The Priory of the Orange Tree (The Roots of Chaos)
The Priory of the Orange Tree: Part 4 – Chapter 56

Loth had spent his morning writing to the Virtues Council, telling them of the imminent threat and calling them to Ascalon. It was an exhausting process, but since Seyton Combe had been released and taken over building a case against Igrain Crest, some of the burden was off his shoulders.

Sabran joined him in the afternoon. A rock dove perched on her forearm, cooing. Its piebald feathers identified it as having come from Mentendon.

“I have received a reply from High Princess Ermuna. She demands justice for the unlawful execution of Lady Truyde.” She laid the letter on the table. “She also says that Doctor Niclays Roos has been abducted by pirates, and blames me for withholding his pardon for so long.”

Loth unfolded the letter. It had been sealed with the swan of the House of Lievelyn.

“The only justice I can offer for Truyde is the head of Igrain Crest.” Sabran unlatched the doors to the balcony. “As for Roos . . . I should have relented a long time ago.”

“Roos was a swindler,” Loth said. “He deserved punishment.”

“Not to that extreme.”

He sensed there was nothing he could say to deter her. For his part, Loth had never liked the alchemist.

“Fortunately,” Sabran said, “Ermuna has agreed, given the urgency of my request, to have the Library of Ostendeur scoured for knowledge about the reign of Empress Mokwo. She has sent one of her servants to replace the records, and will send another bird with all speed when she has them.”

“Good.”

Sabran held up her arm. The rock dove hopped off it and fluttered away.

“Sab.”

She looked at him.

“Crest told me something,” Loth said. “About . . . why she arranged for your mother to die.”

“Say it.”

Loth let her have a moment without the knowledge. He tried not to think of how Crest had looked throughout the questioning. Her disdainful gaze, her brazen lack of remorse.

“She told me that the Queen Mother committed adultery with a privateer. Captain Gian Harlowe.” He hesitated. “The affair began the year before she became pregnant with you.”

Sabran closed the doors to the balcony and took the seat at the head of the table.

“So,” she said, “I may be a bastard.”

“Crest thought so. That was why she took such a great role in your upbringing. She wanted to mold you into a more virtuous queen.”

“A more obedient queen. A manikin,” Sabran said curtly, “to be manipulated.”

“Prince Wilstan may have been your father.” Loth placed a hand over hers. “The affair with Harlowe might not even have existed. Crest is clearly not in her right mind.”

Sabran shook her head. “Part of me has always known. Mother and Father were loving in public, but cold in private.” She pressed his hand. “Thank you for telling me, Loth.”

“Aye.”

She reached in silence for her swan-feather quill. Loth kneaded the stiffness from his neck and continued with his work.

It was peaceful to be alone with her. He found himself glancing at his childhood friend, wondering.

Had Sabran been in love with Lievelyn and turned to Ead for comfort after his death? Or had her marriage to Lievelyn been one of convenience, and it was Ead who was the root of her heart? Perhaps the truth was somewhere between.

“I have a mind,” Sabran said, “to make Roslain the new Duchess of Justice. She is heir apparent.”

“Is that wise?” When she only continued writing, Loth said, “I have been a friend to Roslain for many years. I know her devotion to you—but can we be sure her part in this was innocent?”

“Combe is as convinced as he can be that she acted only to save my life. Her broken fingers are evidence of her loyalty.” She dipped her quill in the inkhorn again. “Her grandmother will lose her head. Ead may have counseled for mercy in the past, but too much of it makes a fool.”

Footsteps approached from outside the chamber. Sabran tensed as they heard the clash of partizans.

“Who goes there?” she called.

“The Lady Chancellor, Your Majesty,” came the answer.

She relaxed a little. “Send her in.”

Lady Nelda Stillwater walked into the Council Chamber, wearing the ruby chain of her office.

“Your Grace,” Sabran said.

“Majesty. Lord Arteloth.” The Duchess of Courage curtsied. “I have just now been released from the Dearn Tower. I wanted to come in person to tell you of my anger that a fellow duchess would rise against you.” Her face was tight. “You have always had my loyalty.”

Sabran gave a gracious nod. “I thank you, Nelda, and am very glad to see you released.”

“On behalf of my son and granddaughter, I must also beg mercy for Lady Roslain. She has never spoken a word of treason against you in my presence, and I cannot think that she ever meant you harm.”

“Be assured that Lady Roslain will be judged fairly.”

Loth nodded his agreement. Little Elain, who was but five years old, must be worried for her mother.

“Thank you, Majesty,” Stillwater said. “I trust your verdict. Lord Seyton has also asked me to tell you that Lady Margret and Dame Eadaz arrived in Summerport at noonday.”

“Send word that they should come to the Council Chamber as soon as they reach the palace.”

Stillwater curtsied again and went back through the doors.

“It seems Lord Seyton has already returned to his role as your industrious spymaster,” Loth said.

“Indeed.” Sabran picked up her quill again. “Are you certain that he had no notion of this plot?”

“Certain is a dangerous word,” Loth said, “but I am as sure as I can be that everything he does, he does for the crown—and for the queen who wears it. Strangely, I trust him.”

“Even though he sent you away. Even though if not for him, Lord Kitston would still be alive.” Sabran caught his gaze. “I could still have him stripped of his titles, Loth. Only say the word.”

“The Knight of Courage teaches mercy and forgiveness,” Loth said quietly. “I choose to take heed.”

With a small nod, Sabran returned to her letter, and Loth returned to his.

It was late in the afternoon when a disturbance far below the tower made him raise his head. He went to the balcony and leaned over the balustrade. In the courtyard, at least fifty people, small as emmets from here, had gathered in the Sundial Garden, with more flocking to join them.

“I believe Ead is back.” He grinned. “With a gift.”

“Gift?”

He was already halfway out of the Council Chamber. Sabran was at his side in moments, chased by her Knights of the Body. “Loth,” she said, half-laughing, “what gift?”

“You’ll see.”

Outside, the sun was bright and heatless, and Margret and Ead were at the center of a commotion. They flanked Aralaq, who stood amid the curious onlookers with a sort of dignified exhaustion. When Sabran appeared, Ead curtsied, and the court followed suit.

“Majesty.”

Sabran raised her eyebrows. “Lady Nurtha.”

Ead straightened, smiling.

“Madam,” she said, “we found this noble creature in Goldenbirch, at the site of Berethnet Hearth.” She placed a hand on the ichneumon. “This is Aralaq, a descendant of the very ichneumon who bore Queen Cleolind to Inys. He has come to offer his allegiance to Your Majesty.”

Aralaq assessed the queen with his huge, black-rimmed eyes. Sabran took in the miracle before her.

“You are most welcome here, Aralaq.” She lowered her head. “As your ancestors were before you.”

Aralaq bowed to the queen in return, his nose almost touching the grass. Loth watched how faces changed. To the people of the court, this was further confirmation that Sabran was divine.

“I will guard you as I would my own pup, Sabran of Inys,” Aralaq rumbled, “for you are the blood of King Galian, bane of the Nameless One. I pledge my fealty to you.”

When Aralaq nuzzled his nose against her palm, the courtiers stared in reverence at their queen and this creature of legend. Sabran stroked between his ears and smiled as she seldom had since she was a girl.

“Master Wood,” she said, and the pimpled squire in question bowed, “see to it that Aralaq is treated as our brother in Virtudom.”

“Yes, Majesty,” Wood said. The knot in his throat bobbed. “May I ask, ah, what Sir Aralaq eats?”

“Wyrm,” Aralaq said.

Sabran laughed. “We are a little short of wyrm here, but we have plenty of adders. Consult the cook, Master Wood.”

Aralaq licked his chops. Wood looked queasy. Sabran walked back toward the shade of the Alabastrine Tower. Ead spoke to the ichneumon, who nudged her with his nose, before she followed.

Loth embraced his sister. “How were our parents?” he asked.

Margret sighed. “Papa is fading. Mama is pleased that I am to marry Lord Morwe. You must go to them as soon as you are able.”

“Did you replace Ascalon?”

“Aye,” she said, but with no joy. “Loth, do you remember that coney-hole I went down as a child?”

He thought back. “Not that daft game we played as children. In the haithwood,” he said. “What of it?”

She took him by the arm. “Come, brother. I will let Ead tell you the unhappy tale.”

When they were all back in the Council Chamber, and the doors had shut behind them, Sabran turned to Ead. Margret removed her feathered hat and sat at the table.

“You brought an unexpected gift.” Sabran placed her hands on the back of her chair. “Do you also have the True Sword?”

“We found it,” Ead said. “It seems the Beck family has guarded it in secret for many centuries, the knowledge passed from heir to heir.”

“That’s absurd,” Loth said. “Papa would never have kept it from his queens.”

“He was guarding it for when they needed it most, Loth. He would have told you about it before you inherited the estate.”

Loth was thunderstricken. Removing her cloak, Ead took a seat.

“We found Ascalon in a coney-hole in the haithwood,” she said. “Kalyba appeared. She had followed me from Lasia.”

“The Lady of the Woods,” Sabran said.

“Yes. She took the sword from us.”

Sabran clenched her jaw. Loth watched his sister and Ead. There was something odd about their expressions.

They were keeping something back.

“I suppose sending mercenaries after a shape-shifter would be an exercise in futility.” Sabran sank into the chair. “If Ascalon is lost to us, and there is no guarantee that we will replace the second jewel, then we must . . . prepare to defend ourselves. A second Grief of Ages will begin the instant the Nameless One rises. I will invoke the holy call to arms, so King Raunus and High Princess Ermuna will be ready to fight.”

Her tone was even, but her eyes were haunted. She had more time to prepare than Glorian Shieldheart, who was sixteen and in bed with a fever when the first Grief of Ages began, but it might only be weeks. Or days.

Or hours.

“You will need more than Virtudom to be ready, Sabran,” Ead said. “You will need Lasia. You will need the Ersyr. You will need everyone in this world who can lift a sword.”

“Other sovereigns will not treat with Virtudom.”

“Then you must make a gesture of the love and respect you have for them,” Ead said, “by withdrawing the long-standing proclamation that all other religions are heresies. Changing the law to allow those with different values to live at peace in your realms.”

“It is a thousand-year tradition,” Sabran said curtly. “The Saint himself wrote that all other faiths were false.”

“Just because something has always been done does not mean that it ought to be done.”

“I agree.” Loth had spoken before he knew it. The three women looked at him, Margret with raised eyebrows. “I think it would help,” he conceded, even as his faith groaned in protest. “During my . . . adventure, I learned what it was to be a heretic. It felt as though my very existence were under assault. If Inys can be the first to cease using the word, I think it would have done this world a very fine service.”

After a moment, Sabran nodded.

“I will put this to the Virtues Council,” she said, “but even if the Southern rulers join us, I cannot see that it will do us much good. Yscalin has the largest standing army in the world, and that will be turned against us. Humankind has not the strength to resist the fire now.”

“Then humankind will need help,” Ead said.

Loth shook his head, lost.

“Tell me,” Ead went on, without explaining, “have you heard from High Princess Ermuna?”

“Yes,” Sabran said. “She will have the date for me presently.”

“Good. The Nameless One will rise from the Abyss on that day, and even if we do not unite the sword and jewels, we must still be there to drive him away while he is still weak from his slumber.”

Loth frowned. “To where? And how?”

“Across the Halassa Sea, or beyond the Gate of Ungulus. If evil must exist, let it not be in our bosom.” She looked Sabran in the eye. “We cannot carry out either of these plans alone.”

Sabran sat back.

“You mean for us to call upon the East,” she conjectured. “Just as Lady Truyde wanted.”

An end to a centuries-long estrangement. Only Ead would have dared propose it to a Berethnet.

“When I first learned of her plan, I thought Lady Truyde reckless and dangerous,” Ead said, voice tinged with regret. “Now I see her courage was higher than ours. The Eastern dragons are made of sterren, and while they may not be able to destroy the Nameless One, their powers—however strong or weak—will help us drive him back. To split the Draconic forces, you could also ask your fellow sovereigns to create a diversion.”

“They might well help,” Loth cut in, “but the Easterners will never parley with us.”

“Seiiki trades with Mentendon. And the Easterners may help Inys if you make them an offer they cannot refuse.”

“Tell me, Ead.” Sabran looked unmoved. “What should I offer the heretics of the East?”

“The first alliance with Virtudom in history.”

The Council Chamber fell silent as a crypt.

“No,” Loth said firmly. “This is too much. Nobody is going to stand for this. Not the Virtues Council, not the people, and not me.”

“You just now advocated for us all to stop thinking of each other as heretics.” Margret crossed her arms. “Did you bang your head without my noticing in the last few minutes, brother?”

“I meant people on this side of the Abyss. The Easterners venerate wyrms. It is not the same, Meg.”

“The Eastern dragons are not our enemies, Loth. I used to believe they were,” Ead said, “but I did not understand the duality our world is built on. They are opposite in nature to infernal things like Fýredel.”

Loth snorted. “You begin to sound like an alchemist. Have you ever met an Eastern wyrm?”

“No.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Have you?”

“I do not need to meet them to know that they have forced the East to worship them. I will not kneel at the altar of heresy.”

“They may not force worship,” Margret mused. “Perhaps they share a mutual respect with the Easterners.”

“Do you hear yourself, Margret?” Loth said, appalled. “They are wyrms.”

“The East also fears the Nameless One,” Ead said. “Each of our religions agrees that he is the enemy.”

“And the enemy of the enemy is a potential friend,” Margret agreed.

Loth bit his tongue. If the foundations of his faith were struck once more, they might come tumbling down.

“You do not know what you ask, Ead.” When Sabran spoke, her voice sounded too heavy to lift. “We have kept our distance from the East because of their heresy, yes—but to my understanding, the Easterners closed the door first, out of fear of the plague. I will not be able to persuade them to join us without making them a very generous offer in return.”

“The banishment of the Nameless One will profit us all,” Ead said. “The East did not escape the Grief of Ages, and it will not escape this.”

“But its people might buy themselves time to prepare while we lay our heads upon the block,” Sabran pointed out.

A bird landed outside. Loth glanced at the balcony, hoping to see a rock dove with a letter. A crow looked back at him.

“I told you that even the countries of Virtudom would not come to the aid of Inys if their own shores were under attack,” Sabran said, too concerned with Ead to notice the bird. “You looked surprised.”

“I was.”

“You should not have been. My grandmother once said that when a wolf comes to the village, a shepherd looks first to her own flock. The wolf bloods his teeth on other sheep, and the shepherd knows it will one day come for hers, but she clings to the hope that she might be able to keep him out. Until the wolf is at her door.”

Loth thought that sounded like something Queen Jillian would have said. She had famously argued for tighter alliances with the rest of the world.

“That,” Sabran finished, “is how humankind has existed since the Grief of Ages.”

“If the Eastern rulers have a whit of intelligence between them, they will see the necessity of cooperation,” Ead maintained. “I have faith in the shepherds, even if Queen Jillian did not.”

Sabran cast her gaze toward her own right hand, spread on the table. The hand that had once held a love-knot ring.

“Ead, I would speak with you alone.” She rose. “Loth, Meg, please see to it that the summons go out to the Virtues Council at once. I need them all here to discuss the future.”

“Of course,” Margret said.

Sabran walked with Ead from the Council Chamber. When the doors were shut, Margret looked at Loth with an expression he recognized from their music lessons. She had dealt it to him whenever he hit the wrong note.

“I hope you’re not intending to argue against this plan.”

“Ead is mad to so much as insinuate it,” Loth muttered. “An alliance with the East is a remedy for misfortune.”

The crow took off again.

“I don’t know.” Margret reached for a quill and ink. “Perhaps their dragons are nothing like wyrms. These days I feel obliged to question everything I have ever known.”

“We are not supposed to question, Meg. Faith is an act of trust in the Saint.”

“And are you not questioning yours at all?”

“Of course I am.” He rubbed his brow with one hand. “And every day I fear I will be damned for it. That I will have no place in Halgalant.”

“Loth, you know how I love you, but the sense in your head could fit in a thimble.”

Loth pursed his lips. “And you, I suppose, are worldly-wise.”

“I was born worldly-wise.”

She drew a roll of parchment toward her. Loth asked, “What else happened in Goldenbirch?”

Smile fading, Margret said, “I will tell you tomorrow. And I recommend you have a good, long sleep before you hear it, Loth, because your faith will be tested yet again.” She nodded to the pile of letters. “Be quick about it, brother. I must get these to the Master of the Posts.”

He did as he was bid. Sometimes he wondered why the Saint had not made Margret the older child.

Night had fallen over Ascalon. Half of the Knights of the Body followed Ead and Sabran to the Privy Garden, but the queen ordered them to wait outside the gate.

Only the stars could see them in the snow-draped dark. Ead remembered strolling with Sabran on these paths in the high summer. The first time she had walked with her alone.

Sabran, the descendant of Kalyba. Kalyba, the founder of the House of Berethnet.

It had haunted her on the way back from Caliburn-on-Sea. It had haunted her as they rode to replace Aralaq. The secret that had divided the Priory for centuries.

Drunk on an enchantment, Galian Berethnet had lain with a woman he had seen as a mother and got her with child. He had built his religion like a wall around his shame. And to save his legacy, he had seen no choice but to sanctify the lie.

Tension poured from Sabran like heat off an open flame. When they reached the fountain, with its frozen rivulets of water, they faced each other.

“You realize what a new alliance may entail.”

Ead waited for her to finish.

“The East will already have weapons and money. I can add to those,” Sabran said, “but remember what I told you. Alliances have ever been forged through marriage.”

“Alliances must have been made without marriage in the past.”

“This alliance is different. It would have to unite two regions that have been estranged for centuries. Knit two bodies, and you knit two realms. That is why we royals marry—not for love, but to build our houses. That is the way the world is.”

“It does not need to be that way. Try, Sabran,” Ead urged. “Change the way things are.”

“You speak as if nothing was ever easier.” Sabran shook her head. “As if custom and tradition have no hold on the world. They are what shapes the world.”

“It is that easy. A year ago, you would not have believed that you could love someone you considered a heretic.” Ead did not look away. “Is that not so?”

Sabran breathed a white mist between them.

“Yes,” she said. “It is so.”

Snowflakes frosted her eyelashes and caught in her hair. She had stormed outside without a cloak, and now held her own arms to keep in the warmth.

“I will try,” she concluded. “I will . . . present this as a military alliance only. I am resolved that I will reign without a consort, as I have always desired. It is no longer my duty to marry and conceive a child. But if it is the custom in the East, as it usually is here—”

“It may not be the custom.” Ead paused. “But if it is . . . perhaps you should reconsider your determination to remain unwed.”

Sabran studied her face. Even as her throat ached, Ead did not break her gaze.

“Why do you speak like this?” Sabran said quietly. “You know I never wanted to marry in the first place, and I am not inclined to do it again. That aside, it is you I want. No one else.”

“But while you rule, you can never be seen to be with me. I am a heretic, and—”

“Stop.” Sabran embraced her then. “Stop it.”

Ead drew her close, breathed her in. They sank onto a marble settle.

“Sabran the Seventh, my namesake, fell in love with her Lady of the Bedchamber,” Sabran murmured. “After she abdicated in favor of her daughter, they lived together for the rest of their days. If we defeat the Nameless One, my duty will be done.”

“As will mine.” Ead wrapped her cloak around them both. “Perhaps then I can steal you away.”

“Where?”

Ead kissed her temple. “Somewhere.”

Another foolish dream but, just for a moment, she allowed herself to inhabit it. A life with Sabran at her side.

“You and Meg kept something from me,” Sabran said. “What happened in Goldenbirch?”

It was some time before Ead could bring herself to answer.

“You asked me once if I knew who the first Queen of Inys was, if not Cleolind.”

Sabran looked up at her.

“My mother always said it was best to receive bad news in winter, when everything is already dark. So one can heal for spring,” she said, while Ead searched for the words. “And I must be at my strongest this particular spring.”

Faced with those eyes—the eyes of the witch—Ead knew she could not withhold the revelation any longer. After eight years of lies, she owed Sabran this truth.

Underneath the stars, she gave it.