The Priory of the Orange Tree (The Roots of Chaos)
The Priory of the Orange Tree: Part 1 – Chapter 8

Sulyard snored. Yet another reason Truyde had been a fool to pledge herself to him. Not that Niclays would have been able to sleep even if his guest had shut up, for a typhoon had blown in.

Thunder rumbled, making a horse whinny outside. Drunk on a single cup of wine, Sulyard slept through it all.

Niclays lay on his bedding, slightly drunk himself. He and Sulyard had spent the evening playing cards and exchanging stories. Sulyard had told the gloomy tale of the Never Queen, while Niclays chose the more uplifting charms of Carbuncle and Scald.

He still had no liking for Sulyard, but he owed it to Truyde to protect her secret companion. He owed it to Jannart.

Jan.

The vise of grief snapped closed around his heart. He shut his eyes, and he was back to that autumn morning when they had met for the first time in the rose garden of Brygstad Palace, when the court of the newly crowned Edvart the Second was ripe with opportunity.

In his early twenties, when he was still Marquess of Zeedeur, Jannart had been tall and striking, with magnificent red hair that rippled to the small of his back. In those days, Niclays had been one of the few Ments to have a mane of fairest auburn, more gold than copper.

That was what had drawn Jannart to him that day. Rose gold, he had dubbed it. He had asked Niclays if he might paint his portrait, thus capturing the shade for posterity, and Niclays, like any vain young courtier, had been only too pleased to oblige.

Red hair and a rose garden. That was how it had begun.

They had spent the whole season together, with the easel and music and laughter for company. Even after the portrait was finished, they had stayed joined at the hip.

Niclays had never been in love before. It was Jannart who had been intrigued enough to paint him, but soon, Niclays had longed for the ability to paint him in return, so that he might capture the darkness of those lashes, and how the sun glowed in his hair, and the elegance of his hands on the harpsichord. He had gazed at his silken lips and the place where his neck met his jaw; he had watched his blood throbbing there, in that cradle of life. He had imagined, in exhilarating detail, how his eyes would look in the morning light, when sleep made their lids heavy. That exquisite dark amber, like the honey made by black bees.

He had lived to hear that voice, deep and mellow. Oh, he could sing ballads of its tenor, and the way it climbed to the height of passion when the conversation leaned toward art or history. Those subjects had set a fire in Jannart, drawing people to its warmth. With words alone, he could beautify the dullest object or bring civilizations rising from the dust. For Niclays, he had been a sunray, illuminating every facet of his world.

He had known there was no hope. After all, Jannart was a marquess, heir to a duchy, the dearest friend of Prince Edvart, while Niclays was an upstart from Rozentun.

And yet Jannart had seen him. He had seen him, and he had not looked away.

Outside the house, the waves crashed on the fence again. Niclays turned on to his side, aching all over.

“Jan,” he said softly, “when did we get so old?”

The Mentish shipment was due any day now, and when it turned homeward, Sulyard would be with them. A few more days, and Niclays would be rid of this living reminder of Truyde and Jannart and the Saint-forsaken Inysh court. He would go back to tinkering with potions in his jailhouse at the edge of the world, exiled and unknown.

At last he dozed off, cradling the pillow to his chest. When he stirred awake, it was still dark, but the hairs on his neck stood to attention.

He sat up, peering into the black.

“Sulyard.”

No reply. Something moved in the darkness.

“Sulyard, is that you?”

When the lightning cast the silhouette into relief, he stared at the face in front of him.

“Honored Chief Officer,” he croaked, but he was already being towed out of bed.

Two sentinels bundled him toward the door. In the chokehold of terror, he somehow snatched his cane from the floor and swung with all his might. It cracked like a whip into one of their cheeks. He only had a moment to relish his accuracy before he was struck back with an iron truncheon.

He had never felt so much pain at once. His bottom lip split like fruit. Every tooth trembled in its socket. His stomach heaved at the coppery tang on his tongue.

The sentinel raised his truncheon again and dealt him a terrible blow to the knee. With a cry of “mercy,” Niclays raised his hands over his head, dropping the cane. A leather boot snapped it in two. Blows rained down from all sides, striking his back and his face. He fell on to the mats, making weak sounds of submission and apology. The house was being pulled to shreds around him.

The din of breaking glass came from the workroom. His apparatus, worth more coin than he would ever have again.

“Please.” Blood slavered down his chin. “Honored sentinels, please, you don’t understand. The work—”

Ignoring his pleas, they marched him into the storm. All he wore was his nightshirt. His ankle was too tender to carry him, so they hauled him like a sack of millet. The few Ments who worked through the night were emerging from their dwellings.

“Doctor Roos,” one of them called. “What’s happening?”

Niclays gasped for breath. “Who’s that?” His voice was lost to the sound of thunder. “Muste,” he shouted thickly. “Muste, help me, you fox-haired fool!”

A hand covered his bloody mouth. He could hear Sulyard now, somewhere in the darkness, crying out.

“Niclays!”

He looked up, expecting to see Muste, but it was Panaya who ran into the fray. She somehow got between the sentinels and stood before Niclays like the Knight of Courage. “If he is under arrest,” she said, “then where is your warrant from the honored Governor of Cape Hisan?”

Niclays could have kissed her. The Chief Officer was standing nearby, watching the sentinels ransack the house.

“Go back inside,” he said to Panaya, not looking at her.

“The learnèd Doctor Roos deserves respect. If you harm him, the High Prince of Mentendon will hear of it.”

“The Red Prince has no power here.”

Panaya squared up to him. Niclays could only watch in awe as the woman in a sleep robe faced down the man in armor.

“While the Mentish live here, they have the all-honored Warlord’s protection,” she said. “What will he say when he hears that you spilled blood in Orisima?”

At this, the Chief Officer stepped closer to her. “Perhaps he will say that I was too merciful,” he said, voice thick with contempt, “for this liar has been hiding a trespasser in his home.”

Panaya fell silent, shock writ plain on her.

“Panaya,” Niclays whispered. “I can explain this.”

“Niclays,” she breathed. “Oh, Niclays. You have defied the Great Edict.”

His ankle throbbed. “Where will they take me?”

Panaya glanced nervously toward the Chief Officer, who was bellowing at his sentinels. “To the honored Governor of Cape Hisan. They will suspect you of having the red sickness,” she murmured in Mentish. Suddenly she tensed. “Did you touch him?”

Niclays thought back, frantic. “No,” he said. “No, not his bare skin.”

“You must tell them so. Swear it on your Saint,” she told him. “If they suspect you are deceiving them, they will do all they can to wrest the truth from you.”

“Torture?” Sweat was beading on his face. “Not torture. You don’t mean torture, do you?”

“Enough,” the Chief Officer barked. “Take this traitor away!”

With that, the sentinels carried Niclays off like meat for the chop. “I want a lawyer,” he shouted. “Damn you, there must be a decent bloody lawyer somewhere on this Saint-forsaken island!” When nobody responded, he called out desperately to Panaya, “Tell Muste to mend my apparatus. Continue the work!” She looked on, helpless. “And protect my books! For the love of the Saint, save my books, Panaya!”