Page 53 of Among the Burning Flowers
‘I wish I could take more pleasure in it, but no man deserves to die as he did.’
Priessa watched her pace the chamber. ‘Why else have we come here, Marosa?’
‘Lord Wilstan believes there is something in here I should see,’ Marosa said. ‘Something that … incriminates my father.’
‘In what?’
‘I do not quite know.’
They searched the sanctuary in silence, sifting through crates and heavy chests. Priessa came upon the green samite robes of a sanctarian, dark with dried blood at the collar, while Marosa found box upon box of patron brooches, ornate girdles, and pairs of spurs, confiscated from the courtiers. Children received all three when they reached the age of twelve, formally embracing the Six Virtues. When she looked up, a shape on the opposite wall gave her pause.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘What is that?’
Following her line of sight, Priessa turned to look. A large rectangular object, covered by a dusty shroud, was propped against the wall behind her. She uncovered it to reveal a portrait.
The woman in the painting had no face; it had been scoured and ripped away. The sight disturbed Marosa. Her river of black hair was still discernible, as were her pale hands, clasped in front of her. She wore a gown of blue silk in an old-fashioned Inysh style, with a square neckline, revealing a pendant shaped like a seahorse, hung from a rope of white Ersyri pearls.
‘Rosarian the Fourth,’ Marosa murmured. ‘Mother sent her that necklace for her fortieth birthday.’
‘Saint,’ Priessa said. ‘Why is her face like this?’
The late Queen Mother of Inys. It was blasphemy to damage her image.
‘Perhaps my father did it to please Fýredel,’ Marosa said. ‘The wyrm must despise the Berethnet queens. They are descendants of the Saint, the knight who vanquished his master.’
Without answering, Priessa drifted away to search the dusty shelves. After a time, she found a small coffer. ‘There are letters here,’ she said, reading one. ‘My father uses this cypher, but I do not recognise the hand.’
She took a scrap of parchment and a charcoal from her girdle. Marosa came to look over her shoulder as she converted the symbols to letters. The message was not written in Yscali, but Inysh.
Your gift has been received. It will be done on the Feast of Midwinter. Soon the sanctity of Virtudom will be restored, and a brighter age will be upon us. The Saint shall grant us places of honour at the Great Table.
Yours in courage,
Cupbearer
‘Cupbearer.’ Marosa read it again, unsettled. ‘Queen Rosarian died on the Feast of Midwinter.’
The Regency Council of Inys had called it a tragedy, but given no particulars. Priessa sat down to read the other letters.
‘There are details of some transactions and shipments,’ she said. ‘His Majesty purchased a bolt of Seiikinese watersilk from a merchant in Kantmarkt. He also granted a considerable pension to an Yscali seamstress.’ She leafed through the small pile. ‘The ink is faded. This must all have happened long before Fýredel woke, but … they are all innocent purchases.’
‘I would not be so sure,’ Marosa said. ‘My father despises the trade with the East. He craves the coin it brings to the West, but I cannot imagine him personally buying Seiikinese goods.’
‘A bolt is enough to make a fine gown.’ Priessa took the last few letters from the coffer, then reached into the bottom and held up a glass vial, as long as her finger. ‘What is this?’
‘Let me see.’
Priessa handed the vial over. The glass was thicker than any Marosa had ever seen, full of something translucent and slippery, with a yellowish tinge. She worked off the stopper with care.
A curl of steam escaped, releasing a faint, acrid smell. Sensing danger, she poured a few drops on to the corner of a table. It sizzled before it burned through the wood and dripped on to the floor.
She snapped the stopper back into the vial. A chill pierced her through as she slotted the pieces together.
She knew why Wilstan Fynch had come to Yscalin.
She knew why her mother had died.
Marosa
