

‘Of course you may.’

Julain watched her leave. ‘You’ll have to tell her,’ she said to Glorian. ‘When you start to show.’

‘Adela knows nothing of childing. She won’t be able to tell I’m further along.’ Glorian unlaced her boots. ‘This is already too much for her.’

Once her ladies had extracted her from her mail, Marian came in to sit beside her on the bed. ‘How is the sickness?’ she said, feeling her brow and cheeks, tucking her short hair behind her ear. ‘Ah, yes, this is practical for war. You look just like your namesake.’

Glorian managed a smile. ‘The sickness is the same. My teeth ache,’ she said. ‘Saint, all of me aches.’

‘It is hard, but it will ease. I remember how it was with Sabran. Around the fourth month, I felt stronger.’

Julain said, ‘Does Wulf know?’

‘I sent him a message, of sorts.’ Glorian glanced at the mouth of the cave. ‘It’s Fýredel that flies this night. I know it in my ribs.’

‘He will replace nothing in Arondine.’ Helisent sat on her other side. ‘Thanks to you and the miners.’

‘But he will not stop.’ The candles flickered. ‘Death comes for Inys.’

Marian stroked her hair. ‘You must stay as calm as you can, Glorian. For the child.’

Adela hurried back with fresh milk and a pot of broth. Glorian drank, then let her grandmother tuck her in, as if she were still a small child. There could be no fires in such a cave, so her ladies crowded into the bed, for warmth – all three of them, their arms around each other, around her. One of the mousers found them, too, and joined the pile of limbs. Adela tucked the mewing bundle of fur against her chest and fell asleep.

For the first time in days, Glorian felt safe. They will hold you as well, she told her belly. You will never be alone, even if the world is bleak.

Her body was exhausted, but her mind refused to quiet. She dared not reach for her mirror sister – her ladies would feel the chill on her skin. At length, she rose, careful not to wake them, and walked to where Sir Bramel Stathworth was on guard. He blinked at the sight of her.

‘Sir Bramel,’ she said, ‘will you take me to the lookout?’

With a torch in hand, he strode through the tunnels, where the rock seemed to keep narrowing. He helped her reach the uneven inclines, leading her to where the caves rose into the knott itself.

They emerged through a crack in the stone, replaceing Lady Gladwin alone on a hillside nook, exposed to the elements, tending a small fire. It seemed like the only light in the world.

‘Who is that?’ she said sharply.

‘Only me, Lady Gladwin.’ Glorian stepped into the light. ‘If you’ll forgive the intrusion.’

‘Queen Glorian.’ Lady Gladwin recovered. ‘You should stay below ground.’

‘I must see.’

Glorian stood by the brazier and gazed towards Arondine. The bells had stopped – the ringers had been last to flee – and every torch had been put out, the better to keep it from the wyrms’ sight. The night was black as the inside of a blindfold.

They waited. A breeze whipped at her hair, and she nestled into the mantle, shivering.

She somehow felt the wyrms before they came. A warning prickle at her senses. When their wings could finally be heard, Lady Gladwin went straight to the brazier and folded cold ashes over the hot, plunging them into absolute darkness. Glorian closed her eyes, listening to the rush, rush, rush. This must have been the sound her parents heard before the end.

Fýredel might not see the city. She opened her eyes, replaceing that she remained blind, and too aware of her own blood.

Fire tore the night asunder.

Glorian sat in silence, rooted to the rock. She watched as Arondine was swallowed into a red furnace, high enough to singe Halgalant. By its light, she could just make out wings. Each primal scream raked her spine. As buildings bowed and thatch burst into flame, she prayed no one below could hear, that the rock was thick enough to keep her people deaf to it.

She watched until dawn peeled open like a wound, to bleed its light across the sky.

When the smoke cleared, Fýredel was enthroned on Hyll Sanctuary. He looked towards the knott, and Glorian could have sworn those eyes met hers. His fiery throat opened, like the gate to the Womb of Fire itself.

‘So,’ Glorian said softly, ‘here you are, wyrm.’