The Priory of the Orange Tree (The Roots of Chaos)
The Priory of the Orange Tree: Part 4 – Chapter 53

The Feast of High Winter began at six of the clock in the Banqueting House of Ascalon Palace. As always, it would be followed by music and dancing in the Presence Chamber.

As the bells chimed in the clock tower, Ead studied her reflection. Her gown was palest blue silk, snowed with seed-pearls, the ruff made of white cutwork lace.

For one more night, she would dress as a courtier. Her sisters would think her even more of a traitor when they discovered that she had accepted a title from the Queen of Inys. If she was to survive here, however, it seemed she had no other choice.

A knock at the door, and Margret let herself in. She wore ivory satin and a silver girdle, and her attifet was studded with moonstones.

“I just came from Sabran,” she said. “I am to be made a Lady of the Bedchamber.” She set down the candle. “I thought you might not want to go to the Banqueting House alone.”

“You thought correctly. As always.” Ead met her gaze in the glass. “Meg, what has Loth told you about me?”

“Everything.” Margret grasped her by the shoulders. “You know I take the Knight of Courage as my patron. There is courage, I think, in open-mindedness, and thinking for oneself. If you are a witch, then perhaps witches are not so wicked after all.” Her face turned serious. “Now, a question. Would you prefer me to call you Eadaz?”

“No. But thank you for asking.” Ead was touched. “You may call me Ead, as I call you Meg.”

“Very well.” Margret linked her arm. “Then let me reintroduce you to court, Ead.”

Snow had settled thickly on every ledge and step. Courtiers were emerging from all over the palace, drawn to the light from the windows of the Banqueting House. As they entered, the steward called out, “Lady Margret Beck and Mistress Ead Duryan.”

Her old name. Her false name.

The Banqueting House fell almost silent. Hundreds of eyes turned to look upon the witch. Margret tightened her grip on her arm.

Loth was alone at the high table, seated to the left of the throne. He beckoned with one hand.

They walked between the rows of tables. When Margret went to the chair on the other side of the throne, Ead sat beside her. She had never once eaten at the high table, which had always been reserved for the queen, the Dukes Spiritual, and two other guests of honor. In the old days, those guests of honor had usually been Loth and Roslain.

“I’ve seen more cheer in a charnel garden,” Margret muttered. “Did you speak to Roslain, Loth?”

Loth rested his knuckles on his cheek and turned his face toward them, hiding his lips.

“Aye,” he said. “After the bonesetter came to tend to her hand.” He kept his voice low. “It appears your instinct was right, Ead. Crest believes herself to be the judge of queens.”

Ead took no pleasure in it.

“I am not sure when her madness set in,” Loth went on, “but when Queen Rosarian was still alive, one of her ladies reported to Crest that she had taken Captain Gian Harlowe as a lover. Crest saw Rosarian as . . . a harlot, unfit to be queen. She punished her in several ways. Then decided that she was beyond reform.”

Ead could see in his face that he was struggling to swallow this. He had believed for too long in the delicate artifice of court. Now the artfully placed leaves had blown away, revealing the shining jaws of the trap.

“She warned Queen Rosarian,” Loth continued, brow pinched, “but the affair with Harlowe carried on. Even—” He glanced toward the doors. “Even after Sab was born.”

Margret raised her eyebrows. “So Sabran may be his daughter?”

“If Crest speaks true. And I think she does. Once she started talking, she seemed almost desperate to tell me every detail of her . . . enterprise.”

Another secret to be kept. Another crack in the marble throne.

“Once Sab was old enough to bear children of her own,” Loth said, “Crest sought help from King Sigoso. She knew he reviled Rosarian for refusing his hand, so together they conspired to kill her, with Crest hoping the blame would drift toward Yscalin.”

“And Crest still considered herself pious?” Margret snorted. “After murdering a Berethnet?”

“Piety can turn the power-hungry into monsters,” Ead said. “They can twist any teaching to justify their actions.”

She had seen it before. Mita had believed she was serving the Mother when she executed Zāla.

“Crest waited then,” Loth said. “Waited to see if Sabran would grow to be more devout than her mother. When Sab resisted the childbed, Crest sensed rebellion. She bribed people to enter the Queen Tower with blades to frighten her. Ead, it is just as you suspected. The cutthroats were supposed to be caught. Crest promised their families would be compensated.”

“And she infiltrated Truyde’s plan in order to kill Lievelyn?” Margret asked, and Loth nodded. “But why?”

“Lievelyn traded with Seiiki. That was the reason she gave me. She also considered him a drain on Inys—but in truth, I think she could not bear that Sabran spurned her choice of companion. That she was becoming influenced by someone other than her.”

“Sab did seem to hearken to Lievelyn,” Margret conceded. “She went outside her palace for the first time in fourteen years because he asked it of her.”

“Just so. An upstart sinner with too much power. Once he had served his purpose, and Sabran was pregnant, he had to die.” Loth shook his head. “When the physician told her Sabran would not conceive again, it proved to Crest, once and for all, that she was of tainted seed, and that the House of Berethnet was no longer fit to serve the Saint. She decided that the throne must pass, at last, to the only worthy descendants of the Holy Retinue. To her own heir.”

“This confession must be enough to condemn Crest,” Ead said.

Loth looked grimly satisfied. “I do believe it is.”

At that moment, the steward thumped his staff on the floorboards.

“Her Majesty, Queen Sabran!”

The court fell silent as it rose. When Sabran came into the candlelight, with the silver-clad Knights of the Body behind her, there was a shared intake of breath.

Ead had never seen her look so splendidly alone. Usually she came to the Banqueting Hall with her ladies, or with Seyton Combe or some other person of importance.

She wore no powder on her face. No jewelry but her coronation ring. Her gown was black velvet, its sleeves and forepart mourning gray. It was clear to anyone with sense that she was not with child.

Murmurs of confusion rang through the hall. It was traditional for a queen to be holding her swaddled daughter, the first time she appeared in public after her confinement.

Loth stood to let Sabran take the throne. She lowered herself into it, watched by her court.

“Mistress Lidden,” she said, her voice stentorian, “will you not sing for us?”

The Knights of the Body took their places behind the high table. Lintley never removed his hand from his sword. The court musicians began to play, and Jillet Lidden sang.

Silver platters of food were brought out from the Great Kitchen and laid on the tables, displaying all Inys had to offer in the high winter. Swan pie, woodcock, and roasted goose, baked venison in a rich clove sauce, burbot sprinkled with almond snowflakes and silver leaf, white cabbage and honey-glazed parsnip, mussels seethed in butter and red wine vinegar. Conversation stole back into the hall, but nobody seemed able to tear their eyes from the queen.

A page filled their goblets with ice wine from Hróth. Ead accepted a few mussels and a cut of goose. As she ate, she gave Sabran a sidelong glance.

She recognized the look on her face. Fragility with a front of strength. As Sabran lifted her goblet to her lips, only Ead noticed the tremor in her hand.

Jumbles, sugar plums, spiced pear and cranberry pie, pastry horns stuffed with snow cream, and blanched apple tarts, among other delicacies, followed the main course. When Sabran rose, and the steward announced her, a deathly silence fell again.

Sabran did not speak for some time. She stood tall, with her hands clasped at her midriff.

“Good people,” she said at last, “we know that things at court have been disquieting in recent days, and that our absence must have troubled you.” Somehow, despite the low pitch of her voice, she managed to make herself heard. “Certain people at this court have conspired, of late, to break the spirit of fellowship that has always united the people of Virtudom.”

Her face was a locked door. The court waited for revelation.

“It will be a great shock to you that during our recent illness, we were confined in the Queen Tower by one of our own councillors, who was attempting to usurp our Saint-given authority.” Murmurs flickered across the hall. “This councillor took advantage of our absence to pursue her own ambition to steal our throne. A person of holy blood.”

Ead felt the words in her core, and she knew that everyone else did, too. They struck like a wave. Left no one untouched.

“Because of her actions, we must bring you most grievous news.” Sabran placed a hand on her belly. “That during our ordeal . . . we lost the beloved daughter we carried.”

The silence went on. And on.

And on.

Then one of the maids of honor let out a sob, and it was like a thunderclap. The Banqueting House erupted around her.

Sabran remained still and expressionless. The hall resounded with calls for the perpetrators to pay. The steward banged his staff, shouting to no avail for order, until Sabran raised a hand.

At once, the turmoil ceased.

“These are uncertain times,” Sabran said, “and we cannot afford to give way to grief. A shadow has fallen over our realm. More Draconic creatures are waking, and their wings have brought a wind of fear. We see that fear in all your faces. We have seen it even in our own.”

Ead watched the crowd. The words were reaching them. By offering them a glimpse of vulnerability—a fine crack in her armor—Sabran showed that she stood among them.

“But it is in such times that we must look more than ever to the Saint to guide us,” Sabran said. “He opens his arms to the fearful. He shelters us with his own shield. And his love, like a sword in the hand, makes us strong. While we stand together in the great Chainmail of Virtudom, we cannot be defeated.

“We mean to reforge with love what greed has broken. On this, the Feast of High Winter, we pardon all those who were so quick to serve their mistress that they neglected, in their haste and fear, to serve their queen. They will not be executed. They will know the balm of mercy.

“But the woman who used them cannot be forgiven. It was her hunger for power, and her wanton abuse of the power she had already been given, that swayed others to her will.” The hall flickered with nods. “She has dishonored her holy blood. She has scorned her patron virtue—for Igrain Crest knew no justice in her hypocrisy and malice.”

That name sent a ripple of unrest along the tables.

“By her actions, Crest has shamed not only the Knight of Justice, but the blessed Saint and his descendants. Therefore, we expect her to be found guilty of high treason.” Sabran made the sign of the sword, and the court mirrored her. “All of the Dukes Spiritual are presently being questioned. It is our fervent hope that the rest are proven innocent, but we shall bow to the evidence.”

Each of her words was the skip of a stone across a lake, forming ripples of emotion. The Queen of Inys could not cast illusions, but her voice and bearing on this night had turned her into an enchantress.

“We stand here in love. In hope. And in defiance. Defiance of those would have tried to turn us from our values. Defiance of Draconic hate. We rise to face the winds of fear and, by the Saint, we will turn them back upon our enemies.” She walked across the dais, and every eye followed her. “We do not yet have an heir, for our daughter is in the arms of the Saint—but your queen is very much alive. And we will ride into any battle for you, as Glorian Shieldheart rode for her people. Come what may.”

Now there were rumbles of agreement. Nods and shouts of Sabran Queen.

“We will prove to the entire world,” she continued, “that no wyrm will cow the people of Virtudom!”

“Virtudom,” voices echoed. “Virtudom!”

They were all on their feet now. Eyes bright in the frenzy of veneration. Cups held up in taut-knuckled fists.

She had led them from the depths of terror to the height of adoration.

Sabran was golden-tongued.

“Now, in the same defiance this realm has professed for a thousand years,” she called out, “we celebrate the Feast of High Winter—and prepare for spring, the season of change. The season of sweetness. The season of generosity. And what it gives, we will not hoard, but give in turn to you.” She snatched her goblet from the table and thrust it high. “To Virtudom!”

“VIRTUDOM,” the court roared back. “VIRTUDOM! VIRTUDOM!”

Their voices filled the hall like song, rising to its very rafters.

The festivities went on late into the night. Though there were balefires outside, the courtiers seemed grateful to be in the Presence Chamber, where Sabran sat on her marble throne, and flames roared in the cavernous hearth. Ead stood with Margret in the corner.

As she sipped her mulled wine, a blaze of red caught her eye. Her hand flicked to the knife on her girdle.

“Ead.” Margret touched her elbow. “What is it?”

Red hair. The red hair of the Mentish ambassador, not a cloak—yet Ead did not relax. Her sisters must be biding their time, but they would come.

“Nothing. Forgive me,” Ead said. “What were you saying?”

“Tell me what the matter is.”

“It is nothing you want to meddle in, Meg.”

“I wasn’t meddling. Well, perhaps,” Margret admitted. “One must be a trifle meddlesome at court, or one has nothing to talk about.”

Ead smiled. “Are you ready for our journey to Goldenbirch tomorrow?”

“Aye. Our ship leaves at dawn.” Margret paused before adding, “Ead, I don’t suppose you were able to bring Valour home.”

There was hope in her eyes. “He is with an Ersyri family I trust, on an estate in the Harmur Pass,” Ead said. “I could not take him into the desert. You shall have him back, I promise.”

“Thank you.”

Someone stopped beside Margret and touched her on the shoulder. Katryen Withy, wearing a gown of cloud silk. Pearls inlaid in silver nestled in her wreath of hair.

“Kate.” Margret embraced her. “Kate, how do you do?”

“I have been worse.” Katryen kissed her on the cheek before turning to Ead. “Oh, Ead. I am very glad you’re back.”

“Katryen.” Ead looked her over. A bruise was fading under her eye, and her jaw was swollen. “What happened to you?”

“I tried to get to Sabran.” She touched the mark gingerly. “Crest had me locked in my quarters. Her guard did this when I resisted.”

Margret shook her head. “If that tyrant had ever sat the throne . . .”

“Thank the Damsel she will not.”

Sabran, who had been deep in conversation with Loth, now rose, and the room was quiet. It was time for her to reward those who had proved most faithful to their queen.

The ceremony was no less impressive for its brevity. First, Margret was formally named a Lady of the Bedchamber, while the Knights of the Body were commended for their ceaseless loyalty to the crown. Others who had joined them were given lands and jewels, and then:

“Mistress Ead Duryan.”

Ead stepped from the crowd. Whispers and looks dogged her footsteps.

“By the grace of the Six Virtues,” the steward read, “it has pleased Her Majesty to name you Dame Eadaz uq-Nāra, Viscountess Nurtha. A member of the Virtues Council.”

The Presence Chamber rang with murmurs. Viscountess was an honorary title in Inys, used to raise a woman who was not of noble or holy blood. Never had it been bestowed upon one who was not an Inysh subject.

Sabran took the ceremonial sword from Loth. Ead held still as the flat of the blade touched each of her shoulders. This second title would only serve to deepen her treachery in the eyes of her sisters—but she could wear it if it shielded her for long enough to replace Ascalon.

“Rise,” Sabran said. “My lady.”

Ead stood and looked her in the eye.

“Thank you.” Her curtsy was brief. “Your Majesty.”

She took her letters patent from the steward. People whispered my lady as she returned to Margret.

She was Mistress Duryan no more.

There was one last honor to be given. For his courage, Sir Tharian Lintley, who was as much a commoner by blood as Ead, also received a new title. He was made Viscount Morwe.

“Now, Lord Morwe,” Sabran said in an arch tone, once Lintley had received his accolade, “we believe you are of appropriate rank to marry a daughter of the Earls Provincial. Pray, do you . . . have anyone in mind?”

An outbreak of much-needed laughter followed.

Lintley swallowed. He looked like a man who had just been granted all the wishes of his life.

“Yes.” He looked across the room. “Yes, Your Majesty, I do. But I would prefer first to speak to the lady in private. To be certain of her heart.”

Margret, who had been watching with pursed lips, raised an eyebrow.

“You have spoken for long enough, Sir Tharian,” she called. “Now is the time for action.”

More laughter. Lintley chuckled, as did she. Candlelight danced in her eyes. She crossed the room and took his outstretched hand.

“Your Majesty,” Lintley said, “I ask your permission, and that of the Knight of Fellowship, to take this woman as my companion in the coming days.” The way he gazed at her, she might have been a sunrise after years of night. “So that I might love her as she has always deserved.”

Margret looked to the throne. Her throat bobbed, but Sabran had already inclined her head.

“You have our permission,” she said. “We give it gladly.”

Cheers filled the Presence Chamber. Loth, Ead was pleased to see, clapped as hard as anyone else.

“Now,” Sabran said, “we think a dance is in order.” She motioned to the consort. “Come, play the Pavane of the Merrow King.”

This time, the applause was thunderous. Lintley murmured something to Margret, who smiled and placed a kiss on his cheek. As the dancers took their places, Loth stepped down from his seat and bowed to Ead.

“Viscountess,” he said, mock somber. “Would you do me the honor of a dance?”

“I shall, my lord.” Ead placed a hand over his, and he led her to the middle of the room. “How do you like the match?” she asked him, seeing him glance toward Margret.

“Very well. Lintley is a good man.”

The Pavane of the Merrow King was sedate at first. It began like the ocean on a tranquil day, becoming tumultuous as the music swelled. It was an intricate affair, but Ead and Loth were old hands at it.

“My parents will have heard the news by the time you reach Goldenbirch,” Loth said as they skipped with the other couples. “Mama will be even more vexed that I am not betrothed myself.”

“I think she will be too relieved that you are alive to care,” Ead said. “Besides, you may prefer never to wed.”

“As Earl of Goldenbirch, it would be expected of me. And I have always longed for companionship.” Loth looked down at her. “But what of you?”

“Me.” Ead glided to the right, and he followed. “Would I ever take a companion, you mean?”

“You cannot go home. Perhaps you could . . . make a life here. With someone.” His gaze was soft. “Unless you already have.”

Her chest tightened.

The dance separated them for a moment while they formed a whirlpool with the other pairs. When they reached each other again, Loth said, “Crest told me. I suppose she heard it from the Night Hawk.”

Saying it out loud would be dangerous. He knew that.

“I hope you did not keep it from me because you thought I would judge you,” Loth murmured. They both turned on the spot. “You are my dearest friend. I want you to be happy.”

“Even though it shames the Knight of Fellowship.” Ead raised her eyebrows. “We are not wed.”

“I would have believed that before,” he admitted. “Now I see that there are more important things.”

Ead smiled. “You really have changed.” They joined hands again as the pavane grew faster. “I did not want to burden you with worry for us both. You care too much.”

“It is my way,” he said, “but it would be a greater burden to know that my friend felt she could not open her heart to me.” He squeezed her hand. “I am here for you. Always.”

“And I for you,” Ead said. She hoped it could be true.

As the pavane came to its end, she wondered if they would ever lie carefree under the apple tree again, sharing wine and talking until dawn, after everything they had been through. Loth bowed to her, a smile creasing his eyes, and she curtsied back. Then she turned, intending to slip away to her chamber—only to replace Sabran waiting.

Ead watched her as the floor cleared. So did the rest of the court.

“Play a candle dance,” Sabran said.

This time, there were gasps of delight from the courtiers. The queen had not danced in public once while Ead had lived at court. Loth had confided to her, long ago, that Sabran had stopped dancing the day her mother died.

Many courtiers would never have witnessed this dance, but some of the older servants, who must have seen Queen Rosarian partake, set about plucking candles from the chamber sticks. Soon the other servants followed suit. One candle was given to Sabran, another to Ead. Loth, who was close enough to be caught up in the affair, offered a hand to Katryen.

The consort of instruments struck up an aching tune, and Jillet Lidden began to sing. Three men joined their voices to hers.

Ead curtsied low to Sabran, who mirrored her. Even that small action made her candle flicker.

The circling began. They held the candles in their right hands, and their left hands were held back to back, not quite touching. Six rotations around each other, gazes locked, before they were summoned by the music to opposite sides of the line. Ead circled around Katryen before she returned to Sabran.

Her partner was a magnificent dancer. Every step was precise, yet sleek as velvet. All those years she never danced for her court, she must have trained herself alone. She sailed around Ead like the hand of a clock, drawn closer by the heartbeat, no step faster than the last. When Ead turned her head, their foreheads met, and their shoulders brushed, before they parted again. Ead lost her breath somewhere along the way.

Never had they been this close in public. The scent of her, the short-lived warmth, was a torture no one else could see. Ead circled around Loth before she reunited with Sabran, and her blood was as loud as the music, louder.

It went on for what felt like an eternity. She was lost in a dream of haunting voices, in the lilt of flute and harp and shawm, and in Sabran, half concealed by shadow.

She hardly noticed when the music ended. All she could hear was the drum in her chest. There was an enraptured silence before the court burst into applause. Sabran cupped a hand around her candle and blew it out.

“We will retire for the night.” A maid of honor took her candle. “I bid the rest of you to stay and enjoy the festivities. Good evening.”

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” the court answered, bowing and curtsying as their queen walked away. At the door to the Privy Chamber, Sabran looked over her shoulder at Ead.

That look was a call. Ead snuffed her candle and handed it to a servant.

Her corset felt tighter. A sweet ache blossomed in her belly. She stayed for a little while in the crowd, watching Loth and Margret dance a galliard, before she left the Presence Chamber. The Knights of the Body stood aside for her.

The Privy Chamber was dark and cold. Ead walked through it, remembering the music of the virginals, and opened the doors to the Great Bedchamber.

Sabran waited beside the fire. She wore nothing now but her stiff corset and shift.

“Make no mistake,” she said, “I am wroth with you.”

Ead stood on the threshold.

“I shared all my secrets with you, Ead.” Her voice was hardly there. “You saw me as the night does. As my truest self.” She paused. “It was you who drove away Fýredel.”

“Yes.”

Sabran closed her eyes.

“Nothing in my life was real. Even the attempts to take my life were staged, designed to influence and manipulate me. But you, Ead—I believed you were different. I called Combe a liar when he told me you were not what you appeared. Now I wonder if everything between us was part of your act. Your assignment.”

Ead searched for the right words.

“Answer me,” Sabran said, voice straining. “I am your queen.”

“You may be a queen, but you are not my queen. I am not your subject, Sabran.” Ead stepped inside and shut the doors. “And that is why you can be certain that what was between us was real.”

Sabran gazed into the fire.

“I showed you as much of myself as I could,” Ead told her. “Any more would have seen me executed.”

“Do you think me a tyrant?”

“I think you a self-righteous fool whose head is harder than a rock. And I would not change you for the world.”

Sabran finally looked at her.

“Tell me, Eadaz uq-Nāra,” she said softly, “am I a greater fool to want you still?”

Ead crossed the space between them. “No more a fool than I,” she said, “to love you as I do.”

She reached for Sabran, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear. Sabran gazed into her eyes.

They stood face to face, barely touching. At last, Sabran took Ead by the hands and placed them on her waist. Ead slid them to her front and set about unravelling her corset.

Sabran watched her. Ead wanted this to be another candle dance, to savor the long climb of their intimacy, but she needed her too much. Her fingers looped beneath the laces and pulled them through the hooks, one after another, and at last the corset opened and fell, leaving Sabran in her shift. Ead slid the silk from her shoulders and held her by her hips.

She stood naked in the shadows. Ead drank in her limbs, her hair, her eyes like foxfire.

The space between them disappeared. Now it was Sabran who did the unlacing. Ead closed her eyes and let herself be stripped.

They embraced like companions on the first night. When Sabran placed a kiss on her neck, just behind the shell of her ear, Ead let her head list to one side. Sabran glided her hands up her back.

Ead lowered her to the bed. Hungry lips came against hers, and Sabran breathed her name. It seemed as if centuries had passed since they had last been here.

They intertwined among the furs and sheets, breathless and fierce. Ead shivered with anticipation as she relearned every detail of the woman she had left behind. Her cheekbones and her tilted-up nose. Her smooth brow. The pillar of her throat and the little chalice at its base. The twin dents low down on her back, like the impressions of fingertips. Sabran unlocked her lips with her own, and Ead kissed her as if this were their last act on earth. As if this one embrace could keep the Nameless One at bay.

Their tongues danced the same pavane as their hips. Ead bent her head and touched her lips to each fine-cut collarbone, the rosebuds at the tips of her breasts. She kissed her belly, where the bruising had at last faded away. The only trace of the truth was a seam beneath her navel.

Sabran cradled her face. Ead looked into the eyes that had haunted her, and called to her still. Her fingers grazed over the scar that led along one thigh, found the dew where it met the other.

Then Sabran rolled her over, mischief in her smile. Her hair eclipsed the candlelight. Ead slid her hands around the cruet of her waist, interlocked her fingers at the small of her back, and dragged her between her legs.

Desire was a banked fire in her. Sabran smoothed a hand beneath her thigh and placed a light kiss on each breast.

Surely this was an unquiet dream. She would throw herself on the mercy of the desert if it meant that she could have this woman.

Sabran worked her way downward. Ead closed her eyes, breath netted in her chest. Her senses splintered to admit each luminous sensation. Fire-warmed skin. Creamgrail and clove. By the time a finger brushed her navel, she was drawn taut, shivering and glazed with sweat. As her hips rose in welcome, soft lips charted the crook of her thigh.

Each sinew of her was a string on a virginal, aching for the stroke of the musician. Her senses wound tight about ever-smaller centers, tensed to the pitch of Sabran Berethnet, and every touch vibrated through her bones.

“I am not your queen,” Sabran whispered over her skin, “but I am yours.” Ead raked her fingers through the dark of her hair. “And you will replace that I can also be generous.”

They slept only when they were too heavy-limbed and sated to keep their exhaustion at bay. Sometime in the small hours, they woke to the patter of rain against the window, and they sought each other out again, bodies echoing the ember light.

After, they lay interlaced under the coverlets.

“You must remain as my Lady of the Bedchamber,” Sabran murmured. “For this. For us.”

Ead gazed at the ornate stonework on the ceiling.

“I can play the part of Lady Nurtha,” she said, “but it will always be a part.”

“I know.” Sabran looked into the darkness. “I fell in love with a part you played.”

Ead tried not to let the words replace her heart, but Sabran had a way of always reaching it.

Chassar had fashioned Ead Duryan, and she had inhabited her so fully that everyone had fallen for the act. For the first time, she understood the depth of betrayal and confusion that Sabran must be feeling.

Sabran took Ead by the hand and traced the underside of her finger. The one that held her sunstone ring.

“You did not wear this before.”

Ead was close to falling asleep. “It is the symbol of the Priory,” she said. “The ring of a slayer.”

“You have slain a Draconic creature, then.”

“Long ago. With my sister, Jondu. We killed a wyvern that had woken in the Godsblades.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

Sabran studied the ring for a time.

“I long not to believe your tale of Galian and Cleolind. I prayed to them both all my life,” she murmured. “If your version of events is correct, then I never knew either of them.”

Ead slid a hand to her back.

“Do you believe me?” she asked. “You know I have no proof of it.”

“I know,” Sabran said. Their noses touched. “It will take time for me to come to terms with this … but I will not close my mind to the notion that Galian Berethnet was only flesh.”

Her breathing grew softer. For a time, Ead thought she had drifted back to sleep. Then Sabran said, “I fear the war Fýredel craves.” She entwined their fingers. “And the shadow of the Nameless One.”

Ead only stroked her hair with one hand.

“I will address my people soon. They must know that I will stand against the Draconic Army, and that there is a plan in place to end the threat once and for all. If you can replace the True Sword, I will show it to them. To lift their spirits.” Sabran looked up. “Your ambition is to defeat the Nameless One. If you succeed, what then will you do?”

Ead let her eyelids fall. It was a question she had tried her utmost not to ask herself.

“The Priory was founded to keep the Nameless One at bay,” she said. “If I bind him . . . I suppose I could do anything.”

A strange quiet grew between them. They lay in silence until Sabran shifted away and turned on to her other side.

“Sabran.” Ead kept her distance. “What is it?”

“I’m too warm.”

Her voice was armored. Faced with the back of her shoulder, Ead tried her best to sleep. She had no right to ask for truth.

It was not yet dawn when she woke. Sabran was asleep beside her, so still, she might have been dead.

Careful not to disturb her, Ead rose. Sabran stirred as she kissed the top of her head. She ought to let her know she was leaving, but even sleeping she looked tired. At least now she was safe, surrounded by people who loved her.

Ead left the Great Bedchamber and returned to her own rooms, where she washed and dressed. Margret was already in the stables in a riding habit and a hat festooned with an ostrich feather, saddling a sleepy-eyed palfrey. When she smiled, Ead embraced her.

“I am so happy for you, Meg Beck.” She kissed her cheek. “The soon-to-be Viscountess Morwe.”

“I wish he had not needed to be Viscount Morwe to be deemed worthy of me, but things are as they are.” Margret withdrew and grasped her hands. “Ead, will you be my giver?”

“It would be an honor. And now you can give your parents the good news.”

Margret sighed. Her father sometimes did not know his children. “Aye. Mama will be overjoyed.” She smoothed the front of her cream jacket. “Do you think I look all right?”

“I think you look like Lady Margret Beck. A paragon of fashion.”

Margret blew out a breath. “Good. I thought I might look like the village fool in this hat.”

They rode into the waking streets and crossed the Limber at the Bridge of Supplications, which was carved with the likenesses of every queen of the House of Berethnet. If they made good time, they could be in Summerport, which served the northern counties of Inys, by ten of the clock.

“Your dance with Sab last night set tongues wagging.” Margret glanced at her. “Rumor is that the two of you are lovers.”

“What would you say if that were true?”

“I would say you and she can do as you please.”

She could trust Margret. Mother knew, it would be good to have someone to talk to about her feelings for Sabran—yet something made her want to keep it secret, to keep their hours stolen.

“Rumors are nothing new at court,” was all she said. “Come, tell me your plans for the wedding. I think you would look very fine in yellow. What say you?”

The grounds of Ascalon Palace were draped in morning fog. A drench of rain had blown in and frozen overnight, turning the paths to frosted glass and dressing every windowsill with icicles.

Loth stood before the ruins of the Marble Gallery, where he and Sabran had often sat and talked for hours. There was a haunting beauty in the way the stone wept to the ground like wax.

No natural fire could have melted it. Only something retched up by the Dreadmount.

“This is where I lost my daughter.”

He looked over his shoulder. Sabran was close by, face cold-burned beneath a fur hat. Her Knights of the Body waited at a distance, all in the silver-plated armor of winter.

“I called her Glorian. The grandest name of my lineage. Each of its three bearers were great queens.” Her gaze was in the past. “I often wonder what she would have been like. If her name would have been a burden, or if she would have become even more illustrious than the others.”

“I think she would have been as fearless and virtuous as her mother.”

Sabran managed a tired smile.

“You would have liked Aubrecht.” She came to stand beside him. “He was kind and honorable. Like you.”

“I am sorry I never met him,” Loth said.

They watched the sun rise. Somewhere in the grounds, a lark began to chirrup.

“I prayed this morning for Lord Kitston.” Sabran rested her head on his shoulder, and he drew her in close. “Ead does not believe that Halgalant awaits us after death. Perhaps she is right—but I still trust, and always will, that there is a life beyond this one. And I trust that he has found it.”

“I must trust in that, too.” Loth thought of the tunnel. That lonesome tomb. “Thank you, Sab. Truly.”

“I know his death must hurt you still, rightly,” Sabran said, “but you must not let it cloud your judgment.”

“I know it.” He drew in a breath. “I must visit Combe.”

“Very well. I will be in the Privy Library, attending to neglected matters of state.”

“An invigorating day ahead of you, then.”

“Indeed.” With another weary smile, Sabran turned back to the Queen Tower. “Good day to you, Lord Arteloth.”

“Good day, Your Majesty.”

In spite of it all, it was a fine thing to be back at court.

In the Dearn Tower, Lord Seyton Combe was wrapped in a blanket, reading a prayer book with bloodshot eyes. He was shivering, and little wonder.

“Lord Arteloth,” the Night Hawk said, when the jailer let Loth in. “How good to see you back at court.”

“I wish I could feel as warmly toward you, Your Grace.”

“Oh, I expect no warmth, my lord. I had good reasons for sending you away, but you will not like them.”

Keeping his face clean of emotion, Loth took a seat.

“For the time being, Queen Sabran has entrusted the investigation of the attempted usurpation of her throne to me,” he said. “I would hear everything you know about Crest.”

Combe sat back. Loth had always found those eyes unnerving.

“When Queen Sabran was confined to her sickbed,” Combe began, “I had no reason, at first, to suspect that anything was amiss with her care. She had agreed to keep to the Queen Tower to conceal her miscarriage, and Lady Roslain was willing to stay with her during her illness. Then, not long after Mistress Duryan left the capital—”

“Fled,” Loth corrected. “In fear for her life. Banishing friends of the queen is something of a habit of yours, Your Grace.”

“I make a habit of protecting her, my lord.”

“You failed.”

At this, Combe heaved a long sigh.

“Yes.” He rubbed at the shadows under his eyes. “Yes, my lord, I did.”

Loth felt, to his exasperation, a flicker of sympathy.

“Continue,” he said.

It was a moment before Combe did. “Doctor Bourn came to me,” he recounted. “He had been ordered out of the Queen Tower. He confessed his fear that, rather than being cared for, Her Majesty was being guarded. Only Lady Igrain and Lady Roslain were attending her.

“I had long been . . . uneasy about Igrain. I misliked her rather pitiless species of piety.” Combe drew slow circles on his temple. “I had told her what I had learned from one of my spies. That Lady Nurtha, as she is known now, had carnal knowledge of the queen. Something changed in her eyes. She made a comment alluding to Queen Rosarian and her . . . marital conduct.”

A memory, unbidden, of her portrait in Cárscaro, slashed in a fit of jealous rage.

“I began to fit the pieces together, and I misliked the picture they formed,” Combe said. “I sensed Igrain was power-drunk on her own patron virtue. And that she was plotting to supplant her queen with someone else.”

“Roslain.”

Combe nodded. “The future head of the Crest family. When I attempted to enter the royal apartments, I found myself barred by retainers, who told me the queen was too unwell for visitors. I went away without demur, but that night, I, ah, apprehended Igrain’s secretary.

“The duchess is a clever woman. She knew not to keep anything in her own office, but her secretary, under pressure, surrendered documents pertaining to her finances.” A grim smile. “I found recurring stipends from the Duchy of Askrdal. A vast payment from Cárscaro, paid after the death of the Queen Mother. Fine cloth and jewels for bribery. A significant number of crowns had been moved from her coffers to those of a merchant named Tam Atkin. I discovered that he is the half-brother of Bess Weald, who shot Lievelyn.”

“A conspiracy more than a decade in the making,” Loth said, “and you saw none of it.” The corner of his mouth flinched. “A hawk has keen eyes. Perhaps they should name you the Night Mole instead. Nosing blindly in the dark.”

Combe chuckled humorlessly, but it turned into a cough.

“I would have earned it,” he rasped. “You see, Lord Arteloth, while my eyes are everywhere, I closed them to those of holy blood. I assumed the loyalty of the other Dukes Spiritual. And so, I did not watch.”

He was shivering more than ever.

“I had evidence against Igrain,” Combe went on, “but I had to tread carefully. She had occupied the Queen Tower, you understand, and any rash move against her could have endangered Her Majesty. I conferred with Lady Nelda and Lord Lemand, and we decided that the best option would be to go to our estates, return with our retinues, and quench the spark of usurpation. Fortunate, my lord, that you arrived first, or there might have been a great deal more bloodshed.”

There was a pause while Loth thought it over. Much as he disliked the man, it had the ring of truth.

“I understand that Igrain grasped for power just as I banished Lady Nurtha, so I may appear complicit in her crimes,” Combe said while Loth digested this, “but I call the Saint to witness that I have done nothing unbeseeming an honest man. Nor have I done anything unworthy of my place beside the Queen of Inys.” His gaze held steady. “She may be the last Berethnet, but she is a Berethnet. And I mean for her to rule for a long time yet.”

Loth considered the man who had exiled him to near-certain death. There was something in those eyes that spoke of sincerity, but Loth was no longer the trusting boy who had been sent away. He had seen too much.

“Will you speak against Crest,” he finally said, “and surrender your physical evidence?”

“I will.”

“And will you send a sum of money to the Earl and Countess of Honeybrook?” Loth asked. “For the loss of their only heir, Kitston Glade. Their beloved son.” His throat clenched. “And the kindest friend who ever lived.”

“I will. Of course.” Combe inclined his head. “May the Knight of Justice guide your hand, my lord. I pray you are kinder than her descendant.”