Page 75 of Among the Burning Flowers
Fynch had never touched her father.
In that moment, Marosa considered forging on, even without the sickness. She considered making the journey to her uncle, carrying a box that could mean and contain nothing.
Then she saw two skeletons, farther ahead, strung up on a cliff. Like some dire warning.
Ruzio and Bartian had got no farther than Fynch.
Her stomach heaved, just as a strange hiss stiffened the hairs on her neck. She froze in place. To her right, a monstrous creature was emerging from a crack in the pass, its tongue flickering.
Its thick legless body led up to a head like that of a snake. A pair of leathern wings unfolded, and it bared a pair of terrible fangs, each slick with the blood of the Dowager Prince of Inys.
Marosa almost fainted in fear. She maintained her clarity just long enough to reach into the pouch Fynch had been carrying. Inside was the posy ring. Her last reminder of Aubrecht.
She jammed it on to her finger. The amphiptere slithered towards her, and she ran, almost stumbling in the snow. Even when she reached the cave, she kept running. Behind her, the amphiptere screeched in fury as she snatched up the box and clutched it to her chest.
At last, she reached the steps to the palace, where she buckled. Everyone who had tried to take the Pass of the Imperator was dead. If Aubrecht had sent anyone to save her, they would have long since perished. She did not even know what lay inside the box, or how to open it.
Her sobs echoed through the darkness, unheard.
Your Majesty, I scarce know how to describe the misfortune that has befallen Yscalin, nor my anguish as I choose the words to convey it to you.
A second Grief of Ages is upon us. Fýredel, that cunning old foe, has woken in Mount Fruma. Glorian Shieldheart defied him upon Cenning Moor; I pray you will exhibit the same courage and aid my people as best you may. As I write, they face the mighty wrath and vengeance of his wyverns.
Cárscaro was lost in hours. Our mountain city was a prison once; so it has become again. Alas that we did not foresee the enemy within. I cannot escape, nor resist Fýredel, with thousands of innocent souls held to ransom – but no matter the lies my father has sent, Yscalin remains faithful.
I pray that Ambassador Fynch will survive his journey across the Spindles; that your father, gentle as he is, will inform you of the grave evil that mine did in these very halls. It seems our shared grief in the loss of our mothers had only one root, and his blood is my own. I would question how to live with the knowledge, but I doubt that I will survive for much longer, though I will fight as long as I may.
Should any of my family escape this new Draconic kingdom, I ask you to grant them shelter and kindness.
Know that I was loyal to the end.
Yours in everlasting faith,
Marosa Taumargam Vetalda, Donmata of Yscalin, Crown Princess of the Ersyr
Marosa
CÁRSCARO
DRACONIC KINGDOM OF YSCALIN
CE 1005
Priessa Yelarigas stepped into the Privy Chamber. Beside an open window, Marosa Vetalda sipped from what might be the last cup of perry she would taste in her life. The red pears had died, defeated by the foul air on the streets, worsened by the wyverns’ breath and the Draconic plague.
For the first time in two years, there were newcomers in Cárscaro.
Lord Gastaldo made the announcement to the court first. On the orders of Fýredel, the capital was now admitting any person who wished to serve the Draconic Army of their own free will, though they could never again leave Yscalin, except with royal permission. Fýredel had allowed him to send a consignment of letters by coach, inviting all of humankind to join the House of Vetalda in worship of the Nameless One. A post road had been opened from Cárscaro to the northern coast, where ships would be permitted to bear them elsewhere.
Marosa wished Lord Gastaldo could have used a cypher to conceal other messages in the letters, but her father stillread every one, both with and without the embers in his eyes. Not only that, but jaculi and cockatrices pulled the coaches.
She had not expected anyone to answer the summons. Instead, the population of Cárscaro had swelled to sixty thousand.
Perhaps it ought not to have shocked her so deeply. In recent months, several Draconic sects had sprung up throughout Yscalin, including the Cult of the Iron King, which worshipped Fýredel as a primordial god. They wore red and black to mirror his armour – a fashion that had quickly spread across the capital. A temple was being raised where the Great Sanctuary of Cárscaro had once stood, built in the Gulthaganian style, with columns and enormous hearths.
Marosa wanted to ask the cultists if they had always reviled the Saint, or if their outward devotion was only a means of surviving their new circumstances. Either way, they were overtaking her city. Now it would be even harder for the faithful to fight back.
‘My father asked me to tell you,’ Priessa said. ‘Aubrecht Lievelyn has broken your betrothal.’
