A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

Night had not yet fallen, but the Priory was silent, save their footsteps. Wulf walked with Tunuva and Siyu, to the tunnel that would take him outside, back into the death throes of civilisation.

‘I do not want you to take an unclaimed ichneumon,’ Tunuva told him. ‘They can be stubborn.’ Lukiri tottered beside her, gripping her fingers. ‘Ninuru will keep you safe. She is waiting outside.’

‘Ninuru is yours, Tunuva.’

‘She will return quickly.’

As soon as they reached the tunnel, he caught the faint smell of the smoke beyond. Siyu wrapped him into a tight embrace. ‘Armul,’ she said, her voice faint. ‘Be safe, brother.’

‘And you.’ He placed a kiss on her head. ‘Treasure your family, Siyu. All your days.’

‘I do.’ Siyu reached up to grip his chin. ‘Do not worship the Deceiver. Even if you keep our secret, know the truth, here.’ She placed a hand over his heart. ‘Do not be an Inysh fool.’

Wulf gave her a grave nod, then crouched in front of Lukiri.

‘Goodbye, Lukiri,’ he said. Lukiri glanced up at Tunuva with a frown. ‘I have to go now.’

Her frown deepened. ‘Go now,’ she echoed. ‘Looky-yee.’ She reached out to pat his face. ‘See soon.’

‘I hope so, wee one.’

Lukiri nodded, but her lip quivered. Siyu picked her up and walked away, leaving him alone with Tunuva, who held out the wide leather sheath she had been carrying on her shoulder.

‘I made this for you,’ she said. ‘I know you prefer the sword, but a spear is the best weapon, for wyrms.’

Wulf opened the case. Inside was a beautiful Kumengan spear, like hers, with hinges so it could be folded away. His Selinyi name was carved into the handle, small enough to be discreet. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured. ‘It’s a bonny weapon, Tunuva. I’ll take good care of it.’

‘Be happy. After all of this, I hope you can.’

‘I will, I think. Now I know who I am.’

A painful silence descended. Looking at her, Wulf thought he might never find the strength to leave.

‘I am sorry,’ Tunuva said, her voice straining. ‘I looked for you. For so long—’

‘It wasn’t your fault.’

He wished he had more Selinyi. As her jaw shook, he prayed she understood what he said next.

‘I envied Mara and Roland, knowing their mother, even if it was just for a short time,’ he told her. ‘I would cry myself to sleep, trying to remember you. And I did. I remembered your voice. I remembered your arms, and your love, in my heart. I never imagined my mother was a great warrior, who loved me so much she would cross the world to see me one more time.’ He tried to smile. ‘You are more than I could ever have dreamed.’

Tunuva stood there, eyes lined with tears.

‘I will miss you,’ she whispered. ‘You are welcome here, always. You can come back.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘Then I will see you again.’ Tunuva held him close. ‘Goodbye. My brave son.’

Wulf clasped her as near as he could. He tried to fix the moment in his memory – the scent of the girin flower, her sturdy warmth, her breathing.

He would never dream of bees again. The sound of her voice, the feel of her arms, had silenced them for ever.

‘I will honour the Mother,’ he said. ‘And you. As long as I live.’

‘You already have.’

Tunuva clutched him, trembling. When they parted at last, Wulf pressed a final kiss to her forehead. She let her breath go in a shudder and watched him stride into the darkness.

Only when he was out of her sight did he let the tears seep down his cheeks.

****

She wept until her voice burned through, until her joints hurt and her eyes scorched, and her head was thick with pain. Curled beneath the orange tree, she sobbed her joy and sorrow to the night.

You are more than I could ever have dreamed.

Beneath the stars, the fruits glimmered like candlelight, as if to comfort her. You are always here. She pressed her cheek to its trunk. You are too rooted to run from this place.

She grieved for Armul, alone in the valley. For years of lost memories. For the boy he might have been, and the lies he had been told, and all he had suffered outside of the Priory. Tears flooded her cheeks. She gasped for breath, a hand pressed between her womb and her heart.

He was proud to be hers. He was proud.

And gone. Gone into the forest again, out into the maw of the world. She would always carry the pain of his loss, even if its weight was lighter. It was hers to throw like clay on a wheel, to be turned and worked and smoothed into a shape she might one day be able to hold within herself.

But she also felt relief. He had believed her story, not condemned her as a witch. He knew the Mother. He had grown up to be a warrior, as kind and gentle by nature as Meren.

And she loved him just as much now as she had when she held him for the first time.