Page 18 of Among the Burning Flowers
‘Do not die alone and afraid in the dark,’ Liyat said softly. ‘Leave the culling in the past. Come with me, and we will face the next fork in the path.’
The collar of her shirt had fallen open, revealing a small pewter medallion engraved with Pardic, a language older than Yscalin. The pendant that would have been a death sentence.
‘Ortégardes,’ Melaugo said, defeated. ‘For now.’
Liyat took her by the chin and kissed her. Her lips were softer than anything in the forest. Melaugo drew her close, wishing they had never left Lovers’ Cove, where Suylos landed goods. The warm and firelit cave; the secluded inlet with its white sand.
‘Collect your weapons. We’ll tell the villagers you’re leaving,’ Liyat said, ‘and stay in the room they offered me for the night. It has been too long since I slept by your side.’
Marosa
CÁRSCARO
KINGDOM OF YSCALIN
CE 1003
When Marosa was a child, many of her relatives had lived in Cárscaro. And then the lava had arrived, and Princess Viterica, her paternal aunt, had claimed the House of Vetalda should not ignore the omen. If Mount Fruma erupted, it would kill them all, ending their dynasty in a day.
King Sigoso had disagreed.You have no faith in the Saint, he had told his sister. The Knight of Courage spits on you, Viterica.
Impervious to even the holiest expectorate, Viterica had taken her children north, but often wrote to Marosa, asking her to visit. Over the years, those invitations had become a comfort, even if Marosa had no choice but to decline.
Her other relatives had gone to their own castles, mostly in the Groneyso Valley. Now she and her father were the last two in Cárscaro, and never did she feel more tense than when he called her to his side.
Ermendo escorted her to the royal apartments, which occupied the highest floors of the Palace of Salvation. Shekept her hands clasped at her waist. They no longer shook when her father called, for she knew how to survive him. All she had to do was play the clay-brained fool.
King Sigoso was hard at work in his Privy Chamber. His thick chestnut hair was shot with grey, as was his beard, which tapered to a point under his chin. A ruby pear hung from his livery collar.
As a young man, he had been known for his sharp wit, studious nature, and devotion to the Six Virtues. Later, he was praised for emulating the Saint by marrying a Southern convert.
A convert who had gone on to betray him.
Now he almost never smiled; his ring finger was unadorned. Marosa often wondered why he had never found another consort. The Arch Sanctarian would have allowed it.
Ermendo closed the door behind Marosa. She knew better than to wait for acknowledgement.
‘Your Majesty,’ she said with a curtsey.
‘Marosa.’
King Sigoso did not look up from his writing. He rarely looked at Marosa at all, for he would see his faithless queen. The resemblance was strong – Marosa had the same curved nose and lofty cheekbones, the same rich black hair – but her eyes were the proof that she was trueborn.
‘Your uncle has written to me,’ he informed her.
‘Do you speak of Lord Ussindo, Father?’
‘Your Southern uncle, Marosa. That shameless unbeliever who calls himself the King of Kings.’
That was unusual. To her knowledge, King Jantar had not written to her father in nine years.
‘I see,’ she said, feigning cool disinterest. ‘What does he want?’
‘His letter pertains to your mother.’
Her chest tightened.
‘Jantar does not believe his beloved sister died by her own hand. He seems to think I have her chained in my dungeons,’ her father said. ‘What use she would be to me down there, I have no idea, but the fool has spent nearly a decade in denial. Rather than accept what happened, he blames me for her choices. To that end, he also demands evidence of your wellbeing.’
