Page 28 of Among the Burning Flowers
‘Fýredel spoke to me. Now I see,’ King Sigoso said. ‘We have … been deceived, all these centuries.’
‘I don’t understand—’
‘Send out word across the world. Send every surviving bird in Cárscaro. Tell them all – every city and land – that this is no longer a kingdom chained to the legacy of Galian Berethnet, the false and wicked Saint. This is the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin, bound in worship to the Nameless One.’
He raised his head, and Marosa took a step away, almost falling into Ermendo, who steadied her.
Sigoso Vetalda, King of Yscalin, no longer had the eyes of Oderica.
They were grey as cold ash, all the way through.
Melaugo
CÁRSCARO
KINGDOM OF YSCALIN
CE 1003
Ortégardes was one of the six regional capitals of Yscalin, collectively known as the holy cities. Circled by orange and lemon groves, it lay along the Pilgrims’ Way on the banks of the River Salbon. This was where Oderica the Smith, the first Vetalda queen, had been crowned.
No place in Yscalin was more devoted to the Knight of Courtesy. Here, scribes could be hired to write eloquent letters; gifts for all occasions could be found; artists and their patrons flourished. A famous olive soap was made; pomanders were shaped and filled with scent. Entry to the public baths was cheap, for cleaning oneself was a kindness to all. At its hundreds of shrines to Dame Medwin Combe, Yscals prayed for mercy, love, and inspiration.
Melaugo was just hoping for a cup of wine, a proper bed, and no lindworms within a hundred leagues.
It had been a hard ride, leaving her more irritable by the day. When they had first reached the Salbon, she had used her last few coins from Aperio to buy a wide-brimmed hat, both to protect her scalp from the sun and conceal her faceon the road. Her parents had worn the same kind of hat while they laboured in the vineyard, though made of straw instead of cloth.
They rode past orchards of pomegranate trees in flower. Melaugo wished the fruit were on the branch. She had often indulged in pomegranate in Aperio, when she had the coin to afford it.
As they neared Ortégardes, Liyat said, ‘Harlowe never told me how you met.’
‘He’s a man of few words when he isn’t angry.’
‘Yes. In truth, he is a mystery to me, even though I have known him for some time.’
‘He sounds like someone else I know,’ Melaugo said. Liyat did not reply, and Melaugo tried to ignore the sting of guilt for her bluntness. ‘Harlowe found me in Oryzon when I was thirteen. He caught me picking his pocket. I thought he would take me to the magistrate – that I would be flogged – but instead, he paid a blacksmith to take me on as her apprentice.’
‘An apprentice fee is no small price to pay.’
‘He’s rich as a lord, as far as I can tell. Queen Rosarian liked him.’ Melaugo drank from her waterskin. ‘The blacksmith tried her best with me, but I was hard to teach. I hated the Oryzoni for their hypocrisy, their cruelty towards urchins. After several years of shirking, I lost my temper and insulted one of her best patrons, a knight. She cut me loose then, though I stayed with her until Harlowe returned. He came back every so often.’
‘Was he wroth with you?’
‘Of course. He rarely isn’t.’ She stowed the waterskin to guide her steed around a rut. ‘During my time with the blacksmith, Harlowe had discovered what happened to my parents. I told him I wanted to be a smuggler, like them.I’d met a few over my years in Oryzon – some had even paid me to act as a lookout. Harlowe could see that I wasn’t made for honest work.’
‘So he brought you to the Greenshanks.’
‘Yes.’
Liyat nodded. They had shared a bed many times, but they still knew too little about one another.
This far south, the spring wind blew hot as wyrmfire, making them both sweat. Liyat spurred her mare towards the city wall, and Melaugo followed.
They stabled their horses near the gate and slipped down to the moat, sinking up to their ankles in mud. Melaugo had tucked her plaited hair away, leaving no red strands to betray her. Once she was settled at the inn, she meant to use oak gall to darken it, so she could venture outside for short walks. They sidled through a storm drain, which smugglers used to trade in the city, and moved a grate aside, emerging in a cobbled alley.
Melaugo had visited Ortégardes before, but only at night, and not for long. By day, washed in sunlight, the City of Courtesy was a sight to behold. She had never absorbed the majesty of it – the limewashed houses, the cascades of flowers, the cypress and palm trees lining the streets. Some of its older buildings looked Southern, for they hailed from an era when there was a shared culture spanning the continent of Edin, which now survived only in the Ersyr. Liyat had told her that, one night while they lay abed, admiring one of her relics.
The crowning jewel was the Great Sanctuary of Ortégardes, the first to be raised in Yscalin. Its rainbow windows were hundreds of years old. Made of pale Vazuvan marble, with twisting white pillars flanking its doors, it was a monument to beauty, like everything in this city.
