Page 23 of Among the Burning Flowers
At last, Marosa let him guide her away. The doors to the balcony clanged in their wake.
In less than an hour, the Great Yscali Plain was on fire to the horizon. The flowers Isalarico the Benevolent hadplanted to celebrate his marriage, all gone. By noon, there was so much smoke in Cárscaro, Marosa could no longer see a foot beyond her window.
So when the voice came – a voice like stone grinding on stone – it seemed to stem from nowhere.
‘KING OF YSCALIN,’ it said. ‘COME FORTH, OR YOUR CITY BURNS.’
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In Inys, the Virtues Council was led by the Dukes Spiritual – scions of the Holy Retinue, the six knights who had served the Saint. The monarchs of Yscalin were guided by the Grandees, the heads of the six families who held the highest titles and controlled the most land in the kingdom.
Marosa followed Ermendo down the Grand Stair, shadowed by her other guards. She could already hear the disarray in the Council Chamber.
Since his own family had quit the capital, King Sigoso had kept his Privy Council small. In total, they numbered eighteen, prized for their ability to flatter and obey. Most of them had assembled by the time Marosa reached the Council Chamber, a great round hall on the twelfth floor of the Palace of Salvation. Portraits of her ancestors hung on the sleek black walls. The heavy scarlet curtains had been drawn, so no one could see in or out.
The crowd was not only composed of the inner Privy Council. She recognised the Grandees – the pillars of government – but also several knights and ambassadors and other residents of court, all gathered around her father, who sat alone at the head of the table, his expression impenetrable, observing his advisors. He was arrayed as if for abanquet, wearing a crown of red gold. The Captain General of the Vardya stood close beside him.
When it came to religious matters, the Yscals submitted to the Queen of Inys, the voice of the Saint. In every other way, the king was lord and master. He was a riveting presence, keeping his subjects on tenterhooks. No one spoke without his permission. No one contradicted him. All eyes were usually pinned to his face, watching for any hint of displeasure.
Now it was only chaos that reigned. All courtly protocol had evaporated.
Marosa met his gaze across the room. Not once had she set foot here, in the heart of governance, where Yscalin was shaped. Her father had always stopped her. This time, he gave her a nod.
It took his nobles some time to notice her. ‘Theremustbe another way,’ Lord Alvo Sánctogan was saying, his large face turning puce. ‘We cannot send His Majesty into the jaws of a wyrm!’
‘If we do not, the entire city falls,’ argued Sir Robrecht Teldan. ‘His Majesty and the Donmata with it.’
‘You low serpent of a Ment. Do you mean for your Red Prince to supplant His Majesty?’
‘Don’t be absurd.’
Marosa surveyed the chamber. If her father was allowing this degree of disorder, it had to be for a reason. He was letting them all talk over each other, so their panic would strip away their decorum, exposing their true selves. Of course he would use their fear to his gain.
Perhaps she would follow his lead. Already she could make an intriguing observation of her own. Yscalin presently had four ambassadors in residence, but only three were present.
Wilstan Fynch was nowhere to be seen.
‘Donmata.’ The Duchess of Ortégardes was the first to address her. ‘Thank the Saint you are all right.’
She was loud enough to quieten the others. Slowly, they turned to look at Marosa.
Marosa knew them all by sight. Priessa had shown her their miniatures, but only a few had accepted her invitations to meals. From their expressions, some of them had not even realised how old she was. It had been many years since she had walked among them.
‘It is a High Western,’ she said. ‘Is it not?’
Despite her fear, her voice held strong.
‘So we fear, Donmata,’ a young man said. ‘No mere wyvern ever spoke a human tongue.’
Marosa regarded him, taking in his striking face. Lord Bartian Feyalda, the Count of Oryzon. She had played with Bartian as a child, but had only seen him from a distance for nearly a decade. He had grown tall, his features had sharpened, and he sported a fashionable beard.
He and most of the others were in their lavish bedgowns and slippers. They had clearly been here since the wyverns appeared.
‘Two were slain during the Grief,’ she said to the chamber at large. ‘Which of the other three do we face?’
There was a long and deep silence.
‘Only one would be so bold as to threaten a king,’ her father said. He spoke quietly, but everyone heard. ‘One whose first act, when he revealed himself to our ancestors, was to burn a scion of the Saint. The right wing of the Nameless One has woken from his sleep.’
