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

Shortly after the heralds took news of the betrothal across Inys, Aubrecht Lievelyn sent word that he was preparing to sail with his retinue, which comprised some eight hundred people. The days that followed were a round-wind of preparation such as Ead had never known.

Food came by the bargeload from the Leas and the Downs. The Glade family sent casks of wine from their vineyards. The Extraordinary Chamberers, who might be asked to serve in the Upper Household on special occasions—significant anniversaries, the Holy Feasts—took up residence at court. New gowns were made for the queen and her ladies. Every corner of Ascalon Palace was spruced and polished, down to the last candlestick. For the first time, it seemed Queen Sabran was serious about accepting a suit. Excitement burned through the palace like a ground fire.

Ead tried her utmost to keep pace. Though the fever had drained her, the Royal Physician had personally approved her return to duty. Yet more proof that Inysh physicians were quacks.

At least Truyde utt Zeedeur was keeping her head down. Ead had heard no more rumors about sorcery.

For now, she was safe.

There were nearly a thousand residents at court at any time of the year, but as Ead traversed the palace with baskets of flowers and armfuls of cloth-of-silver, she seemed to be passing more and more people. She watched every day for the golden banners of the Ersyr, and the man who would come under them, disguised as an ambassador to King Jantar and Queen Saiyma. Chassar uq-Ispad, who had brought her to Inys.

First came the guests from elsewhere in the queendom. The Earls Provincial and their families were among the most recognizable. As she entered the cloisters one morning, Ead spotted Lord Ranulf Heath the Younger, cousin to the late Queen Rosarian, on the other side of the garth. He was deep in conversation with Lady Igrain Crest. As she often did at court, Ead stopped to listen.

“And how is your companion, my lord?” Crest was saying.

“Sore disappointed not to be here, Your Grace, but he will join us soon,” Heath replied. His skin was brown and freckled, his beard shot with gray. “How happy that Her Majesty will soon know the same joy I found in companionship.”

“We can only hope. The Duke of Courtesy believes the alliance will serve to tighten the Chainmail of Virtudom,” Crest said, “though whether his intuition is correct has yet to be seen.”

“I would hope his intuition is unparalleled,” Heath said, chuckling, “given his . . . particular role.”

“Oh, there are things that even Seyton misses,” Crest remarked, a rare smile on her face. “How thin his hair is getting, for instance. Even a hawk cannot see the back of its own head.” Heath stifled a laugh. “Of course, we all pray that Her Majesty will soon be delivered of a daughter.”

“Aye, but she’s young, Your Grace, and so is Lievelyn. Give them time to get to know each other first.”

Ead had to agree. Few Inysh seemed to care whether Sabran and Lievelyn knew each other from a stuffed capon, so long as they were wed.

“It is vital that we have an heir as soon as possible,” Crest said, as if on cue. “Her Majesty knows her duty on that front.”

“Well, no one has guided Her Majesty in her duty better than you, Your Grace.”

“You are too kind. She has been my pride and joy. Alas,” Crest said, “that mine is no longer the only counsel she heeds. Our young queen is determined to go her own way.”

“As we all must, Your Grace.”

They parted. Ead scarcely had time to draw back before the duchess strode around the corner, almost headlong into her.

“Mistress Duryan.” Crest recovered. “Good morrow, my dear.”

Ead curtsied. “Your Grace.” Crest nodded and left the cloisters. Ead walked in the opposite direction.

Crest might well quip about Combe, but in truth, the Night Hawk missed nothing. It struck Ead as extraordinary that he could have failed to see who was hiring the cutthroats.

She slowed as a possibility occurred to her. For the first time, she considered that Combe himself might be the architect behind the attacks. He would have had the means to arrange them. To bring people unseen into the court, just as he swept others out. He had also taken charge of interrogating the surviving cutthroats. And disposing of them.

There was no reason Combe should wish Sabran dead. He was a descendant of the Holy Retinue, his power tied to the House of Berethnet . . . but perhaps he believed he could grasp even more if the Queen of Inys fell. If Sabran died childless, the people would give way to fear that the Nameless One was coming. In chaos like that, the Night Hawk could rise.

Yet each cutthroat had botched the job. Ead did not sense his hand in that. Neither was she convinced he would risk the instability of an Inys without the House of Berethnet. The spymaster did not work that way. He left nothing to chance.

It was when she was halfway across the Sundial Garden that it struck her.

That the blundering had been deliberate.

She thought back to how staged each attack had appeared. How each cutthroat had given the game away. Even the last one had not gone straight for the kill. He had taken his time.

In this she could find Combe. Perhaps he had never meant to kill Sabran, but to manipulate her. To remind her of her mortality, and the importance of the heir. To frighten her into accepting Lievelyn. It fitted with his way of arranging the court to look as he desired it.

Except that he had not anticipated Ead. She had stopped most of the cutthroats before they could get close enough to terrify Sabran. That must be why he had given the last one the key to the Secret Stair. To bolster their chances of reaching the Great Bedchamber.

Ead permitted herself a smile. No wonder Combe wanted to find the anonymous protector. If she had it right, she was killing off his hirelings.

Of course, all this was speculation. She had no proof of it, just as she had no proof that Combe had exiled Loth. Yet she knew in her gut that she was on the right path.

The marriage to Lievelyn was all but sealed. Combe was satisfied. If no cutthroats returned, then her instinct was right, and Sabran was safe until the next time she vexed Combe. Then the Night Hawk would take flight again, dark wings spread over the throne.

Ead meant to clip them. All she needed was the evidence—and the opportunity.

Guests continued to pour in. The families of the Dukes Spiritual. Knights-errant, who handled petty crimes and sought out sleeping wyrms to slay. Sanctarians in long-sleeved herigauts. Barons and baronets. Mayors and magistrates.

Soon the long-awaited visitors from the Kingdom of Hróth began to arrive. King Raunus of the House of Hraustr had sent a host of high-born representatives to witness the union. Sabran welcomed them with genuine affection, and the palace was soon ringing with Northern songs and laughter.

Not long ago, there would have been Yscals here. Ead remembered well the last visit by representatives of the House of Vetalda, when the Donmata Marosa had come for the celebration of a thousand years of Berethnet rule. Now their absence was another reminder of the uncertain future.

On the morning Aubrecht Lievelyn was due to reach Ascalon Palace, the most important courtiers and guests crowded into the Presence Chamber. Most of the Virtues Council were here. Arbella Glenn had recovered from her illness, much to the regret of certain ambitious Ladies of the Privy Chamber, and now stood to the right of the throne.

Arbella looked frail at the best of times, with her rheumy eyes and fingers bent from needlework, but Ead was sure she ought not to have risen from bed today. Though she smiled like a proud mother at her queen, there was a quiet sadness about her.

The rest of the room was thrumming like a skep. Sabran waited for her betrothed in front of her throne, flanked by the six Dukes Spiritual, who were resplendent in their cloaks and livery collars. She wore a simple gown of crimson velvet and satin, a rich contrast to the nightfall of her hair. No ruff or jewels. Ead studied her from her position with the other Ladies of the Privy Chamber.

She was most beautiful like this. The Inysh seemed to think her trappings were her beauty, but in truth, they concealed it.

Sabran caught her gaze. Ead looked away.

“Where are your parents?” she said to Margret, who was standing on her right.

“They are pleading Papa’s indisposition, but I think it is because Mama has no wish to see Combe.” Margret spoke behind her peacock-feather fan. “He told her in a letter that Loth went to Cárscaro of his own free will. She will suspect otherwise.”

Lady Annes Beck had been a Lady of the Bedchamber to Queen Rosarian. “She must know well the machinations of this court.”

“Better than most. I see Lady Honeybrook has not come, either.” Margret shook her head. “Poor Kit.”

The Earl of Honeybrook stood with the other members of the Virtues Council. He did not look troubled by the absence of his son, who he resembled in every way but the mouth, which never smiled.

Trumpets proclaimed the coming of the High Prince. Even the fine tapestries that draped the Presence Chamber seemed to quiver with anticipation. Ead glanced toward Combe, who was smiling like a cat with a mouse pinned beneath its paw.

Her ribs clenched in revulsion at the sight of him. Even if he was not the architect behind the cutthroats, he had sent Loth into life-threatening peril to clear the way for this marriage to take place, based on rumors with not a whit of substance. He could rot.

Standard-bearers and trumpeters paraded into the Presence Chamber. Necks craned for a glimpse of the man who was to be prince consort of Inys. Linora Payling stood on her tiptoes, fanning herself as if she would swoon on the spot. Even Ead allowed herself a flutter of curiosity.

Sabran drew back her shoulders. The fanfare swelled, and the High Prince of the Free State of Mentendon appeared.

Aubrecht Lievelyn had the strong arms and broad shoulders Ead would have expected of a seasoned knight. Clean-shaven and even taller than Sabran, he had nothing of the dormouse about him. His waving hair gleamed like copper as he walked into a beam of sunlight. A cloak was slung over his shoulder, and he wore a black jerkin over a full-sleeved ivory doublet.

“Oh, he is so handsome,” Linora breathed.

When he reached his betrothed, Lievelyn knelt before her and lowered his head.

“Your Majesty.”

Her face was a mask. “Your Royal Highness,” she said, and presented her hand. “Welcome to the Queendom of Inys.”

Lievelyn kissed her coronation ring.

“Majesty,” he said, “I am already enamored with your city, and humbled by your acceptance of my suit. It is the greatest honor to be in your presence.”

His voice was quiet. Ead was surprised by his reserve. Usually a suitor would be piling unctuous praise on to the royal person the moment he opened his mouth, but Lievelyn just looked with dark eyes at the Queen of Inys, the figurehead of his religion.

Sabran, whose eyebrows were raised, took back her hand.

“The Dukes Spiritual, scions of the Holy Retinue,” she said. They bowed to Lievelyn, and he dipped his head lower in return.

“You are most welcome here, Your Royal Highness,” Combe said warmly. “We have long anticipated this meeting.”

“Rise,” Sabran said. “Please.”

Lievelyn obeyed. There was a brief silence as the companions-to-be took the measure of each other.

“We understand Your Royal Highness has visited Ascalon once before,” Sabran said.

“Yes, Majesty, for the marriage of your parents. I was only two years old, but my mother, who was also present, spoke often of how beautiful Queen Rosarian looked that day, and how the people were praying that she would soon be delivered of a daughter as gracious and resilient as she. And so you have proved to be. When I heard that Your Majesty had cowed the right wing of the Nameless One, it only confirmed what I knew of your strength.”

Sabran did not smile, but her eyes shone. “We had expected to meet your noble sisters.”

“They will come soon, Your Majesty. Princess Betriese was taken ill, and the others would not leave her side.”

“We are sorry for it.” Sabran held out her hand again, this time to the ambassador. “Welcome back, Oscarde.”

“Majesty.” The ambassador stooped to kiss the ring. “If I may, I would like to present my mother, Lady Aleidine Teldan utt Kantmarkt, Dowager Duchess of Zeedeur.”

The Dowager Duchess curtsied. “Your Majesty.” She was a striking woman, possessed of rich copper hair and hooded eyes. Crow’s feet were etched into her olive skin. “What a great honor.”

“You are welcome to Ascalon, Your Grace. As are you,” Sabran added to someone behind her, “Your Excellency.”

When Lievelyn stood aside, Ead drew a breath. The ambassador who had just entered the Presence Chamber wore a golden headdress and a cloak of tinseled satin, dyed the rich blue of larkspur. Behind him were the Ersyri and Lasian delegations.

“Majesty.” With a smile, Chassar uq-Ispad bowed. Faces turned to look at this mountain of a man, with his swathed head and his full black beard. “It has been a very long time.”

He was here.

After all these years, he had come back.

“It has,” Sabran said. “We began to think His Most High Majesty would send no representatives.”

“My master would never insult Your Majesty in such a manner. King Jantar sends his congratulations on your betrothal, as does High Ruler Kagudo, whose delegation joined us in Perchling.”

Kagudo was High Ruler of the Domain of Lasia, head of the oldest royal house in the known world. She was a direct descendant of Selinu the Oathkeeper, and was thus a blood relative of the Mother. Ead had never met her, but she often wrote to the Prioress.

“Fortunately,” Chassar continued, “Prince Aubrecht had just docked when we came ashore, so I was able to enjoy his good company for the remainder of the journey.”

“We hope to enjoy Prince Aubrecht’s good company for the foreseeable future,” Sabran said.

Some of the maids of honor hid their giggles behind their fans. Lievelyn smiled again.

The courtesies went on, Sabran never taking her eyes off her betrothed, and he never taking his eyes off her. Chassar glanced at Ead and gave her the very smallest of nods before looking away.

Once the audience had reached its end, Sabran invited her guests to the tiltyard to watch the lance games. Challengers would joust in view of a thousand citizens from the city. They just about lost their heads at the sight of Sabran, cheering for the queen who had banished a High Western. She was Glorian Shieldheart come again.

“Hail, Sabran the Magnificent,” they shouted. “Long live the House of Berethnet!” The roars of appreciation loudened as Lievelyn sat beside her in the Royal Box.

“Protect us, Your Majesty!”

“Majesty, we take heart from your courage!”

Ead found a place on the shaded benches with the other ladies-in-waiting and watched the crowd, waiting for a crossbow or pistol to appear in the stands. Her siden was all but extinguished, but she had knives enough for a slew of cutthroats.

Chassar was on the other side of the Royal Box. She would have to wait until after Sabran had retired to speak with him.

“Saint, I thought that introduction would never end.” Margret took a glass of strawberry wine from a page. Two knights-errant lowered their visors. “I do believe Sabran likes her Red Prince. She tried to hide it, but I think she is already smitten.”

“Lievelyn certainly is,” Ead said, distracted.

Combe was in the Royal Box. She scoured him with her gaze, trying to work out whether he looked at Sabran as though she were his queen, or a piece to be moved on a gameboard.

Margret followed her line of sight. “I know,” she said quietly. “He has gotten away with murder.” She sipped her wine. “I detest his retainers, too. For abetting him.”

“Sabran must know,” Ead murmured. “Can she not think of some way to be rid of him?”

“Much as it pains me to admit it, Inys needs his intelligencers. And if Sab ousted him without very good reason, other nobles might feel that their positions were just as fragile. She cannot afford malcontent, not when there is such uncertainty about the threat of Yscalin.” Margret grimaced as the knights-errant broke their lances on each other, drawing a roar from the stands. “Nobles have revolted in the past, after all.”

Ead nodded. “The Gorse Hill Rebellion.”

“Aye. At least there are laws to lessen the danger of it happening again. Once, you would have seen Combe’s retainers strutting about in his livery, as if their first loyalty were not to their queen. All they can do now is wear his badge.” She pursed her lips. “I hate that the symbol of his virtue is a book, you know. Books are too good for him.”

The two challengers wheeled to face each other again. Igrain Crest, who had been talking to a baron, now crossed to the Royal Box and sat in the row behind Sabran and Lievelyn. She leaned down to say something to the queen, who smiled at her.

“I hear Igrain is against this marriage,” Margret said, “though pleased it might yield the long-awaited heir.” She lifted an eyebrow. “She was Protector of the Realm in all but name when Sab was a child. A second mother. And yet if rumor has it right, she would prefer her to be wed to someone with one foot on the corpse road.”

“She may yet get her wish,” Ead said.

Margret looked at her. “You think Sab will change her mind about the Red Prince.”

“Until the ring is on her finger, I think there is every chance of it.”

“Court has made you cynical, Ead Duryan. We might be about to witness a romance to rival that of Rosarian the First and Sir Antor Dale.” Margret linked an arm through hers. “You must be pleased to see Ambassador uq-Ispad after all these years.”

Ead smiled. “You have no idea.”

The games went on for several hours. Ead stayed under the awnings with Margret, never taking her gaze off the stands. Finally, Lord Lemand Fynch, the acting Duke of Temperance, was declared the champion. After giving her cousin a ring as a prize, Sabran retired to escape the heat.

At five of the clock, Ead found herself ensconced in the Privy Chamber, where Sabran was playing the virginals. While Roslain and Katryen whispered to one another, and poor Arbella fumbled her needlework, Ead pretended to be absorbed in a prayer book.

The queen had paid more attention to her than usual since her fever. She had been invited several times to play cards and listen to the Ladies of the Bedchamber as they kept Sabran abreast of goings-on at court. Ead had noticed that they sometimes spoke well of certain people and advised Sabran to show them greater favor than she had. If there was no bribery involved in these recommendations, then Ead was Queen of the Ersyr.

“Ead.”

She looked up. “Majesty?”

“Come to me.”

Sabran patted a stool. When Ead sat, the queen leaned toward her conspiratorially. “It seems the Red Prince is less like a dormouse than we thought. What do you make of him?”

Ead felt Roslain watching her.

“He seemed courteous and gallant, madam. If he is a mouse,” she said lightly, “then we may rest assured that he is a prince among mice.”

Sabran laughed. A rare sound. Like a vein of gold hidden in rock, loath to show itself.

“Indeed. Whether he will make me a good consort has yet to be seen.” She ghosted a finger over the virginals. “I am not yet wed, of course. A betrothal can always be annulled.”

“You should do as you see fit. There will always be voices telling you what to do, and how to act, but it is you who wears the crown,” Ead said. “Let His Royal Highness prove that he is worthy of a place by your side. He must earn that honor, for it is the greatest one of all.”

Sabran studied her.

“You do speak comely words,” she remarked. “I wonder if you mean them.”

“Mine are honest words, madam. All courts will fall prey to affectation and deceit, often veiled as courtesy,” Ead said, “but I like to believe that I speak from the heart.”

“We all speak from the heart to Her Majesty,” Roslain snapped. Her eyes were bright with anger. “Are you implying that courtesy is a kind of artifice, Mistress Duryan? Because the Knight of Courtesy would—”

“Ros,” Sabran said, “I was not addressing you.”

Roslain fell silent, plainly stunned.

In the tense period that followed, one of the Knights of the Body entered the Privy Chamber.

“Majesty.” He bowed. “His Excellency, Ambassador uq-Ispad, asks if you might spare Mistress Duryan for a short while. If it please you, he is waiting for her on the Peaceweaver Terrace.”

Sabran brought her cascade of hair to one side of her neck.

“I think she can be spared,” she said. “You are excused, Ead, but be back in time for orisons.”

“Yes, madam.” Ead rose at once. “Thank you.”

As she left the Privy Chamber, she avoided looking at the other women. She ought not to make an enemy of Roslain Crest if she could help it.

Ead made her way out of the Queen Tower and ascended to the south-facing battlements of the palace, where the Peaceweaver Terrace overlooked the River Limber. Her heart chirred like a bee-moth. For the first time in eight years, she was going to speak to someone from the Priory. Not just anyone, but Chassar, who had raised her.

The evening sun had transfigured the river to molten gold. Ead crossed the bridge and stepped onto the tiled floor of the terrace. Chassar was waiting at the balustrade. At the sound of her footsteps, he turned and smiled, and she went to him like a child to a father.

“Chassar.”

She buried her face against his chest. His arms encircled her.

“Eadaz.” He placed a kiss on the top of her head. “There, light of my eyes. I am here.”

“I have not heard that name in so long,” she said thickly in Selinyi. “For the love of the Mother, Chassar, I thought you had abandoned me for good.”

“Never. You know that leaving you here was like having a rib wrenched from my side.” They walked together to a canopy of sweetbriar and honeysuckle. “Sit with me.”

Chassar must have reserved the terrace for his private use. Ead sat at a table, where a platter was piled high with sun-dried Ersyri fruit, and he poured her a glass of pale Rumelabari wine.

“I had all this brought across the sea for you,” he said. “I thought you might like a small reminder of the South.”

“After eight years, it would be easy to forget that the South even existed.” She gave him a hard look. “I had no word. You did not answer one of my letters.”

His smile faded. “Forgive my long silence, Eadaz.” He sighed. “I would have written, but the Prioress decided that you should be left alone to learn Inysh ways in peace.”

Ead wanted to be angry, but this was the man who had sat her on his lap when she was small and taught her to read, and her relief at seeing him outweighed her vexation.

“The task you were given was to protect Sabran,” Chassar said, “and you have honored the Mother by keeping her alive and unharmed. It cannot have been easy.” He paused. “The cutthroats that stalk her. You said in your letters that they carried Yscali-made blades.”

“Yes. Parrying daggers, specifically, from Cárscaro.”

“Parrying daggers,” Chassar repeated. “A strange choice of weapon for murder.”

“I thought the same. A weapon used for defense.”

“Hm.” Chassar stroked his beard, as he often did when he was thinking. “Perhaps this is as simple as it looks, and King Sigoso is hiring Inysh subjects to kill a queen he despises . . . or perhaps these blades are a rotten fish. Covering the scent of the true architect.”

“I think the latter. Someone at court is involved,” Ead said. “Finding the daggers would have been possible on the shadow market. And someone let the cutthroats into the Queen Tower.”

“And you have no sense of who in the Upper Household might want Sabran dead?”

“None. They all think she keeps the Nameless One chained.” Ead swilled her wine. “You always told me to trust my instinct.”

“Always.”

“Then I tell you now that something does not sit right with me about these attempts on Sabran. Not just the choice of weapon,” she said. “Only the last incursion seemed . . . serious. All the others have botched the thing. As if they wanted to be caught.”

“Most likely they are simply untrained. Desperate fools, bribed with a pittance.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps it is deliberate,” she said. “Chassar, do you remember Lord Arteloth?”

“Of course,” he replied. “I was surprised that he was not with Sabran when I arrived.”

“He is not here. Combe exiled him to Yscalin for stepping too close to her, to clear the way for the marriage to Lievelyn.”

Chassar raised his eyebrows. “The rumors,” he murmured. “I heard them even in Rumelabar.”

Ead nodded. “Combe was willing to send Loth to his death. And now I fear the Night Hawk is moving the pieces once more. That by making Sabran fear for her life, he drove her to Lievelyn.”

“So she would beget an heir as soon as possible.” Chassar seemed to consider this. “In a way, this would be good news, were it true. Sabran is safe. She has done as he wants.”

“But what if she does not in future?”

“I do not think he would go any further than he has. His power dissolves without her.”

“I am not sure he believes that. And I do not think it well that Sabran remains unaware of his scheming.”

Chassar stilled at this. “You must not voice these suspicions to her, Eadaz. Not without evidence,” he said. “Combe is a powerful man, and he would find a way to hurt you.”

“I would not. All I can do is continue to watch.” She caught his gaze. “Chassar, my wardings are beginning to fail.”

“I know.” He kept his voice down. “When word reached us that Fýredel had shown himself, and that Sabran had banished him from Ascalon, we knew the truth at once. We also knew it would have burned through your siden. You have been away from the tree for too long. You are a root, beloved. You must drink, or you will wither.”

“It may not matter. I might have a chance, finally, to be a Lady of the Bedchamber,” Ead said. “To protect her with my own blade.”

“No, Eadaz.”

Chassar placed a big hand over hers. An orange blossom, cut from glass-like sunstone, was mounted on a silver ring on his forefinger. The symbol of their shared and true allegiance.

“Child,” he murmured, “the Prioress is dead. She was old, as you know, and passed in peace.”

The news pained Ead, but it was no surprise. The Prioress had always seemed ancient, her skin as gnarled and furrowed as an olive tree. “When?”

“Three months ago.”

“May her flame ascend to light the tree,” Ead said. “Who has taken up her mantle?”

“The Red Damsels elected Mita Yedanya, the munguna,” Chassar said. “Do you remember her?”

“Yes, of course.” From what little Ead could remember of her, Mita had been a quiet and serious woman. The munguna was the presumed heir to the Priory, though the Red Damsels would occasionally elect someone else if they deemed her unfit for the position. “I wish her well in her new role. Has she chosen her own munguna already?”

“Most of the sisters wager it will be Nairuj, but in truth, Mita has not yet decided.”

Chassar leaned closer. In the faint light that remained, Ead noticed lines around his mouth and eyes. He looked so much older than when she had last seen him.

“Something has changed, Eadaz,” he said. “You must feel it. Wyrms have been stirring from their slumber, and now a High Western has risen. The Prioress fears that these are the first steps toward the Nameless One himself awakening.”

Ead took a moment to let the words settle inside her. “You are not alone in fearing this,” she said. “A maid of honor, Truyde utt Zeedeur, sent a messenger to Seiiki.”

“The young heir to the Duchy of Zeedeur.” Chassar frowned. “Why would she want to parley with the East?”

“The girl has taken it into her head to call their wyrms to protect us from the Nameless One. She is convinced he will return—whether the House of Berethnet stands or not.”

Chassar let a soft hiss escape between his teeth. “What has led her to believe this?”

“The Draconic awakenings. And her own imaginings, I suppose.” Ead poured them both more wine. “Fýredel said something to Sabran. The thousand years are almost done. He also said his master stirred in the Abyss.”

The ocean that yawned between one side of the world and the other. Black water that sunlight could not penetrate. A vault of darkness that seafarers had always feared to cross.

“Ominous words indeed.” Chassar contemplated the horizon. “Fýredel must believe, as Lady Truyde does, and as the Prioress does, that the Nameless One is poised to return.”

“The Mother defeated him more than a thousand years ago,” Ead said. “Did she not? If that were the date the wyrm meant, the Nameless One should have risen already.”

Chassar took a thoughtful sip of wine. “I wonder,” he said, “if this threat has anything to do with the Mother’s lost years.”

All sisters knew about the lost years. Not long after vanquishing the Nameless One and founding the Priory, the Mother had left on unknown business and perished before she could make her way home. Her body had been returned to the Priory. No one knew who had sent it.

One small faction of sisters believed that the Mother had gone to join her suitor, Galian Berethnet, and had a child with him, establishing the House of Berethnet. This idea, unpopular in the Priory, was the founding legend of Virtudom—and what had landed Ead in Inys.

“How could it?” she asked.

“Well,” Chassar said, “most sisters believe that the Mother left to protect the Priory from some unnamed threat.” He pressed his lips together. “I will write to the Prioress and tell her what Fýredel said. She may be able to solve this riddle.”

They fell into a brief silence. Now twilight had drawn in, candles began to flicker to life in the windows of the palace.

“I must go soon,” Ead murmured. “To pray to the Deceiver.”

“Eat a little first.” Chassar moved the bowl of fruit toward her. “You look tired.”

“Well,” Ead said dryly, “banishing a High Western alone, as it turns out, is a tiring affair.”

She picked at the honey-sweet dates and cherries. Tastes of a life she had never forgotten.

“Beloved,” Chassar said, “forgive me, but before you go, there is something else I must tell you. About Jondu.”

Ead looked up.

“Jondu.” Her mentor, her beloved friend. Something twisted in her gut. “Chassar, what is it?”

“Last year, the Prioress decreed we must resume our efforts to find Ascalon. With Draconic stirrings on the rise, she believed we should do everything we could to find the sword the Mother used to vanquish the Nameless One. Jondu began her search in Inys.”

“Inys,” Ead said, chest tight. “Surely she would have come to see me.”

“She was ordered not to approach the court. To leave you to your task.”

Ead closed her eyes. Jondu was headstrong, but she would never have disobeyed a direct order from the Prioress.

“We last heard from her when she was in Perunta,” Chassar continued, “presumably making her way home.”

“When was this?”

“The end of winter. She did not find Ascalon, but she wrote to tell us she carried an object of importance from Inys and urgently required a guard. We sent sisters to find her, but there was no trace. I fear the worst.”

Ead stood abruptly and walked to the balustrade. Suddenly the sweetness of the fruit was cloying.

She remembered Jondu teaching her how to yoke the raw flame that scorched in her blood. How to hold a sword and string a bow. How to open a wyvern from gizzard to tail. Jondu, her dearest friend—who, along with Chassar, had made her all she was.

“She may still be alive.” Her voice was hoarse.

“The sisters are searching. We will not give up,” Chassar said, “but someone must take her place among the Red Damsels. That is the message I bring from Mita Yedanya, our new Prioress. She commands you to return, Eadaz. To wear the cloak of blood. We shall need you in the days to come.”

A shiver caressed Ead from her scalp to the base of her spine, chill and warm at once.

It was all she had ever wanted. To be a Red Damsel, a slayer-in-waiting, was the dream of every girl born into the Priory.

And yet.

“So,” Ead said, “the new Prioress does not care to protect Sabran.”

Chassar joined her at the balustrade. “The new Prioress is more skeptical of the Berethnet claim than the last,” he admitted, “but she will not leave Sabran undefended. I have brought one of your younger sisters with me to Inys, and I mean to present her to Queen Sabran in exchange for you. I will tell her one of your relatives is dying, that you must return to the Ersyr.”

“That will look suspicious.”

“We have no choice.” He looked at her. “You are Eadaz du Zāla uq-Nāra, a handmaiden of Cleolind. You should not stay any longer in this court of blasphemers.”

Her name. It had been so long. As she digested his words, his face grew taut with worry.

“Eadaz,” he said, “do not tell me now that you wish to stay. Have you become attached to Sabran?”

“Of course not,” Ead said flatly. “The woman is arrogant and overindulged—but, whatever she is, there is a chance, however small, that she is the Mother’s true descendant. Not only that: if she dies, the country with the greatest naval strength in the West will collapse—and that will not do any of us a whit of good. She needs protection.”

“And she will have it. The sister I have brought is gifted—but you have a different path to follow now.” He placed a hand on her back. “It is time to come home.”

A chance to be close to the orange tree again. She could speak her own tongue and pray to the true image of the Mother without being cooked in Marian Square.

Yet she had spent eight years learning about the Inysh—their customs, their religion, the intricacies of this snare of a court. She could not waste that knowledge.

“Chassar,” Ead said, “I want to leave this place with you, but you are calling me away just as Sabran is beginning to trust me. All my years here will have been for nothing. Do you think you could persuade the new Prioress to give me a little more time?”

“How long?”

“Until the royal succession is assured.” Ead turned to him. “Let me guard her until she bears a daughter. Then I will come home.”

He mulled this over for some time, his mouth a thin line in the thicket of his beard.

“I will try,” he concluded. “I will try, beloved. But if the Prioress refuses, you must submit.”

Ead kissed his cheek. “You are too good to me.”

“I can never be too good to you.” He took her by the shoulders. “But be mindful, Eadaz. Do not lose your focus. It is the Mother who compels you, not this Inysh queen.”

She looked back at the towers of the city. “Let the Mother compel us in all that we do.”