The Priory of the Orange Tree (The Roots of Chaos)
The Priory of the Orange Tree: Part 4 – Chapter 52

“If one of you does not speak,” the Queen of Inys said, “we shall be here for a very long time.”

Loth exchanged a glance with Ead. She was sitting on the other side of the table, wearing an ivory shirt and breeches, her hair half pulled back from her face.

They were in the Council Chamber at the top of the Alabastrine Tower. Buttered light shone through the windows. With only a little help to bathe and dress, the queen had stitched herself back together with as much mettle as any warrior.

Freeing Sabran had been the first victory of the night. The news that the Duchess of Justice had been arrested for high treason had caused most of her retainers to give up their arms. The Knights of the Body, with the help of the palace guards, had worked until the dawn to root out the last of the traitors, and to stop them fleeing the palace.

Nelda Stillwater, Lemand Fynch, and the Night Hawk had arrived at court not long after, each with an affinity of retainers in tow. They had claimed to be coming to liberate the queen from Crest, but Sabran had ordered them all locked away until she could unravel the truth.

Ead had pieced together what had happened. On the night she had been forced to leave Inys, Sabran had grown feverish. She had appeared to recover a few days later, only to collapse. Crest had ostensibly taken control of her care, but for weeks, behind the doors of the Great Bedchamber, she had pressed her queen to sign a document called the Oath of Relinquishment. Her signature on it would yield the throne of Inys to the Crest family from the drying of the ink until the end of time. Crest had threatened her with exposure of her barrenness, or death, if she refused.

Sabran had remained defiant. Even while she was too weak to feed herself. Even when Crest had shut her up in darkness.

“I see I will not need to bring anyone to pry out your tongues,” Sabran said. “You appear to have swallowed them.”

Ead was nursing a cup of ale. This was the first time in hours that she had been more than a foot away from Sabran.

“Where should we begin?” she said evenly.

“You can begin, Mistress Duryan, by confessing who you are. They told me you were a witch,” Sabran said. “That you had abandoned my court to pledge to the Flesh King.”

“And you believed this nonsense.”

“I had no idea what to believe. Now, when you return to me, you are drenched in blood and have left a pile of bodies higher than a horse behind you. You are no lady-in-waiting.”

Ead rubbed her temple with one finger. Finally, she looked Sabran full in the face.

“My name,” she said, “is Eadaz du Zāla uq-Nāra.” Though her voice was steady, her eyes betrayed an inner conflict. “And I was brought to you by Chassar uq-Ispad as a bodyguard.”

“And what made His Excellency believe that you were better placed to protect me than my Knights of the Body?”

“I am a mage. A practitioner of a branch of magic called siden. Its source is the same orange tree in Lasia that protected Cleolind Onjenyu when she vanquished the Nameless One.”

“An enchanted orange tree.” Sabran let out a huff of laughter. “Next you will tell me pears can sing.”

“Does the Queen of Inys mock what she does not understand?”

Loth glanced from one to the other. Ead had seldom talked to Sabran at all when he had last been at court. Now, it seemed, she could goad the sovereign with impunity.

“Lord Arteloth,” Sabran said, “perhaps you can enlighten me as to how you came to leave court. And how you met with Mistress Duryan on your journey. It seems she is all addle-brained.”

Ead snorted into her cup. Loth reached across the table and poured from the jug of ale.

“Lord Seyton Combe sent Kit and myself to Cárscaro. He believed I was an impediment to your marriage prospects,” he said. “In the Palace of Salvation, we met the Donmata Marosa, who had a task for us. And from there, I’m afraid, things only wax stranger.”

He told her everything. The Flesh King’s confession that he had arranged to murder her mother. The mysterious Cupbearer, whose hands were also bloody in that deed. He told her of Kit’s death and the iron box he had taken across the desert, of his imprisonment in the Priory, and the daring escape back to Inys on the Bird of Truth.

Ead chimed in here and there. She enriched and broadened the story, telling Sabran about her banishment and her visit to the ruined city of Gulthaga. About the Long-Haired Star and the Tablet of Rumelabar. She went into great depth about the foundation of the Priory of the Orange Tree and its beliefs, and the reason she had been sent to Inys. Sabran did not move once as she listened.

Only the flicker of her gaze betrayed her thoughts about each revelation.

“If Sabran the First was not born of Cleolind,” she said eventually, “and I am not saying I believe it, Ead—then who was her mother? Who was the first Queen of Inys?”

“I don’t know.”

Sabran raised her eyebrows.

“While I was in Lasia, I learned more about the Tablet of Rumelabar,” Ead continued. “To understand its mystery, I paid a visit to Kalyba, the Witch of Inysca.” She glanced at Loth. “She is known here as the Lady of the Woods. She created Ascalon for Galian Berethnet.”

Ead had not mentioned this on the ship. “The Lady of the Woods is real?” Loth asked.

“She is.”

He swallowed.

“And you claim she made the True Sword,” Sabran said. “The terror of the haithwood.”

“The very same,” Ead said, undaunted. “Ascalon was forged with both siden and sidereal magic—sterren—which comes from a substance left behind by the Long-Haired Star. It was these two branches of power that the Tablet of Rumelabar describes. When one waxes, the other wanes.”

Sabran was wearing the same mask of indifference she often wore in the Presence Chamber.

“To recapitulate,” she said tautly, “you believe my ancestor—the blessèd Saint—was a power-hungry, lustful craven who tried to press a country into accepting his religion, wielded a sword granted to him by a witch, and never defeated the Nameless One.”

“And stole the recognition for the latter from Princess Cleolind, yes.”

“You think I am the seed of such a man.”

“Fair roses have grown from twisted seeds.”

“What you did for me does not give you the right to blaspheme in my presence.”

“So you would like your new Virtues Council to tell you only what you want to hear.” Ead raised her cup. “Very well, Your Majesty. Loth can be Duke of Flattery, and I’ll be Duchess of Deceit.”

“Enough,” Sabran barked.

“Peace,” Loth cut in. “Please.” Neither of them spoke. “We cannot quarrel. We must be united now. Because of—” His mouth was dry. “Because of what is to come.”

“And what is to come?”

Loth tried to say it, but the words fled from him. He gave Ead a defeated look.

“Sabran,” Ead said quietly, “the Nameless One will return.”

For a long time, Sabran seemed to withdraw into her own world. Slowly, she rose, walked toward the balcony, and stood upon it, limmed by the sun.

“It is true,” Ead said eventually. “A letter to the Priory from a woman named Neporo convinced me. Cleolind stood with her to bind the Nameless One—but only for a thousand years. And that thousand years is very close to ending.”

Sabran placed her hands on the balustrade. A breeze caught a few strands of her hair.

“So,” she said, “it is as my ancestor said. That when the House of Berethnet ends . . . the Nameless One will return.”

“It has naught to do with you,” Ead said. “Or your ancestors. Most likely Galian made the claim to consolidate his new-found power, and to make himself a god in the eyes of his people. He fed his descendants to the jaws of his lie.”

Sabran said nothing.

Loth wanted to comfort her, but nothing could soften tidings like these.

“The Nameless One was bound on the third day of spring, during the twentieth year of the reign of Mokwo, Empress of Seiiki,” Ead said, “but I do not know when Mokwo ruled. You must ask High Princess Ermuna to replace the date. She is Archduchess of Ostendeur, where documents on the East are stored.” When Sabran continued in her silence, Ead sighed. “I know this is heresy to you. But if you love the woman you know as the Damsel—if you have any respect for the memory of Cleolind Onjenyu—then you will do this.”

Sabran lifted her chin. “And if we discover the date? What then?”

Ead reached under her collar and withdrew the pale jewel she had taken from the Priory.

“This is the waning jewel. It is one of a pair.” She placed it on the table. “It is made from sterren. Its sister is most likely in the East. The letter said we need them both.”

Sabran looked at it over her shoulder.

The sunshine glowed in the waning jewel. Being close to it gave Loth a sense of cool tranquility—almost the opposite of what he always felt from Ead. She was the living flame of the sun. This was starlight.

“After Cleolind wounded the Nameless One, she appears to have traveled to the East,” Ead said. “There she met Neporo of Komoridu, and together they bound the Nameless One in the Abyss.” She tapped the jewel. “We must repeat what was done a thousand years ago—but we must finish it this time. And to do that, we also need Ascalon.”

Sabran returned her gaze to the horizon. “Every Berethnet queen has searched for the True Sword, to no avail.”

“None of them had a jewel that will call to it.” Ead hung it around her neck again. “Kalyba told me that Galian meant to leave Ascalon in the hands of those who would die to keep it hidden. We know he had a loyal retinue, but does anyone come to mind?”

“Edrig of Arondine,” Loth said at once. “The Saint squired for him before he became a knight himself. Viewed him as a father.”

“Where did he live?”

Loth smiled. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “he is one of the founders of the Beck family.”

Ead raised her eyebrows.

“Goldenbirch,” she said. “Perhaps I will begin my search there—with you and Meg, if you will keep me company. Your father has been wanting to speak to her, in any case.”

“You truly think it could be in Goldenbirch?”

“It is as good a place as any to begin.”

Loth thought of the night before. “One of us should stay,” he said. “Meg can go with you.”

At last, Sabran turned to face them again.

“Whether this legend is true or not,” she said, “I have no choice but to trust you, Ead.” Her face hardened. “Our mutual enemy will rise. Both our religions confirm it. I mean for us to stand against him. I mean to lead Inys to victory, as Glorian Shieldheart did.”

“I believe you can,” Ead said.

Sabran returned to her seat. “Since there are no ships heading north tonight,” she said, “I would like you to attend the Feast of High Winter. You, too, Loth.”

Loth frowned. “The feast will still proceed?”

“I think there is more need for it than ever. The arrangements ought to be in place.”

“People will see that you are not with child.” Loth hesitated. “Will you tell them you are barren?”

Sabran dropped her gaze to her belly.

“Barren.” A thin smile. “We must think of a different word for it, I think. That one makes me sound like a field stripped of its crop. A waste with nothing left to give.”

She was right. It was a cruel way to describe a person.

“Forgive me,” he murmured.

Sabran nodded. “I will tell the court that I lost the child, but as far as they will know, I might yet conceive another.”

It would grieve her subjects, but leave them with a ray of hope.

“Ead,” Sabran said, “I would like to make you a member of the Knights Bachelor.”

“I want no titles.”

“You will accept, or you will be in too much danger to remain at court. Crest told everyone you were a witch. This position will dispel any doubt that I believe you loyal.”

“I agree,” Loth said.

Ead offered the barest nod of acknowledgment. “Dame I am, then,” she said, after a pause.

The silence yawned long between the three of them. Allies now, yet they seemed to sit on a glass in that moment—a glass broken into faultlines of religion and inheritance.

“I will go and tell Margret of our journey,” Ead said, and rose. “Oh, and Sabran, I will not be wearing court fashions any longer. I’ve had more than enough of trying to protect you in a petticoat.”

She left without waiting to be dismissed. Sabran looked after her with a strange expression.

“Are you well?” Loth said to her quietly.

“Now you are back.”

They both smiled, and Sabran covered his hand with hers. Cold, as always, the nails tinged with lilac. He had teased her about it when they were children. Princess Snow.

“I have not yet thanked you for all you did to liberate me,” she said. “I understand you were the one who roused the court in my defense.”

He squeezed her hand. “You are my queen. And my friend.”

“When I heard that you had left, I thought I would go mad . . . I knew you would never have gone of your own accord, but I had no proof. I was powerless in my own court.”

“I know.”

She pressed his hand once more. “For now,” she said, “I am entrusting to you the duties of the Duchy of Justice. You will decide whether Combe, Fynch, and Stillwater truly were returning to help me.”

“This is a grave obligation. Meant for one with holy blood,” Loth said. “Surely one of the Earls Provincial proper would be better.”

“I trust it only to you.” Sabran pushed a sheet of parchment across the table. “Here is the Oath of Relinquishment pressed upon me by Crest. With my signature, this document would have yielded the throne to her family.”

Loth read it. His throat dried out as he took in the wax seal, impressed with the twin goblets.

“The fever and pain made me too weak to understand a great deal of what was happening to me. I was focused on surviving,” Sabran said. “Once, however, I heard Crest arguing with Roslain, saying that the Oath of Relinquishment would make her queen some day, and her daughter after that, and that she was an ingrate for resisting. And Ros— Ros said she would die before she took the throne from me.”

Loth smiled. He would have expected nothing less from Roslain.

“The night before you arrived,” Sabran continued, “I woke unable to breathe. Crest had a pillow over my face. She kept whispering that I was unworthy, like my mother before me. That the line was poisoned. That even Berethnets must answer to the call of justice.” Her hand ghosted to her mouth. “Ros broke her fingers prying her off me.”

So much suffering, all for naught.

“Crest must die,” Sabran concluded. “For their failure to act against her, I will have Eller and Withy confined to their castles to await my pleasure. I will strip them of their duchies in favor of their heirs.” Her face closed. “I tell you this. Holy blood or not, I will see Crest burn for what she has done.”

Once, Loth would have protested such a brutal punishment, but Crest deserved no pity.

“For a time, I almost believed I should yield the throne. That Crest wanted the best for the realm.” Sabran lifted her chin. “But we must be united in the face of the Draconic threat. I will cleave to my throne, and we will see what comes of it.”

She sounded more a queen than ever.

“Loth,” she added, quieter, “you were with Ead in this . . . Priory of the Orange Tree. You have seen the truth of her.” She held his gaze. “Do you still trust her?”

Loth poured a little more ale for them both.

“The Priory made me question the foundations of our world,” he admitted, “but throughout it all, I trusted Ead. She saved my life, at great risk to her own.” He handed her a cup. “She wants to keep you alive, Sab. I believe she wants it more than anything.”

Something changed in her face.

“I must write to Ermuna. Your chambers await you,” she said, “but be sure not to be late for the feast.” When she looked up at him, he saw a glint of the old Sabran in her eyes. “Welcome back to court, Lord Arteloth.”

On the highest floor of the Dearn Tower, in the cell where Truyde utt Zeedeur had spent her final days, Igrain Crest was at prayer. Only an arrow-slit cast light into her prison. When Loth entered, she did not raise her lowered head, nor unclasp her hands.

“Lady Igrain,” Loth said.

She was still.

“If it please you, I have come to ask you some questions.”

“I will answer for what I have done,” Crest said, “only in Halgalant.”

“You will not see the heavenly court,” Loth said quietly. “So let us begin here.”