Page 60 of Among the Burning Flowers
‘I sound cruel. But it is true, Aubrecht. His physicians think he has days, not weeks.’ Ermuna tightened her grasp. ‘Mourn your betrothal to Marosa for as long as it takes him to die, then write to Queen Sabran. Make her an offer before she accepts a suit from Hróth. You are the most eligible prince in Virtudom.’
She really was like steel, unbending.
‘I vow to you that I will give it thought as soon as Granduncle passes,’ Aubrecht said, ‘but too quick an offer will make me appear inconstant and cold. Let us allow the dust to settle.’
Ermuna did not reply, but she stayed.
****
The next day, Aubrecht walked in silence to the Royal Aviary, where several piebald doves fluttered and cooed. He chose the one with the delicate gold collar, showing it knew how to fly to Ascalon.
He looked down at the letter. A request for an annulment, addressed to Queen Sabran, the highest authority in Virtudom. His suit would come later, when his family decided he had grieved Marosa for long enough.
The dove perched calmly on his wrist. As he tucked his letter into the holder on its foot, he thought once more of the princess in the tower, whose soul had touched his for twelve precious days. She might already be dead. Pushing down a surge of grief, he opened the shutters with one handand let the dove go. It swept over the courtyard, and then into the sky.
It was done, and it could not be undone.
Like a sleepwalker, he went to the Privy Sanctuary. He could not help Marosa – a failing for which he could never forgive himself – but he could pray for her safety and deliverance.
As he knelt before the statues, he found the plea refused to come. The Saint and his Holy Retinue, for all their strength in life, no longer held any power in Yscalin. They might not be able to see Marosa, trapped as she was in the shadow of evil.
Aubrecht knelt for some time, thinking.
Long before the Midwinter Flood – the event that preceded their forced conversion – the Ments had followed a far older religion. It posited a doomed love between the Smith of the Earth and the Smith of the Heavens, and their eternal battle for dominance. The Smith of the Earth had dwelled in a great forge beneath the Dreadmount, and when he was angry, the volcano rumbled.
Perhaps the Smith of the Earth was the same god the Yscals had once worshipped, known by a different name. But Yscalin no longer needed fire. Only the Smith of the Heavens – the silver queen of the sky – might save them.
‘Hail, Smith of the Heavens,’ Aubrecht said, his voice soft. ‘If she is still alive, protect her.’
He made the sign of the sword, to cleanse his own vice, and walked away.
Marosa
CÁRSCARO
DRACONIC KINGDOM OF YSCALIN
CE 1005
Another year of smoke and brimstone. Little by little, the people of Cárscaro were losing their faith. The wyverns’ eyes were too sharp, the Great Yscali Plain too wide. Gulthaga had chosen its outpost all too well.
In the city, things had taken a turn for the worst. Over time, Draconic monsters – the dreaded sleepers, now woken – had started to arrive. Now there were not just wyverns, but other vile beasts, stalking the streets in search of prey. Unlike the wyverns, they fed on flesh.
The city guard was still trying to keep the peace, but it was a fruitless endeavour. Anyone could be snatched up and carried to the crack in the mountain, never to be seen again. Without the sanctarians to guide them, and with all of their nobles serving the wyrm, some Cárscari had lost their fear of the Knight of Justice. Cutpurses and robbers prowled by the light of the Tundana. More than one person had been killed for sport. Clearly there were some who had been waiting for the Saint to fall, so they might indulge their vices. Worsestill, several cases of the Draconic plague had been reported. The sick had been sealed in their homes.
Marosa tried her utmost to keep despair at bay, even after learning the truth about her father – even after telling Priessa, who had not yet found out if her own father had been complicit. Every plan to resist had failed, but they had started to sew gloves and handkerchiefs for the people, to be handed out in secret, with parcels of food and notes to bolster their spirits.
Within the walls of the Palace of Salvation, some of the Vardya had submitted to Draconic rule. They scoured the halls for any hint of rebellion, perhaps out of fear that Fýredel would burn the city if defiance thrived. But Ermendo, ever loyal, had ensured that some obeyed Marosa. She had sent two of them to scale Mount Fruma, to see if there was a way to drop gunpowder on Fýredel, to no avail. The Fell Door seemed to be the only way into his lair.
Hope was now a dying lamp, and hers only had a little more oil.
It almost went out on the anniversary, two years to the day since Cárscaro fell. She was gazing out of the window, hoping for the sight of a dove, when Ermendo entered her apartments.
‘I have a message from His Majesty,’ he said, his gaze low. ‘Fýredel wishes to see you.’
Marosa slowly looked at him. In two years, Fýredel had never once acknowledged her.
Priessa rose. ‘Fýredel has the king as his puppet. Why would he ask for Marosa?’
