The Priory of the Orange Tree (The Roots of Chaos)

“There it is,” Estina Melaugo said, with a sweeping gesture toward land. “Feast your eyes on the Draconic cesspit of Yscalin.”

“No, thank you.” Kit drank from the bottle they were sharing. “I would much rather my death was a surprise.”

Loth peered through the spyglass. Even now, a day after seeing the High Western, his hands were unsteady.

Fýredel. Right wing of the Nameless One. Commander of the Draconic Army. If he had woken, then the other High Westerns would surely follow. It was from them that the rest of wyrmkind drew strength. When a High Western died, the fire in its wyverns, and in their progeny, burned out.

The Nameless One himself could not return—not while the House of Berethnet stood—but his servants could wreak destruction without him. The Grief of Ages had proven that.

There had to be a reason they were rising again. They had fallen into their slumber at the end of the Grief of Ages, the same night a comet had crossed the sky. Scholars had speculated for centuries as to why, and to when, they might wake, but no one had found an answer. Gradually, everyone had begun to assume that they never would. That the wyrms had become living fossils.

Loth returned his attention to what he could glimpse through the spyglass. The moon was a half-closed eye, and they floated on water as dark as his thoughts. All he could see was the nest of lights that was Perunta. A place that might be crawling with Draconic plague.

The sickness had first oozed from the Nameless One, whose breath, it was said, had been a slow-acting poison. A more fearsome strain had arrived with the five High Westerns. They and their wyverns carried it, the same way rats had once carried the pestilence. It had existed only in pockets since the end of the Grief of Ages, but Loth knew the signs from books.

It began with the reddening of the hands. Then a scalelike rash. As it tiptoed over the body, the afflicted would experience pain in the joints, fever and visions. If they were unlucky enough to survive this stage, the bloodblaze set in. They were at their most dangerous then, for if not restrained, they would run about screaming as if they were on fire, and anyone whose skin touched theirs would also be afflicted. Usually they died within days, though some had been known to survive longer.

There was no cure for the plague. No cure and no protection.

Loth snapped the spyglass closed and handed it to Melaugo.

“I suppose this is it,” he said.

“Don’t abandon hope, Lord Arteloth.” Her gaze was detached. “I doubt the plague will be in the palace. It’s those of us you call the commons who suffer most in times of need.”

Plume and Harlowe were approaching the bow, the latter with a clay pipe in hand.

“Right, my lords,” the captain said. “We’ve enjoyed having you, truly, but nothing lasts forever.”

Kit finally seemed to grasp the danger they were in. Either he was cupshotten or he had lost his wits, but he clasped his hands. “I beseech you, Captain Harlowe—let us join your crew.” His eyes were fevered. “You need not tell Lord Seyton. Our families have money.”

“What?” Loth hissed. “Kit—”

“Let him speak.” Harlowe motioned with his pipe. “Carry on, Lord Kitston.”

“There is land in the Downs, good land. Save us, and it’s yours,” Kit continued.

“I have the high seas at my feet. Land is not what I need,” Harlowe said. “What I need is seafarers.”

“With your guidance, I wager we could be outstanding seafarers. I come from a long line of cartographers, you know.” An outright lie. “And Arteloth used to sail on Elsand Lake.”

Harlowe regarded them with dark eyes.

“No,” Loth said firmly. “Captain, Lord Kitston is uneasy about our task, but we are duty-bound to enter Yscalin. To see that justice is done.”

With a face like a skinned apple, Kit seized him by the jerkin and pulled him aside.

“Arteloth,” he said under his breath, “I am trying to get us out of this. Because this”—he turned Loth toward the lights in the distance—“has nothing to do with justice. This is the Night Hawk sending us both to our deaths for a pennyworth of gossip.”

“Combe may have exiled me for some ulterior purpose, but now I stand on the brink of Yscalin, I wish to find out what happened to Prince Wilstan.” Loth placed a hand on his shoulder. “If you want to turn back, Kit, I will bear you no ill will. This was not your punishment.”

Kit looked at him, frustration etched on to him. “Oh, Loth,” he said, softer. “You’re not the Saint.”

“No, but he has got balls,” Melaugo said.

“I’ve no time for this pious talk,” Harlowe cut in, “but I do concur with Estina on the subject of your balls, Lord Arteloth.” His gaze was piercing. “I need people with hearts like yours. If you think you could weather the seas, say it now, and I’ll put it to my crew.”

Kit blinked. “Really?”

Harlowe was expressionless. When Loth kept his peace, Kit sighed.

“I thought not.” Harlowe dealt them a cold stare. “Now, get the fuck off my ship.”

The pirates jeered. Melaugo, whose lips were pursed, beckoned to Loth and Kit. As his friend turned to follow, Loth gripped his arm.

“Kit,” he murmured, “take the chance and stay behind. You are not a threat to Combe, not like I am. You could still go back to Inys.”

Kit shook his head, a smile on his lips.

“Come now, Arteloth,” he said. “What little piety I have, I owe to you. And he might not be my patron, but I know the Knight of Fellowship tells us not to leave our friends alone.”

Loth wanted to argue with him, but he found himself smiling back at his friend. They walked side by side after Melaugo.

They had to descend on a rope ladder from the Rose Eternal. Their polished boots slipped on the rungs. Once they were settled in the rowing boat, where their traveling chests waited, Melaugo climbed in with them.

“Hand me the oars, Lord Arteloth.” When Loth did, she whistled. “See you soon, Captain. Don’t leave without me.”

“Never, Estina.” Harlowe leaned over the side. “Farewell, my lords.”

“Keep those pomanders close, lordlings,” Plume added. “Wouldn’t want you catching anything.”

The crew roared with laughter as Melaugo pushed away from the Rose.

“Don’t mind them. They’d piss themselves before they ever did what you’re doing.” She glanced over her shoulder. “What made you offer up your services as a pirate, Lord Kitston? This life’s not like it is in songs, you know. There’s a little more shit and scurvy.”

“A stroke of brilliance, I thought.” Kit shot her a look of mock hurt. “I take the Knight of Courtesy as my patron, mistress. She commands poets to beautify the world—but how can I, unless I see it?”

“There’s a question I’d need a few more drinks to answer.”

As they drew closer to the shore, Loth took out his handkerchief and pressed it to his nose. Vinegar and fish and acrid smoke formed the rotten posy of Perunta. Kit kept up a smile, but his eyes were watering.

“How refreshing,” he managed.

Melaugo did not smile. “Do keep those pomanders,” she said. “Worth having, if only for comfort.”

“Is there nothing we can do to protect ourselves?” Loth said.

“You can try not to breathe. Folk say the plague is everywhere, and no one is sure how it spreads. Some wear veils or masks to keep it out.”

“Nothing else?”

“Oh, you’ll see merchants peddling all sorts. Mirrors to deflect the foul vapors, countless potions and poultices—but you might as well swallow your gold. Best thing to do is put the afflicted out of their misery.” She maneuvered the boat around a rock. “I can’t imagine you two have seen much death.”

“I resent your assumption,” Kit objected. “I saw my dear old aunt upon her bier.”

“Yes, and I suppose she wore a red gown for her meeting with the Saint. I suppose she was as clean as a licked kitten and smelled of rosemary.” When Kit grimaced, Melaugo said, “You have not seen death, my lord. You have only seen the mask we put on it.”

They sat in silence from then on. When the water was shallow enough to wade in, Melaugo stopped rowing.

“I’ll go no closer.” She nodded to the city. “You’re to go to a tavern called the Grapevine. Someone should collect you.” She pushed Kit with the toe of her boot. “Go, now. I’m a privateer, not a milk nurse.”

Loth stood. “Our thanks to you, Mistress Melaugo. Your kindness will not be forgotten.”

“Please forget it. I’ve a reputation to uphold.”

They struck out from the boat with their chests. When they were both on the sand, dripping wet, Melaugo sculled back to the Rose Eternal, singing in quavering Yscali.

Harlowe might have taken them both. They could have seen places that no longer had names, oceans that had never been cross-stitched by trading routes. Loth could have found himself at the prow of his own ship one day—but he was not that man, and never would be.

“Not our most dignified entrance.” Panting, Kit let his chest fall. “How do you suppose we find this tavern?”

“By . . . relying on our instincts,” Loth said, unsure. “The commons must get on well enough.”

“Arteloth, we are courtiers. We have no useful instincts.”

Loth had no counterstroke.

They made slow progress into the city. The chests were heavy, and they had neither map nor compass.

Perunta had once been known as the most beautiful port in the West. These mud-clotted streets, overflowing with fish bones and ashes and swill, were not what Loth had imagined. A dead bird writhed with maggots. Cesspits overflowed. In one unlit square, a sanctuary lay in ruins. Sabran had heard reports that King Sigoso had executed the sanctarians who would not renounce the Saint, but she had not wanted to believe them.

Loth tried not to breathe as he stepped over a rivulet of dark liquid. He dared not stray too far from Kit. People jostled around them, shrouding their faces with veils or cloth rags.

They saw their first plague house on the next street. Boards had been nailed over the windows, the oak door stained with scarlet wings. Yscali words were chalked above it.

“Pity this house, for here we are cursed,” Kit read.

Loth looked askance at him. “You read Yscali?”

“I know. You’re shocked,” Kit said gravely. “After all, I am such a master of Inysh, such a prodigy of verse, it seems impossible that I could have room in my skull for another language, but—”

“Kit.”

“Melaugo told me the translation.”

The darkness was disorienting. Few candles were lit in Perunta, though braziers fumigated the broader streets. By dint of striding about with as much confidence as possible, Loth and Kit finally happened upon the tavern where they were to meet their escort to Cárscaro. Its sign displayed a bunch of succulent black grapes that had no business in this sump.

A coach waited outside. Built of what Loth was quite sure was iron, it terrified him even before he wondered what sort of horse could draw such a thing. Then he saw.

A great wolfish head turned to look at him, and a massive jaw, packed with teeth, slackened to let slip a rope of drool.

The creature was larger than a bear. Its thick neck tapered into a serpentine body, which could be moved by its muscular legs or a pair of bat wings. At its side was a second monster, this one furred with gray. Their eyes were identical. Embers from the Womb of Fire.

Jaculi.

The offspring of wyvern and wolf.

“Stay still,” Kit whispered. “The bestiaries say that sudden movements make them pounce.”

One of the jaculi growled. Loth wanted to make the sign of the sword, but he dared not move.

How many Draconic creatures were awake in Yscalin?

The driver of the coach was an Yscal with oiled hair. “Lord Arteloth and Lord Kitston, I presume,” he said.

Kit made an incoherent noise. The driver pulled a lever, and a set of steps unfolded. “Leave the chests,” he muttered. “Get in.”

They obeyed.

Inside the coach, they found a woman awaiting them, dressed in a heavy crimson gown and a veil of black drum lace. She wore long velvet gloves, frilled at the elbow. A filigrain pomander hung at her side.

“Lord Arteloth. Lord Kitston,” she said in a soft voice. Loth could just make out dark eyes through the veil. “Welcome to Perunta. I am Priessa Yelarigas, First Lady of the Bedchamber to Her Radiance, the Donmata Marosa of the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin.”

She was not afflicted. No one tortured by the plague could speak with so gentle a tongue.

“Thank you for meeting us here, my lady.” Loth endeavored to steady his voice. Kit squeezed into the coach beside him. “We are honored to be received at the court of King Sigoso.”

“His Majesty is honored to receive you.”

A whip snapped outside, and the coach jolted forward.

“I confess myself surprised that Her Radiance would send such a high-ranking lady to meet us,” Loth said. “Since this city is so full of the afflicted.”

“If the Nameless One wishes me to surrender my life to his plague, so be it,” was her even reply.

Loth clenched his jaw. To think that these people had once professed loyalty to Sabran, and to Virtudom.

“You will be used to horses drawing a coach, my lords,” Lady Priessa continued, “but it would take many days to cross Yscalin that way. Jaculi are fleet-footed and never tire.”

She folded her hands on her lap. Her fingers were home to several gold rings, fitted over the gloves.

“You should rest,” she said. “However swift our coach, we have some way to go, my lords.”

Loth attempted a smile. “I would prefer to watch the scenery.”

“As you wish.”

In truth, it was too dark to see a thing out of the window, but he would not sleep with a wyrm-lover so close.

This was Draconic territory. He would rise from the silk pillow of nobility and find the spy within. He would harden himself to the dangers of his mission. So while Kit nodded off, Loth sat as still as he could, eyes propped open by sheer force of will, and made a promise to the Saint.

He would accept the road he had been thrust on. He would seek out Prince Wilstan. He would reunite his queen with her father. And he would find his way home.

He could not tell if Priessa Yelarigas slept, or if she watched him all night long.

There was smoke in her hair. She could smell it.

“Where in Virtudom did you find her?”

“The belfry, of all places.”

Footsteps. “Saint, it’s Mistress Duryan. Send word to Her Majesty at once. And fetch a physician.”

Her tongue was an ember in her mouth. When the strangers let go of her, she plunged into a fever dream.

She was a child again, shaded from the sun by the branches of the tree. The fruit hung above her head, too high for her to reach, and Jondu was calling Come here, Eadaz, come and see.

Then the Prioress was lifting a cup to her lips, saying it was the blood of the Mother. It tasted like sunlight and laughter and prayer. She had burned like this in the days that followed, burned until the fire melted away her ignorance. That day she had been born anew.

When she woke, a familiar woman was at her bedside, pouring water from a ewer to a bowl.

“Meg.”

Margret turned to her so quickly she almost knocked the ewer over.

“Ead!” With a laugh of relief, she leaned in to kiss her brow. “Oh, thank the Saint. You’ve been insensible for days. The physicians said you had an ague, then the sweat, then the pestilence—”

“Sabran,” Ead rasped. “Meg, is she well?”

“We must first establish if you are well.” Margret felt her cheeks, her neck. “Does anything hurt? Should I fetch a physician?”

“No physicians. I am perfectly all right.” Ead wet her lips. “Have you anything to drink?”

“Of course.”

Margret filled a cup and held it up to her mouth. Ead swallowed a little of the ale inside.

“You were in the belfry,” Margret said. “What were you doing up there?”

Ead pieced a lie together. “I took a wrong turn in the library. I found the door to the clock tower open and thought I would explore, and there I was when the beast came. I suppose its . . . dreadful fumes gave me this fever.” Before Margret could question this, she added, “Now, tell me if Sabran is all right.”

“Sabran is as well as I have ever seen her, and all Inys knows that Fýredel himself could not touch her with his fire.”

“Where is the wyrm now?”

Margret returned the cup to the nightstand and soaked a cloth in the bowl.

“Gone.” Her brow pinched. “There were no deaths, but he did set fire to a few storehouses. Captain Lintley says the city is on edge. Sabran sent out heralds to reassure the people of her protection, but no one can believe that a High Western has woken.”

“It was bound to happen,” Ead said. “Smaller things have been stirring for some time.”

“Aye, but never one of the overlords. Fortunately, most of the city has no idea that what they saw was the right wing of the Nameless One. All the tapestries depicting him are hidden away in here.” Margret wrung out the cloth. “Him and his infernal kin.”

“He said Orsul had already woken.” Ead took another sip of ale. “And Valeysa soon.”

“At least the others are long dead. And of course, the Nameless One himself cannot return. Not while the House of Berethnet endures.”

When Ead tried to sit up, her arms shook, and she slumped back into the pillows. Margret went to the door to speak to a servant before returning.

“Meg,” Ead said, while Margret dabbed her brow, “I know what happened to Loth.”

Margret stilled. “He wrote to you?”

“No.” Ead glanced toward the door. “I overheard the Dukes Spiritual speaking with Sabran. Combe claims Loth has gone to Cárscaro as a spy—to find out what is happening there, and to look for Wilstan Fynch. He said Loth went without permission . . . but I think we both know the truth of it.”

Slowly, Margret sat back. Her hand came to her middle.

“Saint save my brother,” she murmured. “He is no spy. Combe has sentenced him to death.”

Silence fell, broken only by the birds outside.

“I told him, Ead,” Margret finally said. “I told him a friendship with a queen was not the same as any other, that he needed to be careful. But Loth never listens.” She raised a sad, wry smile. “My brother thinks that everyone is just as good as he is.”

Ead tried to find some words of comfort, but had none. Loth was in too much danger.

“I know. I tried to warn him, too.” She took her friend by the hand. “He may yet find his way home.”

“You know he will not last long in Cárscaro.”

“You could petition Combe to bring him back. You are Lady Margret Beck.”

“And Combe is the Duke of Courtesy. He has more influence and wealth than I ever will.”

“Could you not tell Sabran yourself, then?” Ead asked. “She clearly has her suspicions about the story.”

“I cannot accuse Combe or anyone without proof of a conspiracy. If he told Sab that Loth went by choice, and I can present no evidence to counter him, then even she can do nothing.”

Ead knew Margret was right. She tightened her grip, and Margret released a shaking breath.

Someone tapped on the door. Margret murmured to whoever was outside. Now her siden was quiet, and her senses blunted, Ead could not hear what they said.

Her friend came back with a cup. “Caudle,” she said. “Tallys made it specially. Such a kind girl.”

The hot gruel, sweetened to the point of sickliness, was the answer to everything in Inys. Too weak to grip the handles, Ead let Margret spoon the awful stuff into her mouth.

Another knock. This time, when Margret opened it, she fell into a curtsy.

“Leave us a moment, Meg.”

Ead knew that voice. With a glance in her direction, Margret left.

The Queen of Inys stepped into the room. Her riding habit was the dark green of holly.

“Call if you have need of us, Majesty,” said a gruff voice from outside.

“I do not think a bedbound woman poses too great a danger to my person, Sir Gules, but thank you.”

The door closed. Ead sat up as best she could, conscious of her sweat-soaked shift and the sour taste in her mouth.

“Ead,” Sabran said, looking her over. A flush touched her cheeks. “I see you are at last awake. You have been absent from my lodgings for too long.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

“Your generosity has been missed. I intended to call upon you earlier, but the physicians feared you might have the sweat.” The sun lightened her eyes. “You were in the clock tower the day the wyrm came. I would like to know why.”

“Madam?”

“The Royal Librarian found you there. Lady Oliva Marchyn tells me that some courtiers and servants use the tower for . . . venery.”

“I have no lover, Majesty.”

“I will brook no lewdness in this palace. Confess, and the Knight of Courtesy may show mercy.”

Ead sensed the queen would not swallow the story about taking a wrong turn. “I went up to the belfry . . . to see if I could distract the beast from Your Majesty.” She wished she had the strength to speak with more conviction. “But I need not have feared for you.”

It was the truth, stripped of its vital parts.

“I trust that Ambassador uq-Ispad would not ask for a person of loose morals to be accepted into my Upper Household,” Sabran concluded, “but do not let me hear of you visiting the clock tower again.”

“Of course, madam.”

The queen walked to the open window. Setting a hand on the sill, she looked out at the palace grounds.

“Majesty,” Ead said, “may I ask why you went out to face the wyrm?” A clement breeze floated in from outside. “Had Fýredel slain you, all would have been lost.”

Sabran did not reply for a time.

“He threatened my people,” she murmured. “I had stepped out before I had considered what else might be done.” She looked back at Ead. “I have received another report about you. Lady Truyde utt Zeedeur has been telling my courtiers that you are a sorceress.”

Damn that red-haired gurnet. Ead almost admired her mettle, ignoring the threat of a curse.

“Madam, I know nothing of sorcery,” she said, tinging her words with a hint of scorn.

Sorcery was not a word the Prioress much liked.

“Doubtless,” Sabran said, “but Lady Truyde has a notion that it was you who protected me from Fýredel. She claims she saw you in the clock tower, casting a spell toward me.”

This time Ead was silent. There was no possible argument against the accusation.

“Of course,” the queen said, “she is a liar.”

Ead dared not speak.

“It was the Saint that drove back the wyrm. He held forth his heavenly shield to protect me from the fire. To imply that it was cheap sorcery comes very close to treason,” Sabran stated, her voice flat. “I have half a mind to send her to the Dearn Tower.”

All the tension rushed out of Ead. A laugh of relief bubbled in her, threatening to brim over.

“She is only young, Your Majesty,” she said, forcing it down. “With youth comes folly.”

“She is old enough to accuse you falsely,” Sabran pointed out. “Do you not crave vengeance?”

“I prefer the taste of mercy. It lets me sleep at night.”

Those stone-cold eyes ran her through. “Perhaps you imply that I should show mercy more often.”

Ead was too exhausted to fear that look. “No. Only that I doubt Lady Truyde meant insult to Your Majesty. More likely she has a grudge against me, since I was promoted to a position she desires.”

Sabran lifted her chin.

“You will return to your duties in three days. I will have the Royal Physician take care of you until then,” she said. Ead raised her eyebrows. “I need you well,” Sabran continued, rising to leave. “Once the announcement is made, I will need all my ladies by my side.”

“Announcement, madam?”

Sabran had turned her back to her, but Ead saw her shoulders tense.

“The announcement,” she said, “of my betrothal to Aubrecht Lievelyn, High Prince of the Free State of Mentendon.”