A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)
A Day of Fallen Night: Part 3 – Chapter 53

Tunuva watched a waxbill fly between the giant teaks of the Lasian Basin. Her clothes still reeked of smoke.

The wyrm and its followers had not yet come. The Nameless One had stayed for many days in Yikala – not just eating its people, but poisoning the land, making the world exactly like the Womb of Fire. The creatures would feast on the bones of Carmentum.

The Priory would be at the vanguard of the opposition. Tunuva had permitted a stop only for Siyu to feed Lukiri.

No one this far north would know about Carmentum yet. To still her nerves, Tunuva took the stopper from her gourd and gave Canthe a little water. She coughed as she drank, looking for all the world like a sick child. Her skin had greyed around the lips, and though Tunuva had wrapped her in all the layers they could spare, her body would not warm.

Whatever she had used against the wyrm had been the most powerful outpouring of magic Tunuva had ever felt, save the eruption of the Dreadmount. She had not been able to summon her flame or work a warding since – not while a steely tang drifted from Canthe.

Once Lukiri had taken enough milk, they climbed on to Ninuru. The ichneumon glanced back before she stalked into the undergrowth.

Tunuva kept one arm around Canthe and her free hand on the saddle. As rain sprinkled their shoulders, she ignited a tall flame, revealing slicks of water and branches folded into archways.

She had no idea what to expect when she saw Esbar. Her stomach formed a fishers’ knot. By the time dusk hardened to the solid black of night, she felt as ill as she had in her pregnancy.

Ninuru could not see in full darkness, but her nose and ears led her. Tunuva let the flame go out and leaned against her withers. She must have drifted off, for suddenly there were smudges of stern grey sky between the trees, and Siyu was heavy against her back. When the sun once more swayed low on the horizon, the trees began to thin at last – and here was the old fig, and there its braided roots, and deep within, the door to home.

Siyu got down with Lukiri. Even on the ship they had sailed from Imulu, she had barely said a word.

‘Ninuru,’ Tunuva said, dismounting, ‘you come with me to Esbar.’

‘Lalhar.’

‘Yes. We must tell her.’ She held the furred face that had looked at her with utter loyalty since she was five. ‘I will never let anything hurt you, honeysweet. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Her eyes were steady, trusting. ‘Little sisters do not let ichneumons die.’

Even after seeing Lalhar slaughtered, she believed it. Tunuva kissed her on the nose. ‘You can eat and sleep all you want tomorrow, wyrms be damned. You were very brave.’

Ninuru wuffled her approval. Tunuva got Canthe from the saddle, pulling her arm around her neck.

She had never been so tired. The acrid stench and taste of wyrm was thick under her nails, between her teeth, in the roots of her hair. Somehow, she carried Canthe through the tunnel and up the steps, to where one of the young men was tending to an urn of roses.

‘Sister,’ he said, stunned.

‘Sulzi. Will you take Canthe to her room and bring Denag to her, please?’

‘What happened?’

‘I’m not sure I know, but tell Denag it isn’t poison.’

He marched away with Canthe in his arms. As Siyu caught up, silent and dragfooted, Imsurin came down the corridor. His hair had turned almost white since their departure.

‘Siyu, give Lukiri to me,’ he said, always calm. ‘She needs to be dry and warm.’

Siyu did as he asked. Lukiri gave a fretful whimper before Imsurin supported the back of her head, cupping her body to his heart, and took her down the steps to the men’s quarters.

‘We must go to Esbar now. To tell her what happened,’ Tunuva said to Siyu. ‘Are you ready?’

‘No, but I see no other choice.’

She was hollow-eyed. In a matter of days, she had lost the man she loved and the ichneumon she had raised for years, as well as the family that had taken her in. Tunuva wanted to comfort her, but it would have to wait. Better that she faced her punishment first.

And there would be a punishment. The loss of an ichneumon was an unspeakable thing.

The Bridal Chamber was dark, save two candles and a low-burning fire. It was rare for Esbar to light one in winter. Now she sat at her table with the flames at her back, studying a stone fragment.

Tunuva drank her in. She wanted to see her like this now, at rest, in the stillness, before her cruel tidings shattered the peace. Esbar looked up, and breathed out.

‘Tuva,’ she said.

‘Hello, lover.’

Her face softened. It hardened again when Siyu stepped into the chamber.

‘So,’ she said, putting down the fragment, ‘you have deigned to return to our ranks, Siyu.’

Siyu kept hold of her composure. ‘Tuva found me in Carmentum and asked me to come back. She said the Priory needed all the help it could muster, and I saw that it was true.’

‘You both smell of smoke. Why?’

‘Because as we speak, Carmentum is burning,’ Tunuva said. ‘Burning with wyrmfire.’

Esbar rose from her seat. Tunuva watched an archive of emotions flit across her face.

‘Tell me what happened,’ she said. ‘Tell me all of it.’

Tunuva did, from the beginning. She described the Prince of Beasts, the battle in the Liongarden.

‘You brought that family to the hunters’ attention,’ Esbar said coolly to Siyu. ‘Not only that, but you allowed your ichneumon to be captured for blood sport. Have you tended her wounds?’

Siyu shrank a little. ‘On our way out of the city,’ Tunuva said, ‘a wyrm of unspeakable strength followed us. Ninuru and Lalhar fought it to protect us both. It overpowered Lalhar.’

Esbar stared at her birthdaughter. Jeda rose from her mat by the bed, ears pricked.

‘Siyu,’ Esbar forced out. ‘Is Lalhar dead?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Siyu whispered. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. ‘I didn’t know there were people like that, who would hurt an ichneumon. I didn’t know the wyrms would come.’

‘You would have known,’ Esbar erupted, ‘if you had been with your family when I addressed them!’ Siyu cringed from her anger. ‘You would have known there were rocks hatching across the South, and that leaving without your sisters was dangerous. Perhaps then you would not have towed a baby or your poor ichneumon with you. Or perhaps you still would have.’

‘No,’ Siyu said, her voice shaking. ‘Esbar, if I’d known, I would never have taken—’

‘You used your ichneumon as a beast of burden, to indulge your absurd fantasy,’ Esbar said hotly. ‘Lalhar had no choice but to follow you. Her devotion to you was absolute, and you had a duty to treat her with the respect she deserved in return. You have disgraced the line of Siyāti. You endangered Lukiri, you may have killed Anyso’s family—’

‘You killed him,’ Siyu screamed at her. Tunuva stiffened. ‘Tuva says you didn’t, but who hated him as much as you?’

‘I didn’t hate him, Siyu, I feared him,’ Esbar shouted back. ‘I feared what his presence here might bring, as did Saghul. There is a reason the Priory exercises the greatest caution around outsiders, and now you see it plain before you. Because of your folly, your ichneumon is dead, and you came very close to losing your birthdaughter.’ Her nostrils flared. ‘I did not lay a finger on your Anyso. Saghul ordered his execution.’

‘And who carried it out?’

‘Someone who had to clean up your mess. You should not have allowed Anyso to see you in the first place,’ Esbar said, cheeks flushed. ‘Your carelessness was what killed him.’ Siyu choked back a sob. ‘The sister who carried out the order – all she did was obey the Prioress.’

Siyu let out something like a laugh. ‘So that is the way of things in the Priory. Blind submission?’

‘No, not blind. Joyful, willing obedience, given by choice.’

‘I wasn’t allowed to choose,’ Siyu said, with spite. ‘Anyso chose to bake. I never chose to be a weapon.’

‘Siyu,’ Tunuva said, hurting for them both, ‘please, sunray.’

There was a brief silence.

‘I just wanted more choice,’ Siyu said.

Esbar scoffed. ‘Did you, indeed, Queen Siyu?’

‘I thought our people had wasted centuries, all in fear of nothing.’ Siyu made the admission with courage. ‘But I choose the Priory now, Esbar. I understand why it matters.’

‘Because you would not believe until you saw.’

‘Is that so terrible?’

Esbar turned away and crossed her arms. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘now you have seen. Now you know why the Priory has prepared for all those centuries. We had no idea when the time would come, and now it is here. All those sisters were waiting for this day. For this hour.’

Tunuva waited, wishing she could comfort either of them.

‘I would not be so imprudent as to strip a trained warrior of her cloak. We need every sword,’ Esbar said. ‘But you will not have another pup until I deem you worthy once more. Until then, you can ride a horse or a camel. Perhaps you can take care of those.’

‘I don’t want another pup.’ Siyu could barely speak. ‘I want Lalhar.’

‘Lalhar is dead.’ Esbar placed a hand on her own ichneumon. ‘Jeda, tell the others.’

‘I’m sorry, Jeda. Tell them, please. I’m sorry.’

Jeda stalked from the room. Ninuru followed her in silence.

‘I’m sorry to you as well, Prioress,’ Siyu said thickly. ‘For abandoning the Mother, and for endangering the orange tree. And you, Tuva. I put you and Ninuru in danger. I am grateful you helped me see reason.’

Tunuva managed a small nod. ‘I forgive you, Siyu.’

She did not say, I forgave you everything the moment I first saw your face. Nothing that you have ever done has me love you less.

‘Since Tuva accepts your apology, I will do the same. Now you must work to earn back my trust,’ Esbar said. ‘Am I to expect you to vanish in the night a third time, Siyu uq-Nāra?’

Siyu raised her chin. ‘No, Prioress.’ A tear dripped to the floor. ‘I choose the Mother.’

‘I pray she forgives you.’

Though her lip quaked, Siyu was dignified in dismissal. She lowered her head to Esbar before leaving. Tunuva waited until she was out of earshot before she closed the door.

‘Don’t you dare,’ Esbar said, ‘tell me I was too hard on her. Both you and Nin could have died.’

‘You will hear no objection from me.’

‘Good.’

Esbar stared into the hearth. She had always been most beautiful by firelight.

‘You left,’ she said, her voice strained. ‘When your family most needed you, Tuva.’

‘You know why. You gave Siyu my name, and with it, some part of my heart.’ Tunuva stepped forward. ‘I missed you, Esbar.’

Slowly, Esbar looked at her.

‘And I missed you in this . . . haunted chamber.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Carmentum was one city. We can defend others. I will send some of the men after our sisters, to warn them of the threat. Most of them will go to Daraniya, who can station them where she sees fit. I will have to send a messenger to Kediko.’

‘Kediko will not refuse help when he knows what is coming.’

‘After that hooded threat of his, I must be certain.’ On her way to the door, Esbar stopped. ‘Will you wait for me?’

‘Always.’

Tunuva took the chair and examined what Esbar had left on the table – tablets and fragments of text from the archives, inked on to parchment or etched into clay. Since even a little damp could damage them, they were usually stored in cold and darkness. Understanding the remnants of their past could be a test of patience – Cleolind had often used both Selinyi and Old Yikalese in one sitting, the two scripts presented like oil and water.

Most of the pieces Esbar had found had been composed in archaic Ersyri by her ancestor, Siyāti uq-Nāra, the second Prioress. There were also scrolls of Pardic, a language brought across the salt plain with Selinyi.

‘I’ve been trying to find a cure.’

Tunuva glanced up. Esbar had returned to the room.

‘Siyāti had a theory,’ she continued. ‘That the Curse of Yikala – the first plague – was caused by siden.’

‘What?’

‘She believed it struck those whose first exposure came directly from a wyrm, rather than the orange tree. Instead of granting them its gifts, the magic caused anguish, like burning oil poured in the veins.’

‘Did she know how to stop it?’

‘Possibly. She believed the tree might be able to leach siden from a tormented body without turning the survivor into a mage, as the fruit does.’ Esbar leaned over her shoulder a little. ‘Look, here – she speaks of crushing and soaking its blossoms, the way she would have made rosewater. Clearly she discussed the idea with her sisters.’

Tunuva nodded slowly, reading. Esbar opened a scroll with care, revealing neat lines of Pardic.

‘Soshen records this meeting and its aftermath,’ she said. ‘The cure failed when they made it by pounding and steeping the blossoms. She proposed they distil an essence with steam.’

‘Because steam is water born from heat, and might return balance to the body.’

‘Exactly.’ Esbar pointed to one of the diagrams. ‘This is a design for the instrument they made – the still, or limbec.’

‘Do we have one?’

‘Yes, but it’s ancient and rusted. The men are making a new one of the same design. I think Siyāti and Soshen did have it right, else they would have noted their failure or destroyed these writings. I’ve charged Denag and Imin with patching their instructions together.’

‘If it works, will you share the cure beyond the Priory?’

‘Daraniya and Kediko should have it, but Soshen noted that the distillation takes some time, and many blossoms yield only a small amount of medicine. I do not see how we can share it widely. If anyone hears word of a tree that cures this plague, they will come for us.’ Esbar sat on the arm of the chair. ‘Did you see any sign of a sickness in Carmentum?’

‘None. Its people have worse things to fear, if anyone is still alive.’

‘Do you think you could sketch the creatures you saw?’

It had been a long time since Tunuva had drawn. In her twenties, she had helped decorate and restore the paintings on the walls and pillars, enjoying the attention to detail it required.

After the clearing, her love for it had disappeared. Certain shades of paint had reminded her.

‘I could try,’ she said.

Esbar took a splinter of wood from the fire and blew out the flame, leaving it charred, then rolled fresh parchment on the table. As Tunuva traced a thin black line, she saw the last picture she had drawn, of the dark happy eyes that had never stopped haunting her.

First, she breathed life into the wyrm on the sands, capturing its muscular legs, the way it held its weight on folded wings, the spikes at the end of its tail. Next she drew the serpent lioness. She lost herself in her work, calm for the first time in days, the act of recreation enwrapping her. All the while, she was aware of Esbar, warm at her side.

She blew dust from the drawings. ‘This is the large wyrm,’ she said, showing Esbar the first one. ‘And that is what attacked the Liongarden – you see, it has two legs, not four, and it’s smaller. Finally, a melding of serpent and lion. I suspect it hatched from one of the dark rocks.’

‘How did you escape the large wyrm?’

‘Canthe used magic against it.’

Esbar tensed. ‘I thought Canthe had no magic. That her siden had burned out long ago.’

‘It was not siden. Esbar, she has another power, like nothing I have ever seen or felt. She gave out cold white light, as if she had become a star. Every wyrm fled from it.’

‘Where is she?’

‘With the men. She was unconscious for most of the journey home, so I could not ask her more.’

Esbar returned the sketches to the table. ‘Saghul told me to make her a postulant,’ she said. ‘I want to follow her wishes, but this casts the matter into doubt again, in my mind.’

‘You said we need every sister,’ Tunuva reminded her. ‘After Carmentum, that is truer than ever.’ When Esbar stood, so did she. ‘Ez, I just watched a republic crumble in a day. Surely we can’t squander a warrior who can wield such a force.’

‘I think it far more foolish to trust her with the fruit, giving her twice as much power as she already has. Besides, if this magic has such a ruinous influence on wyrms, it may weaken us as well.’ Esbar raised her eyebrows. ‘Did you feel it, when she used that power?’

‘Yes,’ Tunuva admitted. ‘My flame was very weak for the next hour.’

‘Then you understand the risks I have to weigh. She may help us fight the wyrms, but at what cost?’ Esbar said, her gaze flinty. ‘What if she were to turn that power against us?’

‘Why would she?’ Tunuva asked her. ‘Esbar, I understand your fear, but this is a fellow mage, with nothing in the world left to her name. She lost her tree, her family – everything she ever had. We are her chance to belong again. She has no reason to betray us.’

‘Her family,’ Esbar said. Tunuva nodded once. ‘You must have grown close to her on the road.’

‘I learned more about her,’ Tunuva agreed. ‘I know it’s too soon to give her the fruit. I only think you should do as Saghul requested, and make her a postulant. She would still have to prove herself worthy of the tree – but give her a place here. Give her a chance.’

Esbar looked at the fire, her jaw working.

‘Canthe may remain here as our guest,’ she said at last, ‘but I still trust my instincts, Tuva. Something tells me not to let her into our ranks. I mislike the way she appeared out of nowhere. I mislike what you tell me of this other magic. How can I make a sister of a woman I don’t trust?’

‘If not for her, I might not be standing here—’

‘Perhaps you should not stand here, then, Tunuva Melim,’ Esbar snapped. ‘In fact, if you are so grateful to Canthe of Nurtha, why not go to her chamber instead?’

A terrible silence rang.

‘Don’t,’ Tunuva said quietly, a hot stone in her throat. ‘Don’t ever speak that way, Esbar.’

Esbar looked shaken by her own words. ‘I’m sorry, Tuva. I was—’ She held herself tighter. ‘No. I will not make excuses for it.’

‘Explain it, then.’ Tunuva went to her. ‘Esbar, it’s us.’

‘I have not slept well.’ Esbar braced a hand on the table. ‘What is happening to us, Tuva?’

Tunuva could bear it no longer. She closed the space between them and kissed Esbar with as much resolve as she had on that first day in the desert, thirty years before. A lifetime. No time.

Esbar came to life in her arms. She kissed back with frustration and love, whispering her name. Breathing hard, they stripped each other, not waiting to reach the bed. Their hands trembled in a way they never had since they were young and hungry, clumsy with desperation.

Tunuva pressed Esbar to the wall. She pulled at the sash of her brocade robe, and Esbar wrestled with her tunic in return, opening it to her waist, pressing kisses to each breast. Tilting her head back, Tunuva savoured the feel of those lips on her burning skin. Her clothes were travelstained and she was clammy from the rain, but Esbar had never cared.

They knocked a platter to the floor and fell in a tangle to the bed. Tunuva mounted Esbar, so they faced one another, and looked her in the eyes. When they kissed, it was sure and deep, and the more she had, the more Tunuva wanted.

Esbar drew her nails all the way down her spine. Tunuva groaned at the flare of smarting pleasure, the fire-tipped arrow it sent to her depths. While Esbar nipped at her ear, her jaw, Tunuva grasped her hair in answer, needing to hold all of her, draw this woman close enough to knit the sinew of their souls. She wanted to make love, slow and tender, and she wanted to be seized in passion – two sacred wants, as pressing as thirst, as radiant as the fruit. Though war had come for them at last, there was still this. There would always be this.

She lowered Esbar to the bed and kissed the rippling scars on her hip. Esbar wrapped a leg around her. Their lips met, each kiss hot and urgent. Esbar sighed a soft ‘yes’ as Tunuva stroked a hand between her thighs, stowing her fingertips there, in the warmth of her.

She was sleek as a river. Tunuva found the sweet place where she most loved to be touched. Esbar arched her hips, and Tunuva slid deeper, their noses brushing as they closened.

‘Are you trembling?’

‘I fear so.’ Esbar laughed a little. ‘Feel my heart. Like the first time.’ She took Tunuva by the hand not working in her, clasping it to her breast. ‘Here, and all the way through me.’

Tunuva kissed the hollow of her throat. ‘We have so many years, Esbar uq-Nāra,’ she whispered. ‘Let me remind you how slow I can be.’

Esbar took her by the nape. ‘Don’t leave me again,’ she breathed. ‘You steady me, lover.’

Tunuva shook her head, smiling. ‘Who else but you would keep me in the sun?’

****

She slept deeply, without the dreams that had troubled her for months. Her body was sore and leaden from so long on foot and in the saddle, her mind weary from days without rest.

Only once, in the deep of the night, did she wake. Esbar, usually too hot, had turned cold as a corpse.

‘Ez.’

Esbar made a quiet sound in her throat. Tunuva gathered the bedding around her shoulders and wrapped a tight embrace across her chest, giving her all the warmth she could spare.

When she woke again, the sky was overcast. Ninuru slept at the foot of the bed, while Esbar was gone. For a long while, Tunuva lay where she was, heavy and content, smelling roses on the pillow.

It would take more than one night to heal the wound of her departure, but even when she and Esbar fought, it was with love. They would survive. They always had, and always would.

Esbar had left her robe over the bedpost. Rubbing her eyes, Tunuva sat up and drew it on. The sleeves were a shade too short.

‘Honeysweet,’ she whispered. Ninuru cracked one eye open. ‘Do you need anything?’

The ichneumon raised her head and gave Tunuva the same look she had often used when she was a pup, her black eyes shining, a sweet twitch in her nose. Tunuva chuckled.

‘All right.’ She scratched at the base of her left ear, making her purr. ‘Since you were so brave.’

Ninuru licked her wrist, then laid her head on the floor and dropped straight back to sleep. Her body was flung out like a great fur rug, forcing Tunuva to step over her.

She found Esbar in the hot spring. ‘There you are,’ Tunuva said. ‘I thought you might have left.’

‘Not yet.’ Esbar sank up to her neck. ‘I have a chill. A reprieve from the wretched sweats, at least.’

Tunuva stepped into the water. It had been some time since it boiled, but they stayed close to the edge. She slid up to Esbar, who gathered her close and kissed her on the lips, soft as a whisper.

They helped each other wash. Esbar touched the shallow marks she had left, and Tunuva brushed her swollen lip.

‘Tuva,’ she said, ‘I am afraid.’

‘I am, too.’ Tunuva pressed their brows together. ‘Five hundred and eleven years. All those sisters who came before us, who lived and died without seeing the war they knew was coming – we must realise their destinies as well as ours. We must win against an evil that does not hear reason, and you must lead us.’ Esbar nodded. ‘But the Mother defeated the Nameless One. Now her cloak is yours. You were born to be her successor.’

Esbar linked their fingers. ‘I ride tonight for the Ersyr, to tell Queen Daraniya what comes next. The men will leave sooner with supplies.’

What came next would be evacuating the most vulnerable people of the Ersyr to the mountains and caves, the mines and catacombs and quarries, and readying the rest for fire to rain down from on high. ‘Nin needs to recover,’ Tunuva said. ‘We’ll join you in a day or two.’

‘Take three, if you need. She deserves a long sleep.’

They stayed in the water for some time, cleaving to this moment of peace, this last silence. At last, Tunuva said, ‘I promised her some cream. I always told you they had cat in them.’

Esbar smiled, and for a moment, she was her old self. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I never thought I would be fortunate enough to confront our enemy with such a woman as you at my side.’

‘We face the world together.’ Tunuva kissed her, sealing the promise. ‘Be safe, my love.’

****

She went to the scullery for the cream. Only two men were left in there – the rest were already leaving the Priory in regimented groups, clad in layers for the desert, carrying saddlebags of arrows, dry food, clothing and armour, among other provisions.

Once Ninuru had her cream, Tunuva descended to the men’s quarters, where she found Imsurin in a riding coat, checking on the younger children. Lukiri was sound asleep in her cradle.

‘Imin.’ Tunuva joined him. ‘I just wanted to wish you luck. I’ll be two or three days behind you.’

‘Thank you, Tuva.’ Imsurin straightened. ‘Esbar says the war is here at last. That it began in Carmentum.’

‘I saw it with my own eyes.’

He nodded, looking wearier than ever. ‘Terrible as our enemy is,’ he said, ‘I am honoured that I lived to help this generation of sisters, who will fight as the Mother did. We men will be there to support you, as our forefathers promised Siyāti uq-Nāra.’ An Ersyri saddle axe hung from his belt, a weapon the men studied for defence. ‘Are you ready, Tuva?’

‘To embrace my destiny?’ Tunuva said. ‘Oh, yes. Part of me wishes the call had come when I was younger, with fewer aches, but I am also glad that we knew peace, for a time. That we lived in the Priory when it was a dreamers’ garden, and not just a fortress.’

‘Yes. A precious gift.’

They both looked down at Lukiri. Tunuva grasped his hand. He had fathered the child she loved. Siyu was Esbar, but she was also Imsurin. Her gentler side had come from him.

‘Is Canthe here?’ she asked him at last.

‘Yes, in the room beside Siyu. The eldest men will remain here to take care of the children.’ He pressed her hand tight. ‘See you soon, Tuva. May the Mother watch over you.’

‘And you, Imin.’

He walked out. Tunuva bent to kiss Lukiri on the cheek before she went to the right door.

Canthe lay in a small room, her bare shoulders protruding from the heavy mantles that had been tucked around her. Her bed had been pushed close to the hearth, and her eyes were closed, lashes flickering in her sleep. A hint of warmth had returned to her cheeks.

Tunuva was about to leave when Canthe murmured, ‘Sabran.’ She shifted, and her eyes opened. ‘Oh. Is that you, Tuva?’

‘Canthe.’ Tunuva sat at her bedside. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Weary.’ She sat up a little, drawing the covers over her breasts. ‘How long have I been asleep?’

‘Since Carmentum. Do you remember what happened?’

‘I think so. Most of it, in any case.’ She glanced at her own hands. ‘Is it cold in here?’

‘Not especially.’ Tunuva poured some straw wine into a cup and handed it to her. ‘You just called out for Sabran in your sleep. I assume you didn’t mean the Queen of Inys.’

‘That name is older than the House of Berethnet.’ Canthe gazed into the cup. ‘Sabran was my daughter. I named her for the sabra flower that grows beside Ungulus.’

She sipped the wine. ‘I named my birthson for the stars,’ Tunuva said, before she had given her tongue leave to say it. ‘They were bright as oil lamps, the night he was born.’

‘In Inys, they say a night-born child is always grave.’

‘Oh, no. He was so happy,’ Tunuva said, a world away. ‘Even as a newborn, he was always smiling.’ She took the cup from Canthe. ‘I must set out for the Ersyr soon. The war has begun.’

‘It will not be a war, but a slaughter,’ Canthe said. ‘That creature resembled the Nameless One, and no arrow could pierce him. No sword but one could break his hide.’

‘Ascalun.’

‘It has had many names.’

‘Do you know what became of it?’

‘No one does. Whatever Galian Berethnet did with it, he took the secret to his tomb.’ Canthe glanced at her. ‘You want to know what I did to the wyrm.’

‘Yes.’

Canthe looked away. ‘I entrust this secret to you alone, Tunuva,’ she finally said. ‘I hope you will not fear my knowledge.’

‘I am difficult to scare.’

‘Siden is the magic of the deep earth, from the Womb of Fire. My other magic stems from above.’

‘From . . . the sky?’

‘Yes. Our world is a pendulum, moving between two equal and opposite powers. The white light I summoned – I call it sterren, the obverse of siden. It is cold instead of hot, and flows like water. It waxes with the coming of a comet named the Long-Haired Star.’

Tunuva felt a shiver along her back. Nothing in the archives had ever spoken of this.

‘That is why it hurt the wyrm,’ she said. ‘Why it weakened me, too.’

‘Yes. I called forth the magic of starlight, as I could once call fire.’

‘Could you do it again?’

‘I doubt it. As you see, it drains me. My stores are dangerously low, and I have no way to replenish them. Only the comet can do that.’ Canthe looked bleak. ‘I’m so sorry, Tuva. I had only one good weapon to offer the Priory, and I have exhausted it.’

‘Do not apologise. Fifty years of training, and I was unprepared for the strength of that wyrm. You saved us.’ Tunuva covered her hand. ‘I am leaving now for Jrhanyam, to support Queen Daraniya. Is there anything I can do for you, before I go?’

‘No, but I think I may be able to help you. Our visit to the valley reminded me of something,’ Canthe said. ‘The spear Esbar possesses – did it really belong to Suttu the Dreamer?’

‘As far as we know, yes. Cleolind took it from her father, Selinu. It was all she claimed of her birthright.’

‘Suttu dipped her spear in starlight, according to myth. I wonder if she knew the secrets of sterren, as I do. A weapon infused with that magic could do grievous harm to a wyrm.’

Tunuva slowly nodded. ‘It’s worth a try. I will take it with me.’

‘I hope it works.’ Canthe hesitated. ‘Did you tell Esbar what you saw me do?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she mistrusts it,’ Canthe said. ‘She fears me.’ Tunuva said nothing. ‘It’s all right. It’s natural that the Prioress should be wary when she has so many people to protect, and I can’t regret showing that power, if it saved you. You are my friend, Tuva. My first in so long.’

‘And you are mine. Esbar must be cautious, but I believe she will come to trust you, in time.’ Tunuva got to her feet. ‘If you feel strong enough to join us in the Ersyr, the men staying behind will point you to a horse.’

‘I can’t fight, Tuva. I would be no use.’

‘You could help get people to safety, but it is your choice. For now, I will let you sleep.’

She had almost crossed the threshold when Canthe said, ‘Tuva, there is something else you should know.’

‘What is it?’

Canthe seemed to weigh her words, her eyes like two deep pools.

‘Perhaps I should have told you sooner. It took me some time to put the pieces together,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to raise your hopes, Tuva. Now I feel I must.’

‘I am listening.’

‘Over the years, I have travelled far, but Inys always called me home sooner or later. Last time I returned, I bided in a northern province called the Lakes. There is a forest there, wild and dark and beautiful, that crosses the whole island, shore to shore. A place feared without cause. They call it the haithwood, and as the story went, a witch dwelled in it.’

Tunuva returned to her bedside and nodded for her to continue.

‘Until a few years ago, I lived on a small piece of land near that wood, working as a healer,’ Canthe said. ‘The province was overseen by a nobleman named Edrick Glenn. He was always respectable and fair, never involved in scandal – so it did catch my attention when rumour swirled around his family.

‘I first heard it at the market in Wulstow. It was common knowledge that Lord Edrick had adopted his sister’s two children, but now he apparently had a third. The birth had never been announced. Most guessed this child was also adopted, and that was nothing unusual. The Inysh claim to value generosity, and what better way to show it than to take in a poor foundling?

‘But within a few years, there was less generous talk in town, from a cook who had once worked for Lord Edrick. She was telling everyone who would listen that this boy – a foundling – had been abandoned in the haithwood, and that he had strange powers. He seemed not to feel the cold. He never sickened, cried often, and spoke a heathen tongue. People said the boy had the mark of a witching.’ When Tunuva shook her head, Canthe said, ‘An old superstition. A witch, or one cursed by a witch, bears a mark, which makes them easier to hunt.’

‘Such as?’

‘It could be a physical sign – a birthmark, a scar – or a suspicious power. As I said, some Inysh think a witch dwells in the haithwood. People had no real proof, so they traded in rumour. They wondered if this boy was hers, or marked by her, and shunned him. Lord Edrick did his best to protect him, but the mistrustful whispers followed.

‘I visited the estate some time later, to discuss the forest law with Lord Edrick. It was a hot summer day, so he had the windows of his study flung open – and I chanced to see him, the Child of the Woods, playing with his brother and sister. He still had no idea what people said of him beyond those walls.

‘As I spoke with Lord Edrick, we heard a cry. A queen bee had flown past the children. The child was sobbing in panic, hands over his ears. Lord Edrick said he must go to him; that he would not sleep that night. His younger son had always been so terribly afraid of bees.’

The smell of honey, welling with the memory of it. ‘When was this?’

‘Twelve years ago.’

As long in the world as he was in the womb. Tunuva could feel a vast thing cresting in her body, too big for her ribs to contain. ‘Canthe,’ she said, ‘why have you told me this story?’

‘Because the longer I’ve spent with you, the longer I’ve felt I’d seen you before. It’s been twelve years, but finally, I remember where. The Child of the Woods did not look like Lord Edrick. His face did hold something of you.’

Tunuva felt all the careful stitches unravel, a stitch for every breath she had taken since that day. She pressed her fist low to her belly.

‘What was his name?’ Her voice came out in a raw scrape. ‘The Child of the Woods.’

‘Wulfert,’ Canthe said. ‘His name is Wulfert Glenn.’

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