The Priory of the Orange Tree (The Roots of Chaos)
The Priory of the Orange Tree: Part 1 – Chapter 17

Having been declared free of plague, Loth and Kit were admitted into the presence of the Donmata Marosa several days after their arrival. During those days, they had kept to their rooms, unable to leave with guards keeping watch in the gallery. Loth still shuddered at the memory of the Royal Physician, who had placed leeches where leeches should never be placed.

So it was that Loth found himself walking with Kit into the cavernous throne room of the Palace of Salvation. The space was awash with courtiers and nobles, but there was no sign of Prince Wilstan.

The Donmata Marosa, crown princess of the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin, sat on a throne of volcanic glass beneath a canopy of state. Her head was encased in a horned mask of iron, shaped like the head of a High Western. The weight of it must have been enormous.

“Saint,” Kit whispered, so low that only Loth could hear. “She wears the face of Fýredel.”

Guards in golden armor stood in front of the throne. The canopy showed the badge of the House of Vetalda. Two black wyvems and a sword, broken in twain.

Not just any sword, but Ascalon. The symbol of Virtudom.

The ladies-in-waiting had folded back their plague veils, which hung from small but ornate coronets. Lady Priessa Yelarigas stood to the right of the throne. Now her face was revealed, Loth could see her pale, freckled cheeks, her deep-set eyes, and the proud bearing of her chin.

The purr of conversation dwindled when they stopped in front of the throne.

“Radiance,” the steward called, “I present to you two Inysh gentlemen. Here is Lord Arteloth Beck, son of the Earl and Countess of Goldenbirch, and here is Lord Kitston Glade, son of the Earl and Countess of Honeybrook. Ambassadors from the Queendom of Inys.”

Silence fell in the throne room, followed swiftly by hissing. Loth got down on one knee and bowed his head.

“Your Radiance,” he said, “we thank you for receiving us at your court.”

The hissing tapered off when the Donmata raised her hand.

“Lord Arteloth and Lord Kitston,” she said. The iron helm made her voice echo strangely. “My beloved father and I bid you welcome to the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin. My sincere apologies for delaying this audience—I had business elsewhere.”

“You need not justify it, Radiance,” was all Loth said. “You have the right to see us at your pleasure.” He cleared his throat. “Lord Kitston has our letters of credence, if you will accept them.”

“Of course.”

Lady Priessa nodded to a servant, who took the letters from Kit.

“When the Duke of Courtesy wrote to my father, we were delighted that Inys wishes to strengthen its diplomatic ties to Yscalin,” the Donmata continued. “We would hate to think that Queen Sabran would endanger our long friendship over . . . religious differences.”

Religious differences.

“Speaking of Sabran, it has been such a long time since I last heard from her,” the Donmata remarked. “Tell me, is she yet with child?”

A muscle flinched beneath Loth’s eye. That she could sit beneath that blasphemous device and proclaim friendship to Sabran was repulsive.

“Her Majesty is not wed, madam,” Kit said.

“But soon.” She laid a hand on each arm of her throne. When neither of them answered her, she said, “I think you do not yet know the happy tidings, my lords. Sabran is lately promised to Aubrecht Lievelyn, High Prince of the Free State of Mentendon. My one-time betrothed.”

Loth could only stare at her.

Of course, he had known Sabran would eventually choose a companion—a queen had no choice in that—but he had always assumed that it would be someone from Hróth, the more established of the two other countries in Virtudom. Instead she had chosen Aubrecht Lievelyn, grand-nephew to the late Prince Leovart, who had also courted Sabran despite the decades between them.

“Sadly,” the Donmata said, “I was not asked to attend the ceremony.” She leaned back. “You look troubled, Lord Arteloth. Come, speak your mind. Is the Red Prince not worthy of bedding your mistress?”

“Queen Sabran’s heart is a private matter,” Loth bit out. “It is not to be discussed in such a place as this.”

Laughter shattered the hush in the throne room, making his spine tingle. The Donmata joined in merrily from behind her terrible mask. “Her Majesty’s heart may be a private matter, but her bed is not. After all, they say the day the Berethnet bloodline ends, the Nameless One will return to us. If she means to keep him bound, had Sabran better not get on with the business of opening her . . . country to Prince Aubrecht?”

More laughter.

“I pray the Berethnet bloodline continues to the end of time,” Loth said, before he quite knew what he was doing, “for it stands between us and chaos.”

In one smooth movement, the guards unsheathed their rapiers. The laughter stopped.

“Careful, Lord Arteloth,” the Donmata said. “Do not say anything that could be construed as speaking ill of the Nameless One.” She held a hand toward the guards, who put away their blades. “Do you know, I heard tell that you were to become prince consort. Did you prove too low to love a queen?” Before he could protest, she clapped. “Never mind. We can remedy your lack of companion here in Yscalin. Musicians! Play the thirty turns! Lady Priessa will dance with Lord Arteloth.”

At once, Lady Priessa stepped down to the marble floor. Loth steeled himself and walked toward her.

The dance of thirty turns had once been taught in many courts. It had been outlawed in Inys by Jillian the Fifth, who had deemed it lewd, but later queens had been more lenient. Most courtiers learned it in one way or another.

Lady Priessa curtsied as the consort struck up a sprightly tune. Loth bowed to his partner before they both turned to face the Donmata and took hands.

At first his legs moved stiffly. Lady Priessa was light on her feet. He skipped in a circle about her, never letting his heels touch the floor.

She shadowed him. Hither and thither they pranced and sprang, side to side and face to face—then the music surged, and with one hand on the small of her back and the other on her waist, Loth raised his partner off the floor. Over and over he lifted her, until his arms ached and sweat welled on his face and nape.

He could hear Lady Priessa catching her breath. A coil of dark hair came loose as they spun around each other, slowing with each step, until at last they joined hands to face the Donmata Marosa again.

Something crunched between their palms. Loth dared not look at her as he took whatever she had slipped into his hand. The Donmata and her court applauded.

“You are tired, Lord Arteloth,” came the voice from the mask. “Was Lady Priessa too heavy for you?”

“I think the gowns in Yscalin weigh more than the ladies, Radiance,” Loth said, breathing hard.

“Oh, no, my lord. It is the ladies, the gentlemen, all. Our hearts are heavy with grief that the Nameless One has not yet returned to guide us.” The Donmata rose. “A long and peaceful night to you.” The helm tilted. “Unless there is anything you wish to ask me.”

Loth was painfully aware of the paper in his hand, but this was an opportunity.

“One thing, Radiance.” He cleared his throat. “There is another ambassador-in-residence at your court, who has served Queen Sabran here for many years. Wilstan Fynch, the Duke of Temperance. I was wondering where in the palace he lodges, so we might speak to him.”

No one moved or spoke.

“Ambassador Fynch,” the Donmata finally said. “Well, Lord Arteloth, you and I are both in the dark on that front. His Grace left several weeks ago, heading for Córvugar.”

“Córvugar,” Loth echoed. It was a port in the far south of Yscalin. “Why would he go there?”

“He said he had business elsewhere, the nature of which he did not disclose. I am surprised he did not write to Sabran to tell her.”

“I am also surprised, Your Radiance. In fact,” Loth said, “I replace it difficult to believe.”

There was a brief silence as his implication settled over the throne room.

“I hope, Lord Arteloth,” the Donmata said, “that you are not accusing me of lying.”

The courtiers had pressed closer. Like hounds with the scent of blood. Kit gripped Loth by the shoulder, and he closed his eyes.

If they were ever to replace out the truth, they had to survive this court, and to survive, they would have to play along with its rules.

“No, Your Radiance,” he said. “Of course not. Forgive me.”

Without speaking again, the Donmata Marosa glided out of the throne room with her ladies.

The courtiers began to murmur. Jaw clenched, Loth turned his back on the line of guards and strode through the doors, Kit hurrying at his heels.

“She could have had your tongue ripped out for that,” his friend muttered. “Saint, man, what possessed you to all but accuse a princess of lying in her own throne room?”

“I cannot stomach it, Kit. The blasphemy. The deceit. The barefaced contempt for Inys.”

“You can’t let them see that their taunting has worked. Your patron is the Knight of Fellowship. At least give these people the impression of that virtue.” Kit caught his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “Arteloth, listen to me. We are no use to Inys dead.”

Sweat was beading on his face, and his pulse was distinct in his neck. Loth had never seen him look this worried.

“The Knight of Courtesy is your patron, Kit.” Loth sighed. “Let us hope she will help me to mask my intentions.”

“Even with her help, it will not be easy.”

Kit walked to the windows of the gallery.

“I masked my anger with my father all my life,” he said softly. “I learned to smile as he sneered at my poetry. As he called me a hedonist and a milksop. As he cursed his lack of other heirs, and cursed my poor mother for not giving them to him.” He breathed in. “You helped me to do that, Loth. For as long as I had someone I could be myself with, I could bear to be someone else with him.”

“I know,” Loth murmured. “And I promise you that from now on, I will show my true face only to you.”

“Good.” Kit turned back to him with a smile. “Have faith, as you always do, that we will survive this. Queen Sabran is to be wed. Our exile will not be long.” He clapped Loth on the shoulder. “In the meantime, let me replace us some supper.”

They parted ways. Only when Loth had secured the door to his chamber did he look at the scrap of parchment Priessa Yelarigas had pressed into his hand.

The Privy Sanctuary at three of the clock.

The door is beside the library. Come alone.

The Privy Sanctuary. Now the House of Vetalda had abandoned the Six Virtues, it would have been left to gather dust.

This could be a trap. Perhaps Prince Wilstan had received a note like this before he disappeared.

Loth ran his palms over his head. The Knight of Courage was with him. He would see what Lady Priessa had to say.

Kit returned at eleven that night with lamb drenched in wine, a block of spiced cheese, and plaits of olive bread with garlic. They sat on the balcony to eat while the torches of Cárscaro flickered below.

“What I would not pay for a food-taster,” Loth said, picking through the meal.

“Tastes superb to me,” Kit said, his mouth full of oil-dipped bread. He wiped his mouth. “Now, we must assume that Prince Wilstan is not sunning himself in Córvugar. Nobody with a wit goes to Córvugar. Nothing there but graves and crows.”

“You think His Grace is dead?”

“I fear it.”

“We must know for certain.” Loth glanced toward the door and lowered his voice. “Lady Priessa passed me a note during the dance, asking me to meet her tonight. Perhaps she has something to tell me.”

“Or perhaps she has a dagger, and means to introduce it to your back.” Kit raised an eyebrow. “Wait. You’re not going, are you?”

“Unless you have any other leads, I must. And before you ask, she stipulated that I must go alone.”

Kit grimaced and drank. “The Knight of Courage has lent you his sword, my friend.”

Somewhere in the mountains, a wyvern screamed a war cry. A deathly chill scraped through Loth.

“So,” Kit said, and cleared his throat, “Aubrecht Lievelyn. The former betrothed of our wyrm-headed Donmata.”

“Aye.” Loth gazed at the starless firmament. “Lievelyn seems a respectable choice. From what I’ve heard, he is kind and virtuous. He will make Sab a fine companion.”

“Doubtless, but now she will have to marry him without her dearest friend beside her.”

Loth nodded, lost in memory. He and Sabran had always promised that when they wed, they would give each other away. That he would miss the ceremony was the final twist of the knife.

Seeing his face, Kit let out a theatrical sigh. “Pity us both,” he said. “I made a solemn promise to myself that if Queen Sabran ever married, I would ask Kate Withy to dance with me and unmask myself as the man who has been sending her lovelorn poems these past three years. Now I shall never discover if I have the mettle.”

Loth allowed Kit to distract him while they finished their supper. Fortunate indeed that his friend had come with him on this journey, or he would have gone mad by now.

At midnight, the palace grew quiet as the Yscals began to retire. Kit returned to his chamber after exacting a promise that Loth would knock on his door on his return from meeting the lady.

A bell tolled somewhere in Cárscaro every hour. Close to three of the clock, Loth rose and slid his baselard into the sheath at his side. He took a red-flamed candle from one of the holders and left the colonnade.

The Library of Isalarico formed the heart of the Palace of Salvation. As Loth walked toward its doors, he almost missed the corridor on his left. He approached the door at its end, found the key in its lock, and stepped into the darkness of the Privy Sanctuary.

The glow from his candle flickered on a vaulted ceiling. Prayer books and broken statues were strewn across the floor. A portrait of Queen Rosarian was among the ruins, the face knifed almost beyond recognition. All evidence of Virtudom had been stashed in here and locked away.

A figure stood before the stained-glass window at the end of the sanctuary. She held a candle with a natural flame. When he was close enough to touch her, Loth broke the silence.

“Lady Priessa.”

“No, Lord Arteloth.” She lowered her hood. “You look upon a princess of the West.”

In the clean flame of her candle, her features were made plain to him. Brown skin and dark, heavy brows. An eagle nose. Her hair was black velvet, so long that it reached past her elbows, and her eyes were such a striking amber that they looked like topaz. The eyes of the House of Vetalda.

“Donmata,” Loth murmured.

She held his gaze.

The sole heir of King Sigoso and the late Queen Sahar. He had seen Marosa Vetalda once before, when she had come to Inys to celebrate the thousand-year anniversary of the Foundation of Ascalon. She had still been engaged to Aubrecht Lievelyn then.

“I don’t understand.” He tightened his grip on the candle. “Why are you dressed as your lady-in-waiting?”

“Priessa is the only person I trust. She lends me her livery so I can move about the palace undetected.”

“Were you the one who came to collect us from Perunta?”

“No. That was Priessa.” When Loth started to speak, she held a gloved finger to her lips. “Listen well, Lord Arteloth. Yscalin does not only worship the Nameless One. We are also under Draconic rule. Fýredel is the true king of Yscalin, and his spies lurk everywhere. It was why I had to act the way I did in the throne room. It is all a performance.”

“But—”

“You seek the Duke of Temperance. Fynch is dead, and has been for months. I sent him to carry out a task for me, in the name of Virtudom, but . . . he never returned.”

“Virtudom.” Loth stared at her. “What do you want from me?”

“I want your help, Lord Arteloth. I want you to do for me what Wilstan Fynch could not.”

Summer was on its way out. A chill was on the breeze, and the days were growing shorter. In the Privy Library, Margret had shown Ead a knot of ladybeetles nestled in the scrollwork of a bookshelf, and they had known it was almost time to travel downriver.

A day later, Sabran had decreed that the court would move to Briar House, one of the oldest royal palaces in Inys. Built during the reign of Marian the Second, it sprawled in the outskirts of Ascalon and backed onto the ancient hunting ground of Chesten Forest. The court usually journeyed to it in the autumn, but since Sabran had elected to marry Lievelyn in its sanctuary, it would take up residence there earlier than usual.

The moving of the court was always a chaos of folding and packing. Ead had departed with Margret and Linora in one of many coaches. Their possessions, locked in trunks, had followed.

Sabran had ridden with Lievelyn in a coach with gilded wheels. As the procession trundled down Berethnet Mile—the sweeping thoroughfare that divided the capital—the people of Ascalon had waved and cheered for their queen and their soon-to-be prince consort.

Briar House was cosier than Ascalon Palace. Its windows were forest glass, its corridors laid with honey-colored stone in a checkered pattern, and its walls blackbrick, which held in warmth like nothing else. Ead liked it well.

Two days after the court had arrived, she found herself at a dance in the candlelit Presence Chamber. Tonight, the queen had told her chamberers and maids of honor to go and enjoy themselves while she played cards with her Ladies of the Bedchamber.

A viol consort played gentle music. Ead sipped her mulled wine. It was strange, but she was almost sorry that she was here, and not with the queen. The Privy Chamber at Briar House was inviting, with its bookshelves and fireplace and Sabran playing the virginals. Her music had grown melancholy as the days went by, her laughter tapering into silence.

Ead looked to the other side of the room. Lord Seyton Combe, the Night Hawk, was watching her.

She turned away as if she had not seen him, only for him to approach. Like a shadow crossing a patch of sunlight.

“Mistress Duryan,” he said. He wore a livery collar with a pendant shaped like a book of manners. “Good evening.”

Ead dipped a small curtsy and spruced her face into a mask of indifference. She could bite down her loathing, but she would give him no smiles. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

There was a long silence. Combe studied her with his peculiar gray eyes.

“I have a sense,” he said, “that you do not think well of me, Mistress Duryan.”

“I do not think of you often enough to have formed any opinion of you, Your Grace.”

The corner of his mouth flinched. “A fine hit.”

She made no apology.

A page offered them wine, but Combe refused it with a gesture. “Do you not partake, my lord?” Ead asked civilly, even as she imagined stretching him on one of his own racks.

“Never. My ears and eyes must always be open for danger to the crown, and drink works hard to close them both.” Combe softened his voice. “Whether you think of me or not, I wanted to reassure you that you have a friend in me at court. Others may whisper about you, but I see that Her Majesty values your counsel. As she values mine.”

“That is kind of you to say.”

“Not kind. Merely truth.” He made a polite bow. “Excuse me.”

He walked away, parting the crowd, and Ead was left wondering. Combe did nothing without purpose. Perhaps he had talked to her because he needed a new intelligencer. Perhaps he thought she could wring knowledge about the Ersyr from Chassar and pass it on to him.

Over my dead body, bird of prey.

Aubrecht Lievelyn occupied one of the high seats. While Sabran hid in her apartments, her betrothed was always among her subjects, flattering the Inysh with his enthusiasm. At present, he was talking to his sisters, who were fresh off the ship from Zeedeur.

The twins, Princess Bedona and Princess Betriese, were twenty. They seemed to spend their days laughing at secrets known only to those who had grown together in the womb.

Princess Ermuna, the eldest sister and heir apparent, was half a year older than Sabran. She was the spit of her brother, tall and arresting, with the same pallid complexion. Thick crimson hair rippled to her hips. Her sleeves were slashed to reveal a lining of gold silk, then pulled in with six brocaded cuffs apiece, each cuff representing a virtue. The Inysh maids of honor were already tying ribbons around their own sleeves to imitate her.

“Mistress Duryan.”

Ead turned, then curtsied low. “Your Grace.”

Aleidine Teldan utt Kantmarkt, Dowager Duchess of Zeedeur and grandmother of Truyde, had come to stand beside her. Coin-sized rubies dripped from her ears.

“I was most curious to meet you.” Her voice was silvery and mellow. “Ambassador uq-Ispad says you are his pride and joy. A paragon of virtue.”

“His Excellency is too kind.”

“Queen Sabran also speaks well of you. It pleases me to see that a convert can live in peace here.” Her gaze flicked toward the high seats. “We are more free-minded in Mentendon. I hope our influence will soften the treatment of skeptics and apostates in this country.”

Ead drank.

“May I ask how you know His Excellency, Your Grace?” she asked, steering for a safer topic.

“We met in Brygstad many years ago. He was a friend of my companion, the late Duke of Zeedeur,” the Dowager Duchess said. “His Excellency was at Jannart’s entombment.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you. The Duke was a kind man, and a tender father to Oscarde. Truyde takes after him.” As she looked toward her granddaughter, who was deep in conversation with Chassar, her face tightened with sudden grief. “Forgive me, Mistress Duryan—”

“Sit with me, Your Grace.” Ead guided her to a settle. “Child, bring my lady some more wine,” she added to a page, who sprang to obey.

“Thank you.” As Ead perched beside her, the Dowager Duchess patted her hand. “I am well.” She accepted the wine from the page. “As I was saying, Truyde— Truyde really is the very image of Jannart. She has inherited his love of books and language, too. He had so many maps and manuscripts in his library, I could hardly think where to put them all after his death. Of course, he left most of them to Niclays.”

That name again. “Would that be Doctor Niclays Roos?”

“Yes. He was a great friend to Jannart.” She paused. “And to me. Even if he did not know it.”

“He was here during my first year at court. I was sorry that he left.”

“It was not by choice.” The Dowager Duchess leaned closer, so Ead could smell the rosemary in her pomander. “I should not say this to most, mistress . . . but Ambassador uq-Ispad is an old friend, and he seems to trust you.” She opened a folding fan and hid her lips with it. “Niclays was exiled from court because he failed to make Queen Sabran an elixir of life.”

Ead tried not to change her expression. “Her Majesty asked him to do this?”

“Oh, yes. He arrived in Inys on her eighteenth birthday, not long after Jannart died, and offered her his services as an alchemist.”

“In exchange for her patronage, I assume.”

“Indeed.”

Many royals had sought the water of life. Playing on the fear of death must be a lucrative business—and there had long been rumors at court that Sabran feared the childbed. Roos had preyed on a young queen, dazzling her with his knowledge of science. A charlatan.

“Niclays was no fraud,” the Dowager Duchess said, as if she could read Ead’s mind. “He truly believed he could make it for her. The elixir was his passion for decades.” There was a note of sadness in her voice. “Her Majesty gave him great lodgings and a workshop at Ascalon Palace—but from what I understand, he lost himself to wine and gambling. And used his royal pension to pay for it.” She paused to let a page top up her glass. “After two years, Sabran decided that Niclays had swindled her. She banished him from Inys and decreed that no country that craved her friendship could give him refuge. The late High Prince Leovart elected to send him to Orisima.”

The trading post. “I assume Her Majesty has not relented on the subject of his exile.”

“No. He has been there for seven years.”

Ead raised her eyebrows. “Seven?”

From what she understood, Orisima was a tiny island (if island were not too grand a word for it) that clung to the Seiikinese port of Cape Hisan. Seven years there would drive a person mad.

“Yes,” the Dowager Duchess said, seeing her face. “I beseeched Prince Aubrecht to have him brought home, but he will only do so if Queen Sabran pardons him.”

“Do you . . . not believe he deserves to be in exile, Your Grace?” Ead ventured.

After a hesitation, the reply came: “I believe he has been punished enough. Niclays is a good man. If he had not been so deep in mourning for Jannart, I do not think he would have behaved the way he did. He wanted to lose himself.”

Ead thought of the name on Truyde’s little book of heresy. Niclays. Had the girl intended to use Roos in her plan?

“I suppose your granddaughter also knows Doctor Roos,” she said.

“Oh, yes. Niclays was like an uncle to her when she was young.” The Dowager Duchess paused again. “I understand you have some sway with Her Majesty. As one of her ladies, she must hold your opinion in high regard.”

Now Ead understood why this noblewoman had come to speak to her.

“The Teldan of Kantmarkt understand commerce,” the Dowager Duchess said, her voice soft. There was a lit cinder of hope in her gaze. “If you speak for Niclays, I can make you a rich woman, Mistress Duryan.”

This must be what happened to Roslain and Katryen. A hushed request, a sweetener, a whisper to Sabran. What Ead could not understand was why it was happening to her.

“I am not one of the Ladies of the Bedchamber,” she said. “I do not presume to have Her Majesty’s ear.”

“I think you are far too modest.” The Dowager Duchess smiled a little. “I saw her walking with you in the Knot Gardens just this morning.”

Ead took a sip of wine, buying herself a moment.

She could not get involved in dealings like these. It would be folly to speak for someone Sabran despised when the queen had only just shown an interest in her.

“I cannot help you, Your Grace,” Ead said. “You would be better served asking Lady Roslain or Lady Katryen.” She stood and curtsied. “Excuse me. I have duties elsewhere.”

Before the Dowager Duchess could press her on the matter, she made her way toward the doors.

The Royal Bedchamber in Briar House was much smaller than its counterpart at Ascalon Palace. The ceiling was set low, the walls paneled with dark linenfold oak, and crimson drapes surrounded the bed. Ead was early, but she found Margret sitting inside.

“Ead,” she said. Her voice was thick with the cold that had buckled half the court. “Now you’ve spoiled the surprise. I hoped to have arrayed the bed before you got here.”

“So I could continue making idle conversation with nobles I scarcely know?”

“So you could dance. You used to love to dance.”

“That was when the sight of the Night Hawk did not make me as bilious as it does now.”

With a sound of distaste, Margret rose, a letter in her hand. “Is it from home?” Ead asked.

“Aye. Mama says that Papa has been asking to see me for weeks. Apparently, he has something important to tell me, but I can hardly go to him in the middle of all this.”

“Sabran would let you.”

“I know she would, but Mama insists I stay here. She says Papa most likely has no idea what he is saying, and that it is my duty to remain—but in truth, I think she is living through me.” With a sigh, Margret tucked the letter into her bodice. “You know . . . I was fool enough to think the Master of the Posts would have something from Loth.”

“He may have written.” Ead helped her lift a fustian. “Combe intercepts every letter.”

“Then perhaps I shall write a letter saying what a cur he is,” Margret muttered.

Ead smiled. “I would pay to see his face. Speaking of which,” she added, quieter, “I was just offered payment of my own. In exchange for petitioning the queen.”

Margret looked up at her, eyebrows raised. “Who from?”

“The Dowager Duchess of Zeedeur. She wants me to speak for Niclays Roos.”

“That will do you no good. Loth told me Sabran hates that man with a passion.” Margret glanced at the door. “You be careful, Ead. She lets Ros and Kate get away with it, but Sab is no fool. She knows when the whispers in her ear are too sweet.”

“I have no intention of playing those games.” Ead touched her elbow. “I think Loth will be all right, Meg. He knows now that the world is more dangerous than it seems.”

Margret snorted. “You think too highly of his wits. Loth will trust anyone who smiles at him.”

“I know.” Ead took her by the shoulders and steered her to the door. “Now, go and drink some hot wine at the dance. I am sure Captain Lintley would be pleased to see you.”

“Captain Lintley?”

“Yes. The very gallant Captain Lintley.”

Margret was a little bright-eyed as she left.

Linora was nowhere to be seen. No doubt she was still dancing. Ead secured the Royal Bedchamber alone. Unlike the room at Ascalon Palace, it had two entrances. The Great Door was for the queen, the Little Door for her consort.

There had been no attempts on Sabran since the betrothal was announced, but Ead knew it must only be a matter of time. She checked the featherbed, looked behind the curtains, searched every wall and tapestry and floorboard. There was no secret third way in, she was sure, but the possibility that she had missed something nudged at her. At least Chassar had laid new wardings on the threshold, stronger than her own. He had recently eaten of the fruit.

Ead plumped the little pillows and replenished the closet. She was closing a hot coal into a bedwarmer when Sabran stepped into the room. Ead stood and curtsied.

“Majesty.”

Sabran looked her up and down with half-lidded eyes. She wore a sleeveless rail over her nightgown, and a blue sash around her waist. Ead had never seen her so undressed.

“Forgive me,” Ead said, to fill the silence. “I thought you would not retire until later.”

“I have slept ill of late. Doctor Bourn tells me I should try to retire by ten of the clock to promote a quiet mind, or some such,” Sabran said. “Do you know some cure for sleeplessness, Ead?”

“Do you take anything presently, madam?”

“Sleepwater. Sometimes caudle, if the night is cold.”

Sleepwater was the Inysh name for a decoction of setwall. While it had some medicinal properties, it was clearly doing little good.

“I would recommend lavender, earthapple, and creamgrail root, simmered in milk,” Ead said, “with one spoonful of rosewater.”

“Rosewater.”

“Yes, madam. In the Ersyr, they say the scent of the rose brings sweet dreams.”

Slowly, Sabran unfastened her sash.

“I will taste your remedy. Nothing else has worked,” she said. “When Kate comes, you may tell her what to bring.”

Ead approached with the barest nod and took the sash from her. Sabran’s eyes were circled with shadow.

“Does something trouble Your Majesty?” Ead helped her out of the rail. “Something that disquiets your sleep?”

It was meant in courtesy, with no expectation of an answer. To her surprise, Sabran gave one.

“The wyrm.” Her gaze was on the fire. “He said the thousand years were almost done. It has been just over a thousand years now since my ancestor vanquished the Nameless One.”

There was a furrow in her brow. Standing there in her nightgown, she seemed as vulnerable as she would have looked when the cutthroat had beheld her.

“Wyrms have forked tongues for duplicity, madam.” Ead hung the rail over the back of a chair. “Fýredel is still weak from his slumber, his fire not yet fully lit. He fears the union of Berethnet and Lievelyn. He speaks in riddles to sow misgiving in your mind.”

“He has succeeded.” Sabran sank onto the bed. “It seems that I must wed. For Inys.”

Ead did not know the acceptable way to reply to this.

“Do you not wish to wed, madam?” she finally asked.

“That matters not.”

Sabran had power in all things but this. To conceive a legitimate heir, she must wed.

Roslain or Katryen should be here. They would soothe her fears while they combed her hair for bed. They knew the right things to say, the right way to comfort her while keeping her in the state of mind necessary to her union with Prince Aubrecht.

“Do you dream, Ead?”

It came from nowhere, but Ead kept her composure. “I dream of my childhood,” she replied, “and things I have seen around me by daylight, woven into new tapestries.”

“I long for that. I dream of—of terrible things,” Sabran murmured. “I do not tell my Ladies of the Bedchamber, for I think they would be afraid of me, but . . . I will tell them to you, Ead Duryan, if you will hear them. You are made of firmer stuff.”

“Of course.”

She curled up on the rug beside the fire, close to Sabran, who sat with a taut back.

“I dream of a shaded bower in a forest,” she began, “where sunlight dapples the grass. The entrance is a gateway of purple flowers—sabra flowers, I think.”

They grew at the end of the known world. It was said that their nectar glowed like starlight. This far north, they were legendary.

“Everything in the bower is beautiful and pleasing to the ear. Birds sing charming songs, and the breeze is warm, yet the path that leads me on is jeweled with blood.”

Ead nodded her reassurance, even as something glinted in the back of her mind.

“At the end of the path, I replace a great rock,” Sabran continued, “and I reach out to touch it with a hand I do not think is mine. The rock breaks in two, and inside—” Her voice wavered. “Inside—”

A chamberer did not have leave to touch the royal person. And yet, seeing that drawn face, Ead found herself reaching for Sabran and clasping one of her hands between her own.

“Madam,” Ead said, “I am here.”

Sabran looked up. A moment passed. Slowly, she moved her other hand to cup the braid of their fingers.

“Blood overflows from within the cleft, and my arms, my belly, are awash with it. I step through the rock, into a standing circle, like those in the north. And scattered all around me are bones. Small bones.” Her eyes closed, and her lips quaked. “I hear terrible laughter, and I realize the laughter is mine. And then I wake.”

Ead kept the queen in her gaze. Sabran had been right. Roslain and Katryen would have been frightened.

“It is not real.” Ead tightened her grasp. “None of it is real.”

“There is a story in this country of a witch,” Sabran said, too far into her memory to hear. “She stole children and took them into the forest. Do you know it, Ead?”

After a moment, Ead said, “The Lady of the Woods.”

“I suppose Lord Arteloth told you, as he did me.”

“Lady Margret.”

Sabran nodded, her gaze distant. “They tell it to all children in the north. Warn them to stay away from the haithwood, where she walked. She lived long before my ancestor, and yet the fear of her lingers among my subjects.” Gooseflesh stippled her neckline. “My mother told me stories of the sea, not the land. I never believed in a Lady of the Woods. Now I fear there was a witch, and that she lives still, working her sorcery upon me.”

Ead said nothing.

“That is but one dream,” Sabran said. “On other nights, I dream of the childbed. As I have since I had my first blood. I lie dying while my daughter struggles out of me. I feel her tearing my body, like a knife through silk. Between my legs, waiting to devour her, is the Nameless One.”

For the first time in the eight years Ead had been at court, she saw tears bead on Sabran’s eyelids.

“The blood keeps flowing, hot as iron in the forge. It clings to my thighs, sticks them together. I know I am crushing my child, but if I let her breathe . . . she will fall into the jaws of the beast.” Sabran closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were dry. “That nightmare torments me the most.”

The weight of the crown had taken its toll on her. “Dreams reach deep into our pasts,” Ead said quietly. “Lord Arteloth told you the story of the Lady of the Woods, and it has come back to haunt you now. The mind often wanders to strange places.”

“I might agree with you,” Sabran said, “had I not had both dreams since long before Lord Arteloth shared that tale with me.”

Loth had told Ead once that Sabran could not sleep without a candle. Now she knew why.

“So you see, Ead,” the queen said, “I do not sleep because I am not only afraid of the monsters at my door, but also of the monsters my own mind can conjure. The ones that live within.”

Ead held her hand a little tighter.

“You are Queen of Inys,” she said. “All your life, you have known that you would one day wear the crown.” Sabran watched her face. “You fear for your people, but cannot show it to your court. You wear so much armor by daylight that, by night, you can carry it no longer. By night, you are only flesh. And even the flesh of a queen is prone to fear.”

Sabran was listening. Her pupils were large enough to almost blot the green from her eyes.

“In darkness, we are naked. Our truest selves. Night is when fear comes to us at its fullest, when we have no way to fight it,” Ead continued. “It will do everything it can to seep inside you. Sometimes it may succeed—but never think that you are the night.”

The queen seemed to mull this over. She looked to their hands and slowly circled her thumb in Ead’s palm.

“More of your comely words,” she said. “I like them well, Ead Duryan.”

Ead looked her in the eye. She imagined two gemstones falling to the ground, shattering from within. Those were the eyes of Sabran Berethnet.

Footsteps just beyond the threshold. Ead stood and clasped her hands in front of her just as Katryen came in with her arm around Lady Arbella Glenn, who was in her nightgown. Sabran reached out to her oldest bedfellow.

“Bella,” she said, “come to me. I want to discuss the marriage preparations with you.”

Arbella smiled and hobbled to her queen, who took her by the hand. With dewy eyes and a serene expression, Arbella stroked Sabran’s black hair behind her ear, like a mother tending to a child.

“Bella,” Sabran murmured, “never weep. I can’t bear it.”

Ead slipped away.

Once Sabran and Arbella were abed, Ead told Katryen about the decoction, and though the Mistress of the Robes looked skeptical, she sent for it. Once it was tasted and delivered, the royal apartments were sealed, and Ead took her position for night duty.

Kalyba.

That was the name the Lady of the Woods had gone by in Lasia. Little did the Inysh know that the witch was very much alive, though far away. And that the entrance to her lair was guarded with sabra flowers.

Sabran had never seen the Bower of Eternity. If she was dreaming of it, something was afoot.

Hours tiptoed by. Ead remained still, watching for any movement between shadow and moonbeam.

Siden allowed her to cloak herself in darkness. A cutthroat, no matter how skilled, did not have that gift. If another one came to either of the doors, she would see them.

Close to one of the clock, Roslain Crest, who was also on night duty, appeared with a candle.

“Mistress Duryan,” she said.

“Lady Roslain.”

They stood in silence for some time.

“Do not think me unaware of your intentions,” Roslain said. “I know full well what you are doing. As does Lady Katryen.”

“I was not aware that I had given you offense, my—”

“Do not take me for a fool. I see you moving closer to the queen. I see you trying to curry favor with her.” Her eyes were dark as sapphires in the gloom. “Lady Truyde has said that you are a sorceress. I cannot think that she would make such an accusation without reason.”

“I took the spurs and the girdle. I renounced the false faith of the Dawnsinger,” Ead said. “The Knight of Fellowship tells us to embrace the converts. Perhaps you should listen to him better, my lady.”

“I am the blood of the Knight of Justice. Be careful how you address me, Mistress Duryan.”

Another silence rang between them.

“If you truly care for her,” Roslain said, softer, “I take no issue with your new standing. Unlike many Inysh, I have nothing against converts. We are all equal in the eyes of the Saint. But if you only seek gifts and riches, I will see to it that you are cut from her side.”

“I seek no gifts or riches. Only to serve the Saint as best I may,” Ead said. “Can we not both agree that no more of her friends should be cut from her side?”

Roslain looked away.

“I know Loth was fond of you,” she said, with what Ead could see was a degree of difficulty. “For that, I must think the best of you.” With still more difficulty, she continued: “Forgive my caution. It is wearisome to watch the spiders that surround her, who only think to climb the—”

A cry rose from the Royal Bedchamber. Ead spun to face the door, heart thumping.

She had no movement from the wardings. No cutthroat could have entered that chamber.

Roslain stared at her, lips parted, eyes wide. Ead took the key from Roslain’s frozen hand and ran up the steps.

“Hurry, Ead, open it,” Roslain shouted. “Captain Lintley! Sir Gules!”

Ead turned the key in the lock and flung open the door. The fire burned low in the hearth.

“Ead.” A shape moved on the bed. “Ead, Ros, please, you must wake Arbella.” Sabran, ravels of hair escaping her braid. “I woke and reached for her hand, and it was so cold—” She sobbed. “Oh, Saint, say it is not so—”

Captain Lintley and Sir Gules Heath appeared at the door, swords drawn. “By the Saint, Lady Roslain, is she hurt?” Heath barked.

While Roslain hastened to her queen, Ead circled to the other side of the bed, where a small figure lay beneath the coverlet. Even before Ead searched in vain for a pulse, she knew. A terrible hush descended as she moved away.

“I am sorry, Your Majesty,” she said.

The two men bowed their heads. Roslain began to weep, one hand over her mouth.

“She did not see me wed,” Sabran said faintly. A tear ran down her cheek. “I promised her she would.”