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

Early autumn was bittersweet. Ead awaited word from Chassar as to whether the Prioress would permit her to stay in Inys for a little longer, but no messages came.

As the winds blew colder and the fashions of summer were exchanged for fur-trimmed reds and browns, the court fell in love with the prince consort. To the surprise of all and sundry, he and Sabran began to watch masques and plays in the Presence Chamber together. Such entertainment had always occurred, but the queen had not attended in several years, except for the betrothal celebrations. She would call for her fools and laugh at their capers. She would bid the maids of honor dance for her. Sometimes she would take her companion by the hand, and they would smile at each other as if there were nobody else in the world.

Ead stood close throughout it all. Nowadays, she was seldom far from the queen.

Not long after the marriage, Sabran woke to find blood on her sheets. It sent her into a rage that left Roslain wringing her hands and the rest of the Upper Household cowering. Even Prince Aubrecht retreated for the day to hunt in Chesten Forest.

Ead supposed it was to be expected. Sabran was a queen, born with the expectation that the world had a duty to provide what she wanted, when she wanted it—but she could not command her own womb to bear fruit.

“I woke today with a great craving for cherries,” Sabran remarked to Ead one morning. “What do you suppose it means?”

“Cherries are no longer in season, madam,” Ead had answered. “Perhaps you miss the bounty of summer.”

The queen had bridled, but said nothing more. Ead had continued brushing her cloak.

She would not indulge Sabran in this. Katryen and Roslain told Sabran what she wished to hear, but Ead was resolved to tell her what she needed to know.

Sabran had never been a patient woman. She soon became reluctant to join her companion at night, staying with her ladies to play cards into the small hours. By day, she was tired and captious. Katryen fretted to Roslain that this frame of mind could make a womb less welcoming, which made Ead want to dash her head until her teeth fell out.

It was not just the dearth of a child that must trouble the queen. Defending Mentendon from the wyrms in the Spindles was already proving to be a greater financial burden than anticipated. Lievelyn had brought a dowry, but it would soon run dry.

Ead was privy to this sort of knowledge now. Intimate, secret knowledge. She knew Sabran would sometimes lie in bed for hours, held there by a sorrow that ran in her bloodline. She knew she had a scar on her left thigh, gained when she had fallen from a tree when she was twelve. And she knew how she both hoped for a pregnancy and feared it more than anything.

Sabran might call Briar House her nest, but at present it was more of a cage. Rumors haunted its corridors and cloisters. The very walls seemed to hold their breath.

Ead herself was no stranger to rumors. Nobody could stop speculating on what a baseborn convert had done to become a Lady of the Bedchamber. Even she had no notion of why Sabran had chosen her over the many noble women in the Upper Household. Linora flung her many a sour look, but Ead paid her little mind. She had stomached these beef-witted courtiers for eight years.

One morning, she dressed in one of her autumn gowns and left to take the air before Sabran woke. Nowadays she had to be up with the lark if she meant to have any time alone with her thoughts. She spent most of each day with Sabran, her access to the queen almost unbounded.

The dawn was fresh and crisp, the cloisters mercifully silent. The only sound was the coo of a wood pigeon. Ead burrowed into the fur collar of her cloak as she passed the statue of Glorian the Third, the queen who had led Inys through the Grief of Ages. It depicted her riding in armor, full to bursting with child, sword raised in defiance.

Glorian had come to power on the day Fýredel slew her parents. The war had been unexpected, but Glorian Shieldheart had not balked. She had married the elderly Duke of Córvugar and betrothed their unborn child to Haynrick Vatten of Mentendon, all while leading the defense of Inys. On the day her daughter was born, she had taken the babe onto the battlefield to show her armies that there was hope. Ead could not decide if that was madness or mettle.

There were other stories like hers. Other queens who had made great sacrifices for Inys. These were the women whose legacy Sabran Berethnet carried on her shoulders.

Ead turned right through a passage and onto a gravel path flanked by horse-chestnut trees. At its end, beyond the walls of the palace grounds, stood Chesten Forest, as ancient as Inys itself.

There was a hothouse in the grounds, built of cast iron and glass. A redbreast took off from the roof as Ead stepped into its brothy warmth.

Jewel lilies floated in a pool. When she found the autumn crocus, she crouched and unhooked a pair of scissors from her girdle. In the Priory, a woman would take saffron for days before she tried to get with child.

“Mistress Duryan.”

She looked up, startled. Aubrecht Lievelyn stood close by, wrapped in a russet cloak.

“Your Royal Highness.” She stood and curtsied, slipping the crocus into her cloak. “Forgive me. I did not see you.”

“On the contrary, I am sorry to disturb you. I did not think anyone else rose this early.”

“Not always, but I enjoy the light before sunrise.”

“I enjoy the quiet. This court is so busy.”

“Is court life so different in Brygstad?”

“Perhaps not. There are eyes and whispers in every court, but the whispers here are— well, I must not complain.” He offered a kind smile. “May I ask what you are doing?”

Her instinct was to be wary of his interest, but Lievelyn had never struck her as the conniving sort. “I am sure you know that Her Majesty suffers from night terrors,” she said. “I was looking for some lavender to grind down and put beneath her pillow.”

“Lavender?”

“It promotes a quiet sleep.”

He nodded. “You may wish to look in the Apothecary Garden,” he said. “May I join you?”

The offer surprised her, but she could hardly refuse. “Yes, of course, Your Highness.”

They left the hothouse just as the upper limb of the sun reached over the horizon. Ead wondered if she should make a stab at conversation, but Lievelyn seemed content to take in the frosted beauty of the grounds as they walked side by side. His Royal Guard followed them at a distance.

“It is true that Her Majesty does not sleep well,” he finally said. “Her duties weigh on her.”

“As yours must weigh on you.”

“Ah, but I have it easier. It is Sabran who will carry our daughter. Sabran who will give her life.” Hoisting up another smile, he motioned toward Chesten Forest. “Tell me, Mistress Duryan. Was the Lady of the Woods ever said to walk among those trees?”

A chill darted through Ead. “That is a very old legend, Highness. I confess myself surprised you have heard of it.”

“One of my new Inysh attendants told it to me. I asked if he would enlighten me on some of the stories and customs of the country. We have our wood-elves and red wolves and suchlike in Mentendon, of course—but a witch who murdered children does seem a particularly bloody tale.”

“Inys was a bloody country once.”

“Indeed. Thank the Saint it no longer is.”

Ead looked toward the forest. “The Lady of the Woods was never known to be here, to my knowledge,” she said. “Her haithwood is in the north, close to Goldenbirch, where the Saint was born. The only time anyone enters it is to make pilgrimage in the spring.”

“Ah.” He chuckled. “What a relief. I almost fancied I might look out of my window one morning and see her standing there.”

“There is nothing to fear, Highness.”

They soon came to the Apothecary Garden. It lay in a courtyard by the Great Kitchen, where the furnaces were being lit.

“Might I do the honor?” Lievelyn asked.

Ead handed him her scissors. “Of course.”

“Thank you.”

They knelt beside the lavender, and Lievelyn removed his gloves, a boyish smile on his lips. Perhaps he found it exasperating to be able to do so little with his own hands. His Grooms of the Inner Chamber must take care of everything, from serving his food to washing his hair.

“Your Royal Highness,” Ead said, “pardon my ignorance, but who rules Mentendon in your absence?”

“Princess Ermuna is acting as steward while I am in Inys. Of course, I hope that Queen Sabran and I will eventually come to an arrangement whereby I am able to spend more of my time at home. Then I can be both consort and ruler.” He ran a stem between his fingers. “My sister is a force of nature, but I fear for her. Mentendon is a fragile realm, and ours is a young royal house.”

Ead watched his face while he spoke. His gaze was on his love-knot ring.

“This is also a fragile realm, Highness,” she said.

“As I am learning.”

He cut the lavender and passed it to her. Ead rose and dusted off her skirts, but Lievelyn seemed in no hurry to leave.

“I understand you were born in the Ersyr,” he said.

“Yes, Highness. I am a distant relation of Chassar uq-Ispad, ambassador to King Jantar and Queen Saiyma, and grew up as his ward.”

It was the lie she had told for eight years, and it came easily.

“Ah,” Lievelyn said. “Rumelabar, then.”

“Yes.”

Lievelyn pulled his gloves back on. He looked over his shoulder, to where his Royal Guard waited by the entrance to the garden.

“Mistress Duryan,” he said, softer, “I am glad I happened upon you this morning, for I would have your counsel on a private matter, if you would be good enough to give it.”

“In what capacity, Highness?”

“As a Lady of the Bedchamber.” He cleared his throat. “I should like to take Her Majesty into the streets, to give alms to the people of Ascalon, with the view to going on a longer progress in the summer. I understand she has never made a formal visit to any of her provinces. Before I raise it with her . . . I wondered if you might know why.”

A prince seeking her counsel. How things had changed.

“Her Majesty has not walked among her people since she was crowned,” Ead said. “Because of . . . Queen Rosarian.”

Lievelyn frowned at this. “I know the Queen Mother was cruelly murdered,” he said, “but that was in her own palace, not on the streets.”

Ead considered his earnest face. There was something about him that compelled her to honesty.

“There are wrong-headed people in Ascalon, drunk on the same evil that has tainted Yscalin, who long for the Nameless One to return,” she told him. “They would bring down the House of Berethnet to ensure it. Some of these people have been able to enter Ascalon Palace. Cutthroats.”

Lievelyn was quiet for a short while. “I did not know of this.” He sounded troubled, and Ead wondered what Sabran did talk to him about. “How close did they get to her?”

“Close. The last came in the summer, but I have no doubt that their master continues to plot against Her Majesty.”

His jaw firmed.

“I see,” he murmured. “Of course, I have no wish to put Her Majesty in danger. And yet—to the people of Virtudom, she is a beacon of hope. Now a High Western has returned, they must be reminded of her love for them, her devotion to them. Especially if she is forced to, say, raise taxes for the creation of new ships and weapons.”

He was serious. “Highness,” Ead said, “I beg you, wait until you have a daughter before you put this idea to Her Majesty. A princess will give the commons all the comfort and reassurance they need.”

“Alas that children cannot be called into being merely by our wishing hard enough for them. It may be a long time yet before an heir arrives, Mistress Duryan.” Lievelyn breathed out through his nose. “As her companion, I should know her best, but my bride is the blood of the Saint. What mortal can ever know her?”

“You will,” Ead said. “I have never seen her look at anyone the way she does at you.”

“Not even Lord Arteloth Beck?”

The name stilled her. “Highness?”

“I heard the rumors. Whispers of a love affair,” Lievelyn continued, after a hesitation. “I made my offer to Queen Sabran in spite of them . . . but from time to time, I wonder if—” He cleared his throat, looking abashed.

“Lord Arteloth is very dear to Her Majesty,” Ead told him. “They have been friends since they were children, and they love each other as brother and sister. That is all.” She did not break his gaze. “No matter what rumor might have you believe.”

His face softened into a smile again. “I suppose I ought to know better than to pay heed to gossip. Doubtless there is plenty about me,” he said. “Lord Seyton tells me Lord Arteloth is now in Yscalin. He must be a man of great courage, to go so boldly into danger.”

“Yes, Highness,” Ead said softly. “He is.”

There was a brief silence between them, peppered by birdsong.

“Thank you for your counsel, Mistress Duryan. It was generous of you to give it.” Lievelyn touched a hand on his patron brooch, the mirror of hers. “I see why Her Majesty speaks so highly of you.”

Ead curtsied. “You are too kind, Your Royal Highness. As is Her Majesty.”

With a courteous bow, he took his leave.

Aubrecht Lievelyn was no dormouse. He was ambitious enough to want to effect change, and he possessed what appeared to be an intrinsic Mentish fondness for dangerous ideas. Ead prayed he would heed her counsel. It would be madness for Sabran to show herself in public when her life was under threat.

In the royal apartments, Ead found the queen awake and calling for a hunt. Not having a swift horse of her own, Ead was given a high-bred steed from the Royal Mews.

Truyde utt Zeedeur, who had taken Ead’s position as an Ordinary Chamberer, would be among the hunting party. When they came face to face, Ead raised her eyebrows. The girl turned away, expressionless, and climbed on to her chestnut horse.

She must be losing hope in her lover. If Sulyard had written to her, she would not look so sullen.

Sabran refused to hunt with hounds. They were bound to kill their quarry cleanly, or not at all. As the party rode into Chesten Forest, Ead felt a sudden thirst for this hunt. She relished the wind in her hair. Her fingers itched to draw a bowstring.

Restraint was paramount. Too many kills would raise the question of where she had learned to shoot so well. She hung back at first, watching the others.

Roslain, who was said to have a flair for hawking, was all thumbs when it came to archery. She lost her temper within the hour. Truyde utt Zeedeur struck down a woodcock. Margret was the best shot of the ladies-in-waiting—she and Loth were both keen hunters—but no one could best the queen. It was all the beaters could do to keep up with her as she careered through the forest. She had a fine batch of conies by noon.

When she spied a hart between the trees, Ead almost let it go. A sensible lady-in-waiting would allow the queen to take the prize, but perhaps she could make one kill without arousing suspicion.

Her arrow flew. The hart collapsed. Margret, seated on her gelding, was the first to reach it.

“Sab,” she called.

Ead followed the queen at a trot to the clearing. The arrow had taken the hart through its eye.

Just where she had aimed it.

Truyde utt Zeedeur reached the hart next. She took in the carcass with taut features.

“It appears we will have venison for dinner.” Sabran was pink-cheeked with cold. “I was under the impression you had not hunted often, Ead.”

Ead inclined her head. “Some of us have innate skill, Your Majesty.”

Sabran smiled. Ead found herself smiling back.

“Let us see if you have any other innate skills.” Sabran wheeled her mount around. “Come, ladies—we will have a race back to Briar House. A purse for the victor.”

With cheers, the women spurred their horses after her, leaving the grooms to gather their kills.

They broke from the forest and thundered across the grass. Soon Ead was neck and neck with the queen, and they were breathless with laughter, neither able to gain on the other. With her wind-spun hair and eyes bright from the hunt, Sabran Berethnet looked almost carefree—and for the first time in years, Ead felt her own cares lifted from her shoulders. Like seeds from a dandelion clock.

Sabran was in high spirits for the rest of the day. In the evening, she permitted all the ladies-in-waiting to retire so she could attend to matters of state in her Privy Library.

Ead had inherited a double lodging from Arbella Glenn, closer to the royal apartments than her old quarters. The lodging was made up of two adjoining rooms, wood-paneled and hung with tapestries, and boasted a four-poster bed. Mullion windows looked out over the grounds.

The servants had already lit a fire. Ead removed her riding habit and patted the sweat away with a cloth.

A knock came on the door at eight. Outside was Tallys, the sweet young scullion.

“Supper for you, Mistress Duryan.” She bobbed a curtsy. No matter how many times Ead had told her it was unnecessary, she always insisted. “The bread is good and hot. They say a dread frost is on its way.”

“Thank you, Tallys.” Ead took the plate of food. “Tell me, child, how do your parents do?”

“Things do not go so well with my mother,” Tallys admitted. “She broke her arm and cannot work for a time, and the landlord is so harsh. I send all my wages, but . . . for a scullion, it is not much.” She hastened to add, “I don’t complain, of course, mistress. I am so fortunate to work here. It’s just a hard month, is all.”

Ead reached into her purse.

“Here.” She handed some coins to Tallys. “That should pay the rent until high winter.”

Tallys stared at them. “Oh, Mistress Duryan, I couldn’t—”

“Please. I have plenty saved, and little need to spend it. Besides, are we not taught to practice generosity?”

Tallys nodded, mouth quaking. “Thank you,” she whispered.

When she was gone, Ead ate her supper at her table. Fresh bread, buttered ale, and a pottage garnished with fresh sage.

Something tapped the window.

A sand eagle sat outside, its yellow eye fixed on her. His plumage was the gold of almond butter, his wingtips darkening to chestnut. Ead hastened to the window and opened it.

“Sarsun.”

He hopped inside and cocked his head. She smoothed his ruffled feathers with her fingertips.

“It has been a long time, my friend,” she said in Selinyi. “I see you avoided the Night Hawk.” He chirruped. “Hush. You’ll end up in the aviary with those silly doves.”

He butted his head against her palm. Ead smiled and stroked his wings until he stuck out one leg. Gently, she took the scroll attached to it. Sarsun soared onto her bed.

“By all means, make yourself comfortable.”

He ignored her, preening.

The scroll was unbroken. Combe could intercept anything that arrived by postrider or rock dove, but Sarsun was clever enough to elude him. Ead read the coded message.

The Prioress grants you leave to remain in Inys until the queen is delivered of a daughter. Once news of the birth reaches us, I will come to you.

Do not argue next time.

Chassar had done it.

Exhaustion lapped over her again. She dropped the letter into the fire. When she was under the covers, Sarsun burrowed into the crook of her arm like a nestling. Ead stroked his head with one finger.

Reading that message had filled her with both sorrow and relief. An opportunity to go home had presented itself to her on a platter—yet here she was, by choice, in the same place she had longed for years to escape. On the other hand, this meant her years at court would not go to waste. She would be able to see Sabran through her childing.

In the end, it mattered not how long she stayed. It was her destiny to take the red cloak. Nothing would alter that.

She thought of Sabran’s cool touch on her hand. When she slept, she dreamed of a bloodred rose against her lips.

Ead was dressed and on her way to the royal apartments by dawn, ready for the Feast of Early Autumn. Sarsun had taken off during the night. He had a long journey ahead of him.

When she had passed the Knights of the Body and stepped into the Privy Chamber, Ead found Sabran already up. The queen was arrayed in a gown of chestnut silk with sleeves of cloth-of-gold, her hair a contrivance of topaz and plaiting.

“Majesty.” Ead curtsied. “I did not know you had risen.”

“The birdsong woke me.” Sabran put her book to one side. “Come. Sit with me.”

Ead joined her on the settle.

“I am pleased you have come,” Sabran said. “I have something of a private nature to tell you before the feast.” Her smile gave it away. “I am with child.”

Caution was what came to Ead first. “Are you certain, Majesty?”

“More than certain. I am long past the proper time for my courses.”

At last. “Madam, this is wonderful,” Ead said warmly. “Congratulations. I am so very pleased for you and Prince Aubrecht.”

“Thank you.”

As Sabran looked down at her belly, her smile faltered. Ead watched the crease appear in her brow.

“You must not tell anyone yet,” the queen said, recovering. “Even Aubrecht has no idea. Only Meg, the Dukes Spiritual, and my Ladies of the Bedchamber know of my condition. My councillors have agreed that we will announce it when I begin to show.”

“When will you tell His Royal Highness?”

“Soon. I mean to surprise him.”

“Be sure there is a settle for him nearby when you do.”

Sabran smiled again at that. “I will,” she said. “I shall have to be gentle with my dormouse.”

A child would secure his position at court. He would be the happiest man alive.

At ten of the clock, Lievelyn met the queen at the doors to the Banqueting House. A silver thaw made the grounds shine. The prince consort wore a heavy surcoat, trimmed with wolf fur, that made him seem broader than he was. He bowed to Sabran, but there, in sight of them all, she took his nape in hand and kissed him.

Ead grew suddenly cold. She watched Lievelyn wrap his arms around Sabran and draw her flush against him.

The maids of honor were all titters. When the couple broke apart at last, Lievelyn smiled and kissed Sabran on the brow.

“Good morrow, Majesty,” he said, and they walked arm in arm, Sabran leaning into her companion, so their cloaks blended like ink.

“Ead,” Margret said. “Are you well?”

Ead nodded. The feeling in her chest had already dulled, but it had left a nameless shadow in her.

When Sabran and Lievelyn entered the Banqueting House, a throng of courtiers rose to meet them. The royals went to the High Table with the Dukes Spiritual, while the ladies-in-waiting pared away to the benches. Ead had never seen the Dukes Spiritual so pleased. Igrain Crest was smiling, and Seyton Combe, who usually darkened every doorway he entered, looked as if he could hardly keep from rubbing his hands together.

The Feast of Early Autumn was an extravagant affair. Black wine flowed, thick and heavy and sweet, and Lievelyn was presented with a huge rum-soaked fruit cake—his childhood favorite—which had been re-created according to a famous Mentish recipe.

On the tables, the bounty of the season filled copper-gilt platters. White peacock with a gold-leaf beak, roasted and soaked in a honey and onion sauce, then stitched back into its feathers, so it gave an impression of life. Damsons plumped in rosewater. Apple halves in a crimson jelly. Spiced blackberry pie with a fluted crust and tiny venison tartlets. Ead and Margret made sympathetic noises as Katryen lamented the loss of her secret admirer, whose love letters had stopped coming.

“Did Sabran tell you the news?” Katryen asked, voice low. “She wanted you both to know.”

“Yes. Thank the Damsel for her mercies,” Margret said. “I was beginning to think I would die of irritation if one more person remarked that Her Majesty was looking very well of late.”

Ead glanced behind her to make sure no one was eavesdropping.

“Katryen,” she murmured, “are you quite sure Sabran missed her blood?”

“Yes. Don’t trouble yourself, Ead.” Katryen sipped her bramble wine. “Her Majesty will have to begin putting together a household for the princess in due course.”

“Saint. That will set off more peacocking than poor Arbella’s death,” Margret said dryly.

“A household.” Ead raised an eyebrow. “Does a child need its own household?”

“Oh, yes. A queen has not the time to rear a child. Well,” Katryen added, “Carnelian the Third insisted on nursing her daughter herself, come to think of it, but it is not often done. The princess will need milk nurses, a governess, tutors, and so on.”

“How many people will be in this household?”

“Two hundred or so.”

A household that large seemed excessive. Then again, everything in Inys was excessive.

“Tell me,” Ead said, still curious, “what would happen if Her Majesty had a son?”

Katryen tilted her head at that. “I suppose it would not matter,” she mused, “but it has never happened, not in all Berethnet history. Clearly the Saint meant for this isle to be a queendom.”

When the dishes were finally cleared and chatter had begun, the steward tapped his staff on the floor.

“Her Majesty,” he called, “Queen Sabran.”

Lievelyn stood and extended a hand to his companion. She took it and rose, and the court rose with her.

“People of the court,” she said, “we bid you welcome to the Feast of Early Autumn. The time of the harvest, loved above all by the Knight of Generosity. From this day forth, winter begins its slow approach toward Inys. It is a time that wyrms despise, for it is heat that sustains the fire within them.”

Applause.

“Today,” she continued, “we announce another reason to celebrate. This year, to mark the Feast of Generosity, we will be making a progress into Ascalon.”

Murmurs rang up to the roof. Seyton Combe choked on his mulled wine.

“During this visit,” Sabran said, her gaze taut with resolve, “we will pray at the Sanctuary of Our Lady, give alms to the poor, and comfort those whose homes and livelihoods were damaged by Fýredel. In showing ourselves to the people, we will remind them that we stand united under the True Sword, and that no High Western will break our spirits.”

Ead looked to Lievelyn. He avoided her eyes.

Her counsel had not been strong enough. She should have done more to hammer the danger into that copper saucepan of a head.

He was a fool, and so was Sabran. Fools in crowns.

“That is all.” The queen returned to her seat. “Now, I believe there is one more course.”

Cheers erupted across the Banqueting House. At once, the servants came with yet more platters, and all concern was lost to feasting.

Ead touched nothing else. She was no diviner, but anyone with half a wit could see that this would end in blood.