Page 51 of Among the Burning Flowers
Marosa looked at her. ‘How do you know this, Ruzio?’
‘I have seen his eyes like that before, when he walks about the palace. He moves and speaks differently, as if his own mouth and limbs were strange to him. They say the High Westerns could see through their wyverns’ eyes. I am certain this is the same connexion.’
‘Then Fýredel has seen us?’ Yscabel whispered. ‘He knows of us?’
Ruzio drew her close.
‘When His Majesty’s eyes are only grey,’ she said, ‘I think his mind is still his own, to some degree, though the sickness must torment him. But when the light comes … yes, I think the wyrm sees through him, the better to know the workings of our court.’ Yscabel let out a wordless sound, and Ruzio firmed her embrace. ‘It will be all right, Yscabel. The Saint protects us.’
Marosa felt a pang of envy as they held each other. She had never wished for a sister – Priessa had always been that for her – but their closeness made her miss her mother terribly.
‘Go back to sleep, both of you,’ she said quietly. ‘Let Fýredel see we are harmless as babes.’
****
For the next few days, Marosa followed her usual routine, not wanting to arouse suspicion. In that time, she never saw her father. To distract herself from the danger, whichkept her body rigid at all times, she found out what she could about the present state of Yscalin.
From what Priessa could glean, the Privy Council had mounted no resistance. Quite the opposite. Across Yscalin, the Knights Defendant – now the wyverns’ soldiers – killed or imprisoned those who rebelled. Their ranks had apparently tripled in size. The Principal Sanctarian, protesting the blasphemy, had been hung from the Gate of Niunda and left to die of thirst.
The freedom and dignity of the Yscals, sacrificed to buy the lives of everyone in Cárscaro. No one had done this in the Grief of Ages. No country had submitted to the wyrms.
Each night, when her eyes stung from reading, Marosa prayed in her bedchamber. As a child, she had been loyal to the Saint alone, never doubting his Six Virtues. It was only when she was fourteen that her mother had secretly told her about other faiths, including hers.
Now Marosa did not know whose help she ought to seek. The Faith of Dwyn was a way of life, lacking any god or figurehead, and she doubted that even the Saint could rid Cárscaro of this many wyverns. She still asked him to deliver her fellow Yscals to safety, and to set her city free.
And then, in the silence of her mind, she asked the same of Fruma, the neglected god of the mountain, who had taken Oderica into himself and taught her the art of smithing. Nine years later, she had emerged to face the Gulthaganians, meeting their bronze swords with iron.
Later, the story had changed. Now it was the Saint who taught Oderica, even though the Saint had not been born.
Fruma, hear the blood of Oderica, she whose eyes were lit by the mountain.Marosa did not know how to pray to amountain, but she would try.Fruma, firstborn, your body has been overtaken. I beg you, keep the beast within, so he may never fly.
****
The next morning, the first violence broke out in the palace. Knowing they had the protection of thick walls, its hundreds of residents had not made too much of a stir, even though their king was possessed. Many of them had friends or relatives in the city, whose lives they feared to risk.
Marosa overheard the commotion from the Library of Isalarico. She rushed down the Grand Stair, Ermendo hard on her heels, halberd at the ready. They reached a wide arched corridor, where several of the Vardya stood with Bartian. He sported a long cut on his cheek.
‘Donmata,’ he said hoarsely.
‘Bartian, what happened?’
‘His Majesty was walking here. One of the scullions attacked him with a cleaver,’ he replied, breathing hard. ‘Your father seized him by the throat. His Majesty was not wearing gloves.’
‘Where is this scullion now, my lord?’ Ermendo asked.
‘Confined to his room in the servants’ quarters,’ another guard said. ‘His Majesty is safe, thanks to Lord Bartian.’
Bartian touched his wound, grimacing. His ruff was flecked with blood. Marosa passed him a silk handkerchief. ‘How were you hurt?’ she asked him. ‘Did the scullion attack you both?’
‘No. I stepped in front of your father,’ he said. ‘I suppose it was instinct.’ He pressed the handkerchief to his cheek. ‘Perhaps it would have been better if I had not.’
Marosa glanced at the guards, but they were deep in conversation. ‘This will not end with his death,’ she said to Bartian, keeping her voice low. ‘Fýredel would only choose someone else.’
‘Let us hope it is Gastaldo. He claims to speak for His Majesty. The Grandees do as he asks without question, forcing our subjects to abjure the Saint. He hangs the faithful on the Gate of Niunda, leaving them there as fearful examples. The Knight of Courage spits upon that chamber,’ Bartian said under his breath. ‘They should be looking to you, not Gastaldo.’
‘I doubt it would improve our situation. In any case, I would sooner not draw attention from Fýredel.’
‘No,’ Bartian conceded. ‘We need our heir.’ He looked her in the eyes. ‘Donmata, I do not know if you’ve heard, but the wyverns have been taking people to the Fell Door.’
