Page 2 of Among the Burning Flowers
A wyrm that had never been slain.
Ermendo opened a door, and Marosa stepped on to the crescent balcony. She walked towards its balustrade and looked upon the capital of Yscalin.
Cárscaro was often called the High City. No settlement on the continent held a stronger defensive position. Built on a great cliff that shouldered out from the Spindles, it had those snow-capped mountains at its back, like a rear guard, and the Great Yscali Plain before it. The lavender there was already in bloom, mantling the land in purple all the way to the horizon.
‘It looks to be a fine day,’ Ermendo said. ‘Queen Sahar would have wanted to spend it on the plain.’
Marosa gave the barest nod. They had both often gone to the plain with her mother, who had preferred it to the city. Some Cárscari braved the descent, usually to ride or hunt, but none held court among the flowers quite like Queen Sahar.
Along with favourites and other guests, her Ladies of the Bedchamber had often joined her outings: Sennera Yelarigas, Denarva uq-Bardant, Aryete Feyalda. They would eat in the shade – spiced red sausage, cheese and grapes – and talk over the roar of the Gloriza Falls, while Marosa played with the other children. When it was especially hot, they had waded in the shallow water from the falls. Those days had given them a respite from the dark tower.
Her father had never come with them.
Marosa had no happier memories than of those golden hours. Her mother dancing with her, making her laugh until it hurt, teaching her to ride. When Marosa was old enough to be married, Queen Sahar had used their flower days to talk with her in private, to reassure her and answer her questions.
It felt as if an age had passed since then. Now the falls were gone, and so was her mother. Marosa looked away from the lavender, to the river of fire that flowed through Cárscaro.
It had come when she was seventeen, stemming from a crack in the Spindles. The sizzling light had burned a slow but steady path. Before long, it had worked its way beneath Vatana House, and there, in a great eruption of steam, destroyed the Gloriza Falls.
Most kings would have moved their capital, but not Sigoso Vetalda. He had summoned masons and alchemists to stop the lava, sparing no expense. After failing to dam it, they had diverted it into the existing canals and dug new ones to spread the light.
They had all been confident it would crust over. Almost a decade later, it had not. Now the people crossed it through enclosed stone bridges, and its branches were named after the Six Virtues.
Her father had called it the Tundana. Its branches merged at the edge of the cliff and poured on to the Great Yscali Plain, cooling to black rubble. Many tonnes had piled up beneath Cárscaro – a stain like mud on the hem of the mountains, killing a swathe of lavender. Some years the lava would thin, allowing night to fall, but this year, it had run swift and bright since early spring. Marosa had not seen the stars for weeks, such was the reddish haze of it.
She looked at it all until her eyes hurt. The city she could see, but never touch. To her father, this palace was an eyrie, protecting the fragile egg of his legacy. He behaved as if Marosa were not already five and twenty, hatched and feathered, yearning to spread her wings.
Perhaps that was the reason she felt an overwhelming need to jump.
The need she had felt every day for nine years, since the night she was told her mother was gone.
Her palms turned clammy on the balustrade. She felt herself beginning to tip, her breath constrained by the cage of her ribs.
‘Donmata?’
Ermendo came to her side. Marosa pressed her eyes shut, waiting for the feeling to pass, as it always did.
‘I am well.’ She straightened. ‘Thank you, Ermendo. I will return to my apartments.’
****
By the time she reached her bedchamber, a bath was ready for her. The water came steaming hot from the pipes. Mount Fruma had never erupted in living memory, but it still warmed Cárscaro. Priessa allowed the water to cool before helping Marosa in, scrubbing her with olive soap, and wrapping her in linen. Once she was dry, Priessa oiled and combed her long hair.
Her apartments were the same dark stone as the rest of the palace, with vaulted ceilings, floors of black Samani marble, and windows flanked by sheer curtains. Priessa used mirrors to brighten the place and had flowers brought up every morning. Today it was poppies.
When Marosa was twelve, her mother had chosen three girls to be her Ladies of the Bedchamber. Priessa Yelarigas – a distant cousin – had been one of them. Four years later, when King Sigoso had dissolved Marosa’s household and remodelled it to his own taste, only Priessa had survived the wind of change. Her father was the Secretary of State, one of the leading nobles at court.
Marosa trusted her above all others, except for Ermendo, her loyal guard, who had served her since she was a child. Ruzio and Yscabel Afleytan had also earned her confidence. The sisters had not tried to win her over with flattery, like most of the attendants her father had foisted upon her.
Four people, in a palace filled with hundreds, that she could rely on. If only they did not have to be trapped up here with her.
‘For you.’ Priessa held out a letter. ‘The dove arrived yesterday morning.’
The seal was already broken. Marosa opened it to find lines of Yscali, written in a graceful hand.
From Ascalon, Queendom of Inys
High Spring, CE 1003
