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

Somewhere in Ascalon Palace, the black hands of a milk-glass clock were creeping toward noon.

The Presence Chamber was full for the Mentish visit, as it always was when foreign ambassadors came to Inys. The windows had been thrown open to let in a honeysuckle-scented breeze. It did little to flush out the heat. Brows were glazed with sweat and feather fans waved everywhere, so that it seemed as if the room were full of fluttering birds.

Ead stood in the crowd with the other Ladies of the Privy Chamber, Margret Beck on her right. The maids of honor faced them across the carpet. Truyde utt Zeedeur adjusted her carcanet. Why Westerners could not divest themselves of a few layers of clothing in the summer, Ead would never know.

Murmurs echoed through the cavernous hall. High above her subjects, Sabran the Ninth watched from her marble throne.

The Queen of Inys was the portrait of her mother, and her mother before that, and so on for generations. The resemblance was uncanny. Like her ancestors, she was possessed of black hair and eyes of a lucent green that seemed to fracture in the sunlight. It was said that while her bloodline endured, the Nameless One could never wake from his sleep.

Sabran took in her subjects with a detached gaze, lingering on nobody. She was eight and twenty, but her eyes held the wisdom of a much older woman.

Today she embodied the wealth of the Queendom of Inys. Her gown was black satin in deference to the Mentish fashion, laid open to the waist to show a stomacher, pale as her skin, glistering with silverwork and seed pearls. A crown of diamonds affirmed her royal blood.

Trumpets heralded the coming of the Mentish party. Sabran whispered something to Lady Arbella Glenn, Viscountess Suth, who smiled and laid a liver-spotted hand on hers.

The standard-bearers came first. They showed the Silver Swan of Mentendon displayed on a black field, with the True Sword pointed down, between its wings.

Next came the servants and the guards, the interpreters and the officials. Finally, Lord Oscarde, Duke of Zeedeur, walked briskly into the chamber, accompanied by the Resident Ambassador to Mentendon. Zeedeur was heavyset, and his beard and hair were red, as was the tip of his nose. Unlike his daughter, he had the gray eyes of the Vatten.

“Majesty.” He bowed with a flourish. “What an honor it is to be received once more at your court.”

“Welcome, Your Grace,” Sabran said. Her voice was pitched low, rich with authority. She held out her hand to Zeedeur, who mounted the steps to kiss her coronation ring. “It lifts our heart to see you in Inys again. Was your journey an easy one?”

Ead still found the our jarring. In public, Sabran spoke for both herself and her ancestor, the Saint.

“Alas, madam,” Zeedeur said, his expression grim, “we were set upon by a full-grown wyvern in the Downs. My archers felled it, but had it been more alert, there could have been a bloodbath.”

Murmurs. Ead observed the looks of shock that swept across the hall.

“Again,” Margret muttered to her. “Two wyverns in as many days.”

“We are most concerned to hear this,” Sabran said to the ambassador. “Our finest knights-errant will escort you back to Perchling. You will have a safer journey home.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Now, you must desire to see your daughter.” Sabran cut her gaze to the maid in question. “Come forward, child.”

Truyde stepped on to the carpet and curtsied. When she rose, her father embraced her.

“Daughter.” He took her by the hands, smiling as if his face would break. “You look radiant. And how you’ve grown. Tell me, how is Inys treating you?”

“Far better than I deserve, Father,” Truyde said.

“And what makes you say that?”

“This court is so grand,” she said, indicating the domed ceiling. “Sometimes I feel very small, and very dull, as if even the ceilings are more magnificent than I will ever be.”

Riotous laughter filled the chamber. “So witty,” Linora whispered to Ead. “Is she not?”

Ead closed her eyes. These people.

“Nonsense,” Sabran said to Zeedeur. “Your daughter is well liked at court. She will be a worthy companion to whomsoever her heart chooses.”

Truyde dipped her gaze with a smile. At her side, Zeedeur chuckled. “Ah, Your Majesty, I fear Truyde is too free-spirited to be wed just yet, much as I desire a grandchild. I thank you for taking such good care of my daughter.”

“No thanks are necessary.” Sabran held the arms of her throne. “We are always pleased to receive our friends in Virtudom at court. However, we are curious as to what brings you from Mentendon now.”

“My lord of Zeedeur brings a proposition, Majesty.” It was the Resident Ambassador to Mentendon who spoke. “A proposition we trust will interest you.”

“Indeed.” Zeedeur cleared his throat. “His Royal Highness, Aubrecht the Second, High Prince of the Free State of Mentendon, has long admired Your Majesty. He has heard tell of your courage, your beauty, and your stalwart devotion to the Six Virtues. Now his late grand-uncle has been entombed, he craves a firmer alliance between our countries.”

“And how does His Royal Highness mean to forge such an alliance?” Sabran asked.

“Through marriage, Your Majesty.”

Every head turned toward the throne.

There was always a period of fragility before a Berethnet sovereign got with child. Theirs was a house of daughters, one daughter for each queen. Their subjects called it proof of their sainthood.

It was expected of each Queen of Inys to marry and get with child as soon as possible, lest she die with no true heir. This would be dangerous in any country, since it would pitch the realm into civil war, but according to Inysh belief, the collapse of the House of Berethnet would also cause the Nameless One to rise again and lay waste to the world.

Yet Sabran had so far declined every offer of marriage.

The queen reclined into her throne, studying Zeedeur. Her face, as ever, betrayed nothing.

“My dear Oscarde,” she said. “Flattered as we are, we seem to remember that you are already wed.”

The court fell about laughing. Zeedeur had looked nervous, but now he grinned.

“Sovereign lady!” he said, chuckling. “It is my master who seeks your hand.”

“Pray continue,” Sabran said, with the faintest shadow of a smile.

The wyvern was forgotten. Clearly emboldened, Zeedeur took another step forward.

“Madam,” he said, “as you know, your ancestor, Queen Sabran the Seventh, was wed to my own distant relation, Haynrick Vatten, who was Steward-in-Waiting to Mentendon while it was under foreign rule. Since the House of Lievelyn ousted the Vatten, however, there has been no formal knit between our countries, except our shared religion.”

Sabran listened with a look of indifference that never quite touched on boredom or contempt.

“Prince Aubrecht is aware that his late grand-uncle’s suit was declined by Your Majesty… and, ah, also by the Queen Mother”—Zeedeur cleared his throat again—“but my master believes he offers a different sort of companionship. He also believes there would be many advantages to a fresh alliance between Inys and Mentendon. We are the only country with a trading presence in the East, and with Yscalin fallen into sin, he believes an alliance that espouses our faith is vital.”

Some murmuring followed this statement. Not long ago, the Kingdom of Yscalin to the south had also been part of Virtudom. Before it had taken the Nameless One as its new god.

“The High Prince offers you a token of his affection, if Your Majesty would be gracious enough to receive it,” Zeedeur said. “He has heard of your love for pearls from the Sundance Sea.”

He snapped his fingers. A Mentish servant approached the throne, carrying a velvet cushion, and knelt. On the cushion was an oyster, cracked open to reveal an iridescent black pearl, big as a cherry, tinged with green. It shone like folded steel under the sun.

“This is the finest dancing pearl in his possession, caught off the coast of Seiiki,” Zeedeur said. “It is worth more than the ship that carried it over the Abyss.”

Sabran leaned forward. The servant held the cushion higher.

“It is true that we have a fondness for dancing pearls, and a dearth of them,” the queen said, “and we would accept this gladly. But to do so is not an acceptance of this suit.”

“Of course, Majesty. A gift from a friend in Virtudom, no more.”

“Very well.”

Sabran’s gaze flicked to Lady Roslain Crest, Chief Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber, who wore a gown of emerald silk and a partlet of white needle lace. Her brooch showed a pair of goblets, like anyone who took the Knight of Justice as their patron, but hers was gilded, showing that she was the blood of that knight. Roslain made a barely perceptible sign to one of the maids of honor, who hastened to take away the cushion.

“Although we are touched by his gift, your master should know of our disdain for the heretical practices of the Seiikinese,” Sabran said. “We desire no parlance with the East.”

“Of course,” Zeedeur said. “Even so, our master believes that the origin of the pearl does nothing to dull its beauty.”

“Perhaps your master is right.” Sabran settled back into her throne. “We hear His Royal Highness was training to be a sanctarian before he was High Prince of Mentendon. Tell us of his other . . . qualities.”

Titters.

“Prince Aubrecht is very clever and kind, madam, possessed of great political acumen,” Zeedeur said. “He is four and thirty, with hair of a softer red than mine. He plays the lute beautifully, and dances with great vigor.”

“With whom, we wonder?”

“Often with his noble sisters, Your Majesty. He has three: Princess Ermuna, Princess Bedona, and Princess Betriese. They are all eager to make your acquaintance.”

“Does he pray often?”

“Three times a day. He is devoted most of all to the Knight of Generosity, who is his patron.”

“Does your prince have any faults, Oscarde?”

“Ah, Majesty, we mortals all have faults—except for you, of course. My master’s only flaw is that he tires himself with worry for his people.”

Sabran grew serious again.

“In that,” she said, “he is already one with us.”

Whispers spread through the chamber like fire.

“Our soul is touched. We will consider this suit from your master.” A smattering of tentative applause broke out. “Our Virtues Council will make arrangements to further this matter. Before that, however, we would be honored if you and your party would join us for a feast.”

Zeedeur swept into another bow. “The honor would be ours, Majesty.”

The court undulated with bows and curtsies. Sabran made her way down the steps, followed by her Ladies of the Bedchamber. The maids of honor walked in their wake.

Ead knew Sabran would never marry the Red Prince. This was her way. She strung her suitors along like fish on a line, accepting gifts and flattery, but never surrendered her hand.

As the courtiers dispersed, Ead left by another door with her fellow chamberers. Lady Linora Payling, blonde and rosy-cheeked, was one of the fourteen children of the Earl and Countess of Payling Hill. Her favorite pastime was dabbling in gossip. Ead found her a thorough vexation.

Lady Margret Beck, however, had been her dear friend for a long time now. She had joined the Upper Household three years ago and befriended Ead as quickly as her brother, Loth, who was six years her senior. Ead had soon discovered that she and Margret had the same sense of humor, knew from a look what the other was thinking, and shared the same opinions on most people at court.

“We must work fast today,” Margret said. “Sabran will expect us to show our faces at the feast.”

Margret looked so much like her brother, with her ebon skin and strong features. It had been a week since Loth had disappeared, and her eyelids were still swollen.

“A suit,” Linora said as they walked down the corridor, out of earshot of the rest of the court. “And from Prince Aubrecht! I had thought him far too devout to be wed.”

“No prince is too devout to marry the Queen of Inys,” Ead said. “It is she who is too devout to wed.”

“But the realm must have a princess.”

“Linora,” Margret said tightly, “a little temperance, if you please.”

“Well, it must.”

“Queen Sabran is not yet thirty. She has plenty of time.”

It was clear to Ead that they had not heard about the cutthroat, else Linora would look more serious. Then again, Linora never looked serious. For her, tragedy was merely an occasion for gossip.

“I hear the High Prince is rich beyond measure,” she continued, not to be put off. Margret sighed. “And we could take advantage of their trading post in the East. Just imagine—having all the pearls of the Sundance Sea, the finest silver, spices and jewels—”

“Queen Sabran scorns the East, as all of us should,” Ead said. “They are wyrm-worshippers.”

“Inys won’t have to trade there, silly. We can buy from the Mentish.”

It was still a tainted exchange. The Mentish traded with the East, and the East idolized wyrms.

“My worry is affinity,” Margret said. “The High Prince was betrothed to the Donmata Marosa for a time. A woman who is now the crown princess of a Draconic realm.”

“Oh, that betrothal is long since dissolved. Besides,” Linora said, tossing her hair back, “I doubt he liked her overmuch. He must have been able to tell she had evil in her heart.”

At the doors to the Privy Chamber, Ead turned to the other two women.

“Ladies,” she said, “I will take care of our duties today. You should go to the feast.”

Margret frowned. “Without you?”

“One chamberer will not be missed.” Ead smiled. “Go, both of you. Enjoy the banquet.”

“The Knight of Generosity bless you, Ead.” Linora was already halfway down the corridor. “You are so good!”

As Margret made to follow, Ead caught her by the elbow. “Have you heard anything from Loth?” she murmured.

“Nothing yet.” Margret touched her arm. “But something is afoot. The Night Hawk summons me this evening.”

Lord Seyton Combe. The spymaster himself. Almost everyone called him the Night Hawk, for he snatched his prey under cover of darkness. Discontents, power-hungry lords, people who flirted too often with the queen—he could make any problem disappear.

“Do you think he knows something?” Ead asked quietly.

“I suppose we shall find out.” Margret pressed her hand before she went after Linora.

When Margret Beck suffered, she suffered alone. She hated to burden anyone else. Even her closest friends.

Ead had never meant to be among those friends. When she had first arrived in Inys, she had resolved to keep to herself as much as she could, the better to protect her secret. Yet she had been raised in a close-knit society, and she had soon ached for company and conversation. Jondu, her sister in all but blood, had been by her side almost since she was born, and to be suddenly without her had left Ead bereft. So when the Beck siblings had offered their friendship, she had given in, and could not regret it.

She would see Jondu again, when she was finally called home, but she would lose Loth and Margret. Still, if the silence from the Priory was anything to go on, that day would not be soon.

The Great Bedchamber at Ascalon Palace was high-ceilinged, with pale walls, a marble floor, and a vast canopy bed at its heart. The bolsters and coverlet were brocaded ivory silk, the sheets were finest Mentish linen, and there were two sets of drapes, one light and one heavy, used according to how much light Sabran wanted.

A wicker basket waited at the foot of the bed, and the chamberpot was absent from its cupboard. It seemed the Royal Laundress was back to work.

The household had been so busy preparing for the Mentish visit that the task of stripping the bed had been postponed. Opening the balcony doors to let out the stuffy heat, Ead removed the sheets and the coverlet and slid her hands over the featherbeds, checking for any blades or bottles of poison that might be stitched inside them.

Even without Margret and Linora to assist her, she worked fast. While the maids of honor were at the feast, the Coffer Chamber would be empty. Now was the perfect time to investigate the familiarity she suspected between Truyde utt Zeedeur and Triam Sulyard, the missing squire. It paid to know the affairs of this court, from the kitchens to the throne. Only with absolute knowledge could she protect the queen.

Truyde was noble-born, heir to a fortune. There was no reason she should take any great interest in an untitled squire. Yet when Ead had insinuated a connection between her and Sulyard, she had looked startled, like an oakmouse caught with an acorn.

Ead knew the scent of a secret. She wore it like a perfume.

Once the Great Bedchamber was secure, she left the bed to air and made her way to the Coffer Chamber. Oliva Marchyn would be at the Banqueting House, but she had a spy. Ead crept up the stair and stepped over the threshold.

“What ho,” a voice croaked. “Who comes?”

She stilled. Nobody else would have heard her, but the spy had keen hearing.

“Trespasser. Who is it?”

“Wretched fowl,” Ead whispered.

A bead of sweat trailed down her spine. She hitched up her skirts and drew a knife from the sheath at her calf.

The spy sat on a perch outside the door. As Ead approached him, he tilted his head.

“Trespasser,” he repeated, in ominous tones. “Wicked maiden. Out of my palace.”

“Listen carefully, sirrah.” Ead showed him the knife, making him ruffle his feathers. “You may think you have the power here, but sooner or later, Her Majesty will be in the mood for pigeon pie. I doubt she would notice if I wrapped you in pastry instead.”

In truth, he was a handsome bird. A rainbow mimic. His feathers blurred from blue to green to safflower, and his head was a brash pink. It would be a shame to cook him.

“Payment,” he said, with a tap of one claw.

This bird had enabled many an illicit meeting when Ead had been a maid of honor. She tucked the knife away, lips pressed together, and reached into the silk purse on her girdle.

“Here.” She placed three comfits on his dish. “I will give you the rest if you behave.”

He was too busy hammering at the sweets to answer.

The Coffer Chamber was never locked. Young ladies were not supposed to have anything to hide. Inside, the drapes were drawn, the fire stanched, the beds made.

There was only one place for a clever maid of honor to conceal her secret treasures.

Ead lifted the carpet and used her knife to pry up the loose floorboard. Beneath it, in the dust, lay a polished oak box. She lifted it onto her knee.

Inside was a collection of items that Oliva would have merrily confiscated. A thick book, etched with the alchemical symbol for gold. A quill and a jar of ink. Scraps of parchment. A pendant carved from wood. And a sheaf of letters, held together with ribbon.

Ead unfurled one. From the smudged date, it had been written last summer.

The cipher took moments to break. It was a touch more sophisticated than the ones used in most love letters at court, but Ead had been taught to see through code since childhood.

For you, the letter said in an untidy hand. I bought it from Albatross Point. Wear it sometimes and think of me. I will write again soon. She picked up another, written on thicker paper. This one was from over a year before. Forgive me if I am too forward, my lady, but I think of nothing but you. Another. My love. Meet me beneath the clock tower after orisons.

Without dwelling for too long, she could see that Truyde and Sulyard had been conducting a love affair, and that they had consummated their desire. The usual moonshine on the water. But Ead paused over some of the phrases.

Our enterprise will shake the world. This task is our divine calling. Two young people in love could not possibly describe such a passionate affair as a “task” (unless, of course, their lovemaking failed to match their poetry). We must begin to make plans, my love.

Ead leafed through pillow talk and riddles until she found a letter dated from early spring, when Sulyard had gone missing. The writing was smeared.

Forgive me. I had to leave. In Perchling I spoke to a seafarer, and she made me an offer I could not refuse. I know we planned to go together, and perhaps you will hate me for the rest of our lives, but it is better this way, my sweetheart. You can help where you are, at court. When I send word of my success, convince Queen Sabran to look kindly upon our enterprise. Make her realize the danger.

Burn this letter. Let none of them know what we are doing until it is done. They will hail us as legends one day, Truyde.

Perchling. The largest port in Inys, and its principal gateway to the mainland. Sulyard had fled on a ship, then.

There was something else beneath the floorboard. A thin book, bound in leather. Ead skirted one finger over its title, written in what was unquestionably an Eastern script.

Truyde could not have found this book in any Inysh library. Seeking knowledge of the East was heresy. She would get far worse than a scolding if anyone found it.

“Somebody coming,” the mimic croaked.

A door closed below. Ead hid the book and letters beneath her cloak and returned the box to its nook.

Footsteps echoed through the rafters. She fitted the floorboard back into place. On her way past the perch, she emptied the rest of her comfits into the dish.

“Not a word,” she whispered to the spy, “or I will turn those lovely feathers into quills.”

The mimic chuckled darkly as Ead vaulted through the window.

They were lying side by side under the apple tree in the courtyard, as they often did in the high summer. A flagon of wine from the Great Kitchen sat beside them, along with a dish of spiced cheese and fresh bread. Ead was telling him about some prank the maids of honor had played on Lady Oliva Marchyn, and he was laughing so hard his belly ached. She was part poet and part fool when it came to telling stories.

The sun had lured out the freckles on her nose. Her black hair fanned across the grass. Past the glare of the sun, he could see the clock tower above them, and the stained-glass windows in the cloisters, and the apples on their branches. All was well.

“My lord.”

The memory shattered. Loth looked up to see a man with no teeth.

The hall of the inn was full of country-dwellers. Somewhere, a lutenist was playing a ballad about the beauty of Queen Sabran. A few days ago, he had been hunting with her. Now he was leagues away, listening to a song that spoke of her as if she were a myth. All he knew was that he was on his way to near-certain death in Yscalin, and that the Dukes Spiritual loathed him enough to have set him on that path.

How suddenly a life could crumble.

The innkeeper set down a trencher. On it sat two bowls of pottage, rough-cut cheese, and a round of barley bread.

“Anything else I can do for you, my lords?”

“No,” Loth said. “Thank you.”

The innkeeper bowed low. Loth doubted it was every day that he hosted the noble sons of Earls Provincial in his establishment.

On the other bench, Lord Kitston Glade, his dear friend, tore into the bread with his teeth.

“Oh, for—” He sprayed it out. “Stale as a prayer book. Dare I try the cheese?”

Loth sipped his mead, wishing it was cold.

“If the food in your province is so vile,” he said, “you should take it up with your lord father.”

Kit snorted. “Yes, he does rather enjoy that sort of dullness.”

“You ought to be grateful for this meal. I doubt there will be anything better on the ship.”

“I know, I know. I’m a soft-fingered noble who sleeps on swansdown, loves too many courtiers, and gluts himself on sweetmeats. Court has ruined me. That’s what Father said when I became a poet, you know.” Kit poked gingerly at the cheese. “Speaking of which, I must write while I’m here—a pastoral, perhaps. Aren’t my people charming?”

“Quite,” Loth said.

He could not feign light-heartedness today. Kit reached across the table to grasp his shoulder.

“Stay with me, Arteloth,” he said. Loth grunted. “Did the driver tell you the name of our captain?”

“Harman, I think.”

“You don’t mean Harlowe?” Loth shrugged. “Oh, Loth, you must have heard of Gian Harlowe. The pirate! Everyone in Ascalon—”

“I am patently not everyone in Ascalon.” Loth rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Please, enlighten me as to what sort of knave is taking us to Yscalin.”

“A legendary knave,” Kit said in hushed tones. “Harlowe came to Inys as a boy from far-off shores. He joined the navy at nine and was captain of a ship by the time he turned eighteen—but he bit the hook of piracy, as so many promising young officers do.” He poured more mead into their tankards. “The man has sailed every sea in the world, seas that no cartographer has ever named. By plundering ships, they say he had amassed wealth to rival the Dukes Spiritual by the time he was thirty.”

Loth drank yet again. He had the feeling he would need another tankard before they left.

“I wonder, then, Kit,” he said, “why this infamous outlaw is taking us to Yscalin.”

“He may be the only captain brave enough to make the crossing. He is a man without fear,” Kit replied. “Queen Rosarian favored him, you know.”

Sabran’s mother. Loth looked up, interested at last. “Did she?”

“She did. They say he was in love with her.”

“I hope you are not suggesting that Queen Rosarian was ever unfaithful to Prince Wilstan.”

“Arteloth, my surly northern friend—I never said she returned the love,” Kit said equably, “but she liked the man enough to bestow on him the largest ironclad ship in her fleet, which he named the Rose Eternal. Now he calls himself privateer with impunity.”

“Ah. Privateer.” Loth managed a slight chuckle. “The most sought-after title in all the world.”

“His crew has captured several Yscali ships in the last two years. I doubt they will take kindly to our arrival.”

“I imagine the Yscals take kindly to very little nowadays.”

They sat in silence for some time. While Kit ate, Loth gazed out of the window.

It had happened in the dead of night. Retainers wearing the winged book of Lord Seyton Combe had entered his chambers and ordered him to come with them. Before he knew it, he had been bundled into a coach with Kit—who had also been marched from his lodgings under cover of darkness—and shown a note to explain his circumstances.

Lord Arteloth Beck—

You and Lord Kitston are now Inysh ambassadors-in-residence to the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin. The Yscals have been informed you are coming.

Make enquiries about the last ambassador, the Duke of Temperance. Observe the court of the Vetalda. Most importantly, find out what they are planning, and if they intend to mount an invasion of Inys.

For queen and country.

The note had been jerked out of his hands within moments, and presumably carried off to be burned.

What Loth could not work out was why. Why he, of all people, was being sent to Yscalin. Inys needed to know what was happening in Cárscaro, but he was no spy.

The hound of despair was on his back, but he could not let it buckle him. He was not alone.

“Kit,” he said, “forgive me. You have been forced to join me in my exile, and I have been poor company.”

“Don’t you dare apologize. I’ve always rather fancied an adventure.” Kit smoothed back his flaxen curls with both hands. “Since you’re finally talking, though, we ought to speak about our . . . situation.”

“Don’t. Not now, Kit. It’s done.”

“You must not think Queen Sabran ordered your banishment,” Kit said firmly. “I tell you, this was arranged without her knowledge. Combe will have told her you left court of your own free will, and she will have doubts about her spymaster. You must tell her the truth,” he urged. “Write to her. Disclose to her what they have done, and—”

“Combe reads every letter before it reaches her.”

“Could you not use some cipher?”

“No cipher is safe from the Night Hawk. There is a reason why Sabran made him her spymaster.”

“Then write to your family. Ask them for their help.”

“They will not be granted an audience with Sabran unless they go through Combe. Even if they are,” Loth said, “it will be too late for us by then. We will already be in Cárscaro.”

“They should still know where you are.” Kit shook his head. “Saint, I’m beginning to think you want to leave.”

“If the Dukes Spiritual believe I am the best person to find out what has transpired in Yscalin, then perhaps I am.”

“Oh, come, Loth. You know why this is happening. Everyone tried to warn you.”

Loth waited, brow furrowed. With a sigh, Kit drained his tankard and leaned in closer.

“Queen Sabran is not yet married,” he murmured. Loth tensed. “If the Dukes Spiritual favor a foreign match for her, your presence at her side . . . well, it complicates things.”

“You know Sab and I have never—”

“What I know is less important than what the world sees,” Kit said. “Allow me to indulge in a little allegory. Art. Art is not one great act of creation, but many small ones. When you read one of my poems, you fail to see the weeks of careful work it took me to build it—the thinking, the scratched-out words, the pages I burned in disgust. All you see, in the end, is what I want you to see. Such is politics.”

Loth puckered his brow.

“To ensure an heir, the Dukes Spiritual must paint a certain picture of the Inysh court and its eligible queen,” Kit said. “If they believed your intimacy with Queen Sabran would spoil that picture—dissuade foreign suitors—it would explain why they chose you for this particular diplomatic mission. They needed you gone, so they . . . painted you out.”

Another silence fell. Loth clasped his ring-laden fingers and set his brow against them.

He was such a fool.

“Now, if my feeling is correct, the good news is that we may be allowed to sneak back to court once Queen Sabran is married,” Kit said. “I say we weather the next few weeks, find poor old Prince Wilstan if we can possibly manage it, then return to Inys by whatever means needful. Combe will not stop us. Not once he has what he wants.”

“You forget that if we return, we will be able to expose his scheming to Sabran. He would have considered that. We will not get near the palace gates.”

“We will write to His Grace beforehand. Make him some offer. Our silence in exchange for him leaving us in peace.”

“I cannot be silent about this,” Loth bit out. “Sab must know if her Virtues Council machinates behind her back. Combe knows I will tell her. Trust me, Kit—he means for us to be in Cárscaro for good. His eyes in the most dangerous court in the West.”

“Damn him. We will find a way home,” Kit said. “Does the Saint not promise that all of us will?”

Loth drained his tankard.

“You can be very wise, my friend.” With a sigh, he added, “I can only imagine how Margret must feel at this moment. She may have to inherit Goldenbirch.”

“Meg must not burden that brilliant mind of hers. Goldenbirch will not need her as heir, because we will be back in Inys before you know it. This mission may not seem survivable,” Kit said, back to his jocular self, “but you never know. We may return from it as princes of the world.”

“I never thought you would have more faith than I do.” Loth took in a deep breath through his nose. “Let us rouse the driver. We have tarried here for long enough.”