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

When it was formally proclaimed that Queen Sabran was with child, the people of Inys ceased their mourning and celebrated in the streets. Prince Aubrecht was dead, but by gifting them the next ruler of Virtudom, he had bought them another generation of safety from the Nameless One.

Though she would traditionally stay in Briar House for half the year, no one grumbled when Sabran decreed that the court would return to Ascalon Palace for the remainder of her pregnancy. Every corridor in the winter residence was choked with memories of the prince consort, and it was commonly agreed that it was best for Queen Sabran to have a fresh outlook.

New gowns were made to accommodate her condition. The lying-in chamber was aired for the first time in decades. The palace was a butterfly house of chatter, and with every meal, courtiers raised their cups to the queen. Laughter rang bright and loud as a bell.

They did not see what the Ladies of the Bedchamber saw. The sickness that racked her at all hours. The relentless exhaustion. The way she lay awake at night, ill at ease with the change in her body.

Now, Roslain had told the ladies-in-waiting in private, was the most dangerous time in the pregnancy. Sabran was not to exert herself. She was not to hunt, or to go on vigorous walks, or to harbor unhappy thoughts. They would all have to work together to keep her calm and in good spirits.

The life of the child took precedence over that of the mother, since there was no evidence that the women of the House of Berethnet could conceive more than once. Little wonder Sabran had been withdrawn of late. The childbed was the one place where her divine authority would not protect her, and every day now brought her closer to it.

If she needed further confirmation of the dangers that surrounded her, the Dukes Spiritual saw fit to remind her daily.

“It is vital that we decide on our course. Yscalin could mount an invasion any day now,” Igrain Crest said to her one morning. “Our coastal defenses have been strengthened since Fýredel came, in accordance with your orders, but more is necessary. We have received word that the Flesh King has been constructing a new fleet in Quarl Bay. Some fifty ships are already built.”

It was a moment before Sabran spoke. “An invasion fleet.”

There were horseshoes of shadow under her eyes.

“I fear so, Majesty,” Crest said, gentler. “As does your cousin, the Lord Admiral.”

The Duchess of Justice had arrived while Sabran was breaking her fast. She stood in a bar of sunlight, which glinted off her patron brooch.

“We will open negotiations with Hróth immediately,” she said. “The wolfcoats will strike fear into Sigoso. To strengthen the chances of aid, we will, of course, take word that Your Majesty has at last accepted the long-standing offer from the Chieftain of Askrdal. Once King Raunus hears—”

“There will be no acceptance of Askrdal,” Sabran cut in. “King Raunus is a sovereign of Virtudom, and my distant relative. Let us see how many troops he offers us before we make any offers to him.”

Katryen pulled in a slow breath. It was unlike Sabran to interrupt Crest.

Crest, too, looked as if she had been caught off-guard. Nonetheless, she smiled.

“Majesty,” she said, “I do understand that this must be difficult, given the recent death of Prince Aubrecht. But I trust you will remember what I told you the day before your coronation. As a sword must be oiled, so a fellowship must be renewed. Best that you are not a distant relative to Raunus, but a near and dear one. You must wed again.”

Sabran gazed at the window. “I do not see the need for it now.”

Crest let her smile fall this time. Her attention darted first to Katryen, then to Ead.

“Majesty,” she said, in a reasonable tone, “perhaps we could continue this conversation in private.”

“Why, Igrain?” Sabran asked evenly.

“Because this is a sensitive diplomatic issue.” After a delicate pause, she said, “If you will forgive us, Lady Katryen, Mistress Duryan. I would like to speak to Queen Sabran alone.”

Ead curtsied and made to leave, as did Katryen, but Sabran said, “No. Ead, Kate, stay where you are.”

After a moment, they both stepped back into place. Sabran drew herself up in her chair and laid her hands on its arms.

“Your Grace,” she said to Crest, “whatever you wish to say of this matter, you may say in front of my ladies. They would not be standing in this chamber if I did not trust them absolutely.”

Ead exchanged a glance with Katryen.

Crest forced another smile. “Regarding King Raunus,” she continued, “we must have confirmation that His Majesty will commit to the defense of Inys. I will send Ambassador Sterbein to Elding at once, but it would strengthen his hand if he carried an acceptance of this suit.”

At this, Sabran laid a hand on her belly.

“Igrain,” she said, her voice quiet, “you have long stressed to me the need for an heir. My bounden duty. To honor that, I will not take another companion, or even consider it, while I am still with child, lest the strain of the matter harm my daughter.” Her gaze was piercing. “Offer Raunus anything else. And we will see what he offers us in return.”

The evasion was clever. Crest could not dispute it without appearing to dismiss the well-being of the heir.

“Majesty,” she said, disappointment etched on her face, “I can only advise. The choice, and its consequences, are yours.”

She curtsied and left the Privy Chamber. Sabran looked after her, expressionless.

“She pushes too hard,” she said softly, once the doors were shut. “I never saw, when I was younger. I revered her too much to see how much she hates to be denied.”

“It is only that Her Grace believes she knows best,” Katryen said. “And she has a will to rival yours.”

“My will was not always what it is now. Once I was as molten glass, yet to be spun into shape. I sense I have taken a shape she mislikes.”

“Don’t be silly.” Katryen sat on the arm of her throne. “Let Her Grace drink her sour wine for a few days. She will come around, just as she did after you chose Prince Aubrecht.” She gave Sabran the gentlest pat on the belly. “You must think only of this now.”

Two days later, a signal beacon was fired in Perchling, warning of danger to the coast. Sabran received Lord Lemand Fynch, her cousin, while she was still in her bedgown.

“Majesty, I regret to inform you that the Anbaura was sighted in the Swan Strait this morning,” he said. “Though it did not attack, the House of Vetalda is clearly taking the measure of our coastal defenses. As Lord Admiral, I have commanded your navy to keep any further scouts at bay—but I beg you, coz, to ask King Raunus for support. His ships would be of great use in guarding our eastern coast.”

“Ambassador Sterbein is already on his way to Elding. I have also requested hellburners from High Princess Ermuna in exchange for Inysh support on her border with Yscalin,” Sabran said. “Should the Flesh King flick his tongue at our coast again, I bid you remind him why the Inysh navy is known as the greatest in the world.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“You will also send mercenaries to Quarl Bay. I expect them to be hand-chosen by you, and indisputably loyal to Inys.” Her eyes were hard as emeralds. “I want his fleet torched.”

Her cousin considered this. “A foray into Draconic territory could incite an armed response.”

“The Knight of Courage bids us go forth into even the greatest danger in the interest of defending Virtudom, Your Grace. I see no reason why I should wait for bloodshed before I defend this isle,” Sabran said. “Send Sigoso a message. If he wants to dance with fire, it is he who will burn.”

Fynch bowed. “Majesty, I will see it done.”

He marched back out. Two of the Knights of the Body closed the doors behind him.

“If Yscalin courts war, I will oblige, but we must be ready,” Sabran murmured. “If Raunus is not in a generous mood, it may be my fate to make this marriage to the Chieftain of Askrdal. For Inys.”

Marriage to a man old enough to be her grandsire. Even Katryen, who was practiced in courtesy, creased her nose in distaste. Sabran crossed her arms over her midriff.

“Come.” Ead laid a hand on her back. “Let us take the air while the snow is untouched.”

“Oh, yes.” Katryen rose to the occasion with relish. “We could pick some damsons and blackberries. And do you know, Sabran, Meg said she saw a dear little hedgepig a few days ago. Perhaps we can help the servants to chase the poor things from under the balefires.”

Sabran nodded, but her face was a mask. And Ead knew that, in her mind, she was trapped under a balefire of her own, waiting for an unseen hand to set light to the kindling.

Not long after the announcement, Ead found herself once more in the Privy Chamber, embroidering roses on a baby cap. Since the scent of roses had kept her nightmares at bay, Sabran wanted them on everything her daughter would wear in the first days of her life.

The queen lay on a couch in her padded bedgown. She had shed weight in the days following the ambush in Ascalon, making her belly impossible to miss.

“I feel nothing,” she said. “Why does she not move?”

“That is natural, Majesty.” Roslain was bordering one end of a swaddle blanket. Katryen worked on the other. “You may not feel her quicken for some time.”

Sabran kept exploring the little round in her belly with her fingers.

“I believe,” she said, “that I have a name for my daughter.”

The Chief Gentlewoman looked up so quickly, she must have given herself a cricked neck. The blanket was forgotten as she and Katryen rushed to sit on either side of Sabran. Only Ead remained where she was.

“This is wonderful news, Sab.” Smiling, Katryen laid a hand over hers. “What have you chosen?”

There were six historical names for Berethnet monarchs, Sabran and Jillian being the most popular.

“Sylvan. After Sylvan-by-the-River,” the queen said, “where her lord father died.”

That name was not one of them.

Roslain and Katryen exchanged a worried glance. “Sabran,” Roslain said, “it is not traditional. I do not think your people would take well to it.”

“And am I not their queen?”

“Superstition knows no rulers.”

Sabran looked coldly toward the window. “Kate?”

“I agree, Your Majesty. Let the child not have the shadow of death over her head.”

“And you, Ead?”

Ead wanted to support her. She should have the right to name her own child as she pleased, but the Inysh did not take kindly to change.

“I agree.” She pulled her needle through the cloth. “Sylvan is a beautiful name, Majesty, but it may serve to make your daughter melancholy. Better to name her after one of your royal ancestors.”

At this, Sabran looked exhausted. She turned on to her side and pressed her cheek into the cushion.

“Glorian, then.”

A grand name indeed. Since the death of Glorian Shieldheart, it had never been bestowed on any princess.

Katryen and Roslain both made approving sounds. “Her Royal Highness, Princess Glorian,” Katryen said, with the air of a steward announcing her entrance. “It already suits her. What hope and heart it will give to your subjects.”

Roslain nodded sagely. “It is high time such a magnificent name was resurrected.”

Sabran stared at the ceiling as if it were a bottomless chasm.

Within a day, the news had seeped into the capital. Celebrations were planned for the day the princess was born, and the Order of Sanctarians prophesied the might of Glorian the Fourth, who would lead Inys into a Golden Age.

Ead watched it all with weary detachment. Soon the Prioress would call her home. Part of her longed to be among her sisters, united with them in praise of the Mother. Another part wanted nothing but to remain.

She had to crush it.

There was something Ead had to do before she left. One evening, when the other ladies were occupied and Sabran was resting, she made her way to the Dearn Tower, where Truyde utt Zeedeur remained imprisoned.

The guards were on high alert, but she needed no siden to get into forbidden places. As the clock tower struck eleven, she reached the highest floor.

Dressed in naught but a soiled petticoat, the Marchioness of Zeedeur was a shadow of the beauty she had been. Her curls were twisted and heavy with grease, and her cheekbones strained against her skin. A chain snaked between her ankle and the wall.

“Mistress Duryan.” Her gaze was as intense as ever. “Have you come to crow over me?”

She had wept when she saw her prince lying dead. It seemed her grief had cooled.

“That would not be courteous,” Ead said. “And only the Knight of Justice can judge you.”

“You know no Saint, heretic.”

“Rich words, traitor.” Ead took in the piss-soaked straw. “You do not look afraid.”

“Why should I be afraid?”

“You are responsible for the death of the prince consort. That is high treason.”

“You will find I am protected here, as a Mentish citizen,” Truyde said. “The High Princess will try me in Brygstad, but I am confident I will not be executed. I am so young, after all.”

Her lips were split. Ead took a wineskin from her bodice, and Truyde, after a moment, drank.

“I came to ask,” Ead said, “what you thought you would achieve.”

Truyde swallowed the ale. “You know.” She wiped her mouth. “I will not tell you again.”

“You wanted Sabran to fear for her life. You wanted her to feel as if there were too many battles for her to fight alone. You imagined that this would cause her to seek help from the East,” Ead said. “Was it also you who let the cutthroats into Ascalon Palace?”

“Cutthroats?”

As a maid of honor, she would not have been told.

“Has someone tried to kill her before?” Truyde pressed.

Ead nodded. “Do you know the identity of this Cupbearer the shooter invoked?”

“No. As I told the Night Hawk.” Truyde looked away. “He says he will have the name from me, one way or another.”

Ead found that she believed in her ignorance. Whatever her faults, the girl did appear to want to protect Inys.

“The Nameless One will rise, as his servants have,” Truyde said. “Whether there is a queen in Inys or a sun in the sky, he will rise.” The chain had rubbed her ankle bloody. “You are a sorceress. A heretic. Do you believe the House of Berethnet is all that binds the beast?”

Ead stoppered the wineskin and sat.

“I am not a sorceress,” she said. “I am a mage. A practitioner of what you might call magic.”

“Magic is not real.”

“It is,” Ead said, “and its name is siden. I used it to protect Sabran from Fýredel. Perhaps that will confirm to you that we are on the same side, even if our methods differ. And even if you are a dangerous fanatic whose folly killed a prince.”

“I never meant for him to die. It was all a masque. Wrong-headed outsiders poisoned it.” Truyde paused to cough pitifully. “Still, Prince Aubrecht’s death does open a new avenue for an Eastern alliance. Sabran could marry an Eastern noble—the Unceasing Emperor of the Twelve Lakes, perhaps. Give her hand and claim an army to kill every wyrm.”

Ead huffed a laugh. “She would sooner swallow poison than share a bed with a wyrm-lover.”

“Wait until the Nameless One shows himself in Inys. Wait until her people see that the House of Berethnet is built on a lie. Some of them must already believe it,” Truyde raised her eyebrows. “They have seen a High Western. They see that Yscalin is emboldened. Sigoso knows the truth.”

Ead held out the wineskin again.

“You have risked a great deal for this . . . belief of yours,” she said as Truyde swallowed. “There must be more to it than mere suspicion. Tell me what planted the seed.”

Truyde withdrew, and for a long time, Ead thought she would not answer.

“I tell you this,” she finally said, “only because I know no one will listen to a traitor. Perhaps it will plant a seed in you as well.” She curled an arm around her knees. “You are from Rumelabar. I trust you have heard of the ancient skystone tablet that was unearthed in its mines.”

“I know of it,” Ead said. “An object of alchemical interest.”

“I first read about it in the library of Niclays Roos, the dearest friend of my grandsire. When he was banished, he entrusted most of his books to me,” Truyde said. “The Tablet of Rumelabar speaks of a balance between fire and starlight. Nobody has ever been able to interpret it. Alchemists and scholars have theorized that the balance is symbolic of the worldly and the mystic, of anger and temperance, of humanity and divinity—but I think the words should be taken literally.”

“You think.” Ead smiled. “And are you so much cleverer than the alchemists who have puzzled over it for centuries?”

“Perhaps not,” Truyde granted, “though history boasts many so-called scholars of only middling ability. No, not cleverer . . . but more disposed to take risks.”

“What risk did you take?”

“I went to Gulthaga.”

The city that had once lain in the shadow of the Dreadmount, now buried under ash.

“My grandsire told us he was going to visit Wilgastrōm,” Truyde said, “but he died of the Draconic plague, contracted in Gulthaga. My father told me the truth when I was fifteen. I rode to the Buried City myself. To see what had driven my grandsire there.”

The world believed that the late Duke of Zeedeur had died of the pox. Doubtless the family had been commanded to uphold the lie to avoid creating panic.

“Gulthaga has never been excavated, but there is a way through the tuff, to the ruins,” Truyde said. “Some ancient texts have survived. I found the ones my grandsire had been studying.”

“You went to Gulthaga knowing the Draconic plague was there. You are mad, child.”

“It is why I was sent to Inys. To learn temperance—but as you have seen, Mistress Duryan, Temperance is not my patron knight.” Truyde smiled. “Mine is Courage.”

Ead waited.

“My ancestor was Viceroy of Orisima. From her journals, I learned that the comet that ended the Grief of Ages—that came the hour the wyrms fell—also gave strength to the Eastern dragons.” Her eyes were bright. “My grandsire knew a little of the ancient language of Gulthaga. He had translated some of the astronomical writings. They revealed that this comet, the Long-Haired Star, causes a starfall each time it passes.”

“And what has this to do with anything else, pray tell?”

“I think it connects to the Tablet of Rumelabar. I think the comet is supposed to keep the fire beneath the world in check,” Truyde said. “The fire builds over time, and then a starfall cools it. Before it can grow too strong.”

“Yet it grows strong now. Where is your comet?”

“That is the problem. I believe that at some point in history, something upset the cycle. Now the fire grows too strong, too fast. Too fast for the comet to subdue it.”

“You believe,” Ead said, frustrated.

“As others believe in gods. Often with less proof,” Truyde pointed out. “We were lucky in the Grief of Ages. The coming of the Long-Haired Star coincided with the rise of the Draconic Army. It saved us then—but by the time it comes again, Fýredel will have conquered humankind.” She grabbed Ead by the wrist, eyes flashing. “The fire will rise as it did before, when the Nameless One was born into this world. Until it has consumed us all.”

Her face was wrought with conviction, her jaw tight with it.

“That,” she finished, with an air of triumph, “is why I believe he will return. And why I think the House of Berethnet has naught to do with it.”

They locked gazes for a long moment. Ead pulled her wrist free.

“I want to pity you, child,” she said, “but I find my heart cold. You have fished in the waters of history and arranged some fractured pieces into a picture that gives your grandsire’s death some meaning—but your determination to make it truth does not mean it is so.”

“It is my truth.”

“Many have died for your truth, Lady Truyde. I trust,” Ead said, “that you can live with that.”

A draft shivered through the arrow-slit. Truyde turned away from the chill, rubbing her arms.

“Go to Queen Sabran, Ead. Leave me to my beliefs, and I will leave you to yours,” she said. “We will see soon enough whose truth is correct.”

As she walked back to the Queen Tower, Ead winnowed her memories for the exact words that had been scored into the Tablet of Rumelabar. The first two lines eluded her, but she recalled the rest.

. . . Fire ascends from the earth, light descends from the sky.

Too much of one doth inflame the other,

and in this is the extinction of the universe.

A riddle. The sort of nonsense alchemists bickered over for want of anything more useful to do. Bored with her privileged existence, the girl had parsed her own meaning from the words.

And yet Ead found herself dwelling on it. After all, fire did ascend from the earth—through wyrms, and through the orange tree. Mages ate of its fruit, becoming vessels of the flame.

Had the Southerners of ancient times known some truth that had disappeared from history?

Uncertainty threw shadows on her mind. If there was some connection between the tree and the comet and the Nameless One, surely the Priory would know of it. But so much knowledge had been lost over the centuries, so many records destroyed . . .

Ead cast the thought aside as she entered the royal apartments. She would think on the girl in the tower no more.

In the Great Bedchamber, the Queen of Inys sat upright in her bed, nursing a cup of almond milk. As Ead sat beside the fire, braiding her hair, she felt Sabran’s gaze like the tip of a knife.

“You took their side.”

Ead stopped. “Madam?”

“You agreed with Ros and Kate about the name.”

Days had passed since that discussion. This must have been curdling inside her ever since.

“I wanted my child to carry some part of her father,” Sabran said bitterly. “Morose it might be, but it is the place where we were last together. Where he learned that we would have a daughter. Where he vowed that she would be beloved.”

Compunction waxed in Ead.

“I wanted to support you,” she said, “but I thought Lady Roslain was right, about not breaking with tradition. I still do.” She tied off her braid. “Forgive me, Majesty.”

With a sigh, Sabran patted the bed. “Come. The night is cold.”

Ead stood with a nod. Ascalon Palace did not hold in warmth so well as Briar House. She blew out all but two of the candles before she got under the coverlets.

“You are not yourself.” Sabran inferred. “What troubles you, Ead?”

A girl with a skullful of dangerous ideas.

“Only the talk of invasion,” Ead answered. “These are uncertain times.”

“Times of treachery. Sigoso has betrayed not only the Saint, but humankind.” Sabran exerted a stranglehold on her cup. “Inys survived the Grief of Ages, but barely. Villages were turned to ash, cities set afire. Our population was decimated, and even centuries later, any armies I can muster will not be as large as those we had before.” She put the cup aside. “I cannot think of this now. I must . . . deliver Glorian. Even if all three High Westerns lead their forces to my queendom, the Nameless One cannot join them.”

Her nightgown was drawn back to bare her belly, as if to let the child breathe. Blue veins traced her sides.

“I prayed to the Damsel, asking her to fill my womb.” Sabran released her breath. “I can be no good queen. No good mother. Today, for the first time, I . . . almost resented her.”

“The Damsel?”

“Never. The Damsel does what she must.” One pale hand came to rest on the bump. “I resent . . . my unborn child. An innocent.” Her voice strained. “The people already turn to her as their next queen, Ead. They speak of her beauty and her magnificence. I did not expect that. The suddenness of it. Once she is born, my purpose is served.”

“Madam,” Ead said gently, “that is not true.”

“Is it not?” Sabran circled a hand on her belly. “Glorian will soon come of age, and I will be expected, sooner or later, to abdicate in her favor. When the world considers me too old.”

“Not all Berethnet queens have abdicated. The throne is yours for as long as you desire.”

“It is considered an act of greed to hold it for too long. Even Glorian Shieldheart abdicated, despite her popularity.”

“Perhaps by the time your child is grown, you will be ready to relinquish the throne. To lead a quieter life.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Whether I live or die in childbed, I will be cast aside. Like an eggshell.”

“Sabran.”

Before she knew it, Ead had reached to touch her cheek. Sabran looked at her.

“There will be fools and flatterers,” Ead said, “who forsake your side to fawn over a newborn. Let them. See them for what they are.” She kept Sabran’s gaze prisoner. “I told you fear was natural, but you must not let it consume you. Not when there is so much at stake.”

The skin against her palm was cool and petal-soft. Warm breath caressed her wrist.

“Be at my side for the birth. And onward,” Sabran murmured. “You must always stay with me, Ead Duryan.”

Chassar would be back for her in half a year. “I will stay with you for as long as I can,” Ead said. It was all that she could promise.

With a nod, Sabran shifted closer and rested her head on Ead’s shoulder. Ead held still—allowing herself to grow used to her nearness, to the shape of her.

Her skin was all chills. She could smell the milky sweetness of creamgrail in her hair, feel the swell of her belly. Ead sensed she would jostle the child as they slept, so she rotated their bodies until Sabran faced away from her, and they fitted together like acorn and cup. Sabran reached for Ead’s hand and brought it around her middle. Ead drew the coverlets over both of their shoulders. Soon the queen was fast asleep.

Her grasp was soft, but Ead still felt a heartbeat in her fingers. She imagined what the Prioress would say if she could see her now. No doubt she would scorn her. She was a sister of the Priory, destined to slay wyrms, and here she was, giving succor to a sad Berethnet.

Something was changing in her. A feeling, small as a rosebud, was opening its petals.

She had never been meant to harbor anything more than indifference toward this woman. Yet she knew now that when Chassar returned, it would be hard to go. Sabran would need a friend more than ever. Roslain and Katryen would be preoccupied with the newborn, and would talk of nothing but blankets and cradles and milk nurses for months. Sabran would not weather that time well. She would go from being the sun of her court to the shadow behind a child.

Ead fell asleep with her cheek against a wash of black hair. When she woke, Sabran was quiet beside her.

A drumbeat pounded at her temple. Her siden lay dormant, but her instincts had woken.

Something was wrong.

The fire was low, the candles almost burned out. Ead rose to trim the wicks.

“No,” Sabran breathed. “The blood.”

From the tortured look on her face, she was dreaming. Dreaming, so it seemed, of the Lady of the Woods.

Kalyba was no ordinary mage. From what little Ead remembered about her, she had possessed gifts unknown to the Priory, including immortality. Perhaps dream-giving was another. But why should Kalyba be concerned with tormenting the Queen of Inys?

Ead went back to Sabran and laid a hand on her brow. She was sodden. Her nightgown was stuck fast, and strands of hair clung to her face. Chest tight, Ead felt her brow for the heat of a fever, but her skin was icy cold. Incoherent words escaped her.

“Hush.” Ead reached for the goblet and tipped it to her lips. “Drink, Sabran.”

Sabran took a swallow of milk and sank back into the pillows, twisting like a kitten caught by the scruff of its neck. As if she were trying to escape from her nightmare. Ead sat beside her and stroked her lank hair.

Perhaps it was because Sabran was so cold that Ead noticed at once when her own skin heated.

A Draconic thing was near.

Ead strove to remain calm. When Sabran was still, she sponged the sweat from her and arranged the bedclothes so only her face was exposed to the night. She could alert no one, for it would betray her gifts.

All she could do was wait.

The first warning was the shouts from the palace walls. At once, Ead was on her feet.

“Sabran, quickly.” She scooped an arm around the queen. “You must come with me now.”

Her eyes flickered open. “Ead,” she said, “what is it?”

Ead helped her into her slippers and bedgown. “You must get to the wine cellars at once.”

The key turned in the door. Captain Lintley appeared, armed with his crossbow.

“Majesty,” he said, with a rigid bow, “there is a flock of Draconic creatures approaching, led by a High Western. Our forces are ready, but you must come with us now, before they breach the walls.”

“A flock,” Sabran repeated.

“Yes.”

Ead watched her waver. This was the woman who had gone out to meet Fýredel.

It was not in her nature to hide.

“Your Majesty,” Lintley urged. “Please. Your safety is paramount.”

Sabran nodded. “Very well.”

Ead wrapped the heaviest coverlet around her shoulders. Roslain appeared at the doors, her face lit stark by the taper in her hand.

“Sabran,” she said, “hurry, you must hurry—”

Throwing a final, unreadable look at Ead, Sabran was escorted away by Lintley and Sir Gules Heath, who kept a reassuring hand at the small of her back. Ead waited for them to vacate the Great Bedchamber before she ran.

In her own rooms, she changed and threw on a hooded cloak before grabbing her longbow. She would have to aim true. Only certain parts of a High Western could be pierced.

The arrows were vast things. She took them and sheathed her arm in a leather bracer. It had been twelve years since she had fought a wyrm without her siden, but she, of all the people in this city, had the greatest chance of driving off the High Western.

She needed a vantage point. Carnelian House, where many of the courtiers lodged, would give her a clear view.

She took the Florell Stair, which connected on the third floor to the main stair of the Queen Tower. She could hear the Knights of the Body coming down it.

She quickened her pace. The stairs spiraled in a rush beneath her. Soon she emerged into the biting chill of the night. Fleet-footed, unseen by the guards, she skirted the edge of the Sundial Garden and, with a great leap, caught hold of a blind arch on the north-facing side of Carnelian House. Each adornment on the walls gave her a handhold.

A bitter wind pulled at her hair as she climbed. Her body was no longer as strong as it had been in Lasia, and she had not tested her limbs like this in months. She ached all over by the time she hitched herself on to the roof.

The Knights of the Body and the ladies-in-waiting emerged from the Queen Tower and gathered into a protective knot around Sabran and Heath. The party struck out from the vestibule and across the Sundial Garden.

When they were halfway across, Ead beheld a sight that would have been unthinkable a year ago.

Wyverns coming toward Ascalon Palace, screaming like crows surrounding a carcass.

She had seen nothing like this in all her years. These were no blear-eyed creatures jarred from their sleep, scavenging for livestock. This was a declaration of war. Not only were these wyverns bold enough to show themselves in the capital, but they were flocking. As dread threatened to freeze her, she thought back to her lessons in the Priory.

Wyverns would only fly in these numbers if they were united by a High Western. If she killed the master, they would scatter.

Her breath clouded before her. The High Western had not yet shown itself, but she caught its foul stench on the wind, like the fumes from a fire mountain. She slid an arrow from her quiver.

The Mother had designed these arrows. Long enough to pierce the thickest Draconic armor, made of metal from the Dreadmount, they froze at the lightest touch of ice or snow.

Her fingers prickled. The reek of brimstone blew through the courtyard, and the snow thawed around her boots.

She knew the cadence of wings when she heard it. Thunderous as the footsteps of a giant.

With every whump, the ground quaked. A drumbeat of impending grief.

The High Western tore through the night. Almost as large as Fýredel, its scales were pale as bone. It crashed down next to the clock tower and, with a bone-shattering lash of its tail, threw a group of palace guards across the courtyard. More charged at it with swords and partizans. With this monstrosity blocking the way, Lintley and the Knights of the Body could no longer reach the entrance to the cellars.

In the days after Fýredel had come, several weapons on the walls of Ascalon Palace had been set on rounds of wood, allowing them to be revolved. Cannons flung gunstones at the intruder. Two hit it in the flank, another in the thigh—hard enough to break bone on a wyvern—but they only served to incense the High Western. It scoured the walls with its spiked tail, sweeping away the guards who had been trying to load a harpoon. Their screams died as quickly as they began.

Ead dragged the arrow through the snow, freezing it, and fitted it to her bow. She had seen Jondu fell a wyvern with one well-placed shot, but this was a High Western, and her arm was no longer strong enough to make a full draw. Years of needlework had milked her strength. Without that, and without her siden, her chances of a hit were slim.

A breath left her. She released the bow and, with a thrwang, the arrow skirred toward the wyrm. It moved at the last, and the arrow just missed its flank. Ead glimpsed Lintley at the northwest corner of the Sundial Garden, hurrying his charges into the cover of the Marble Gallery.

Retreating to the Queen Tower would now take Sabran into full view of the wyrm. They were trapped. If Ead could distract the beast, and if they were quick, they might be able to slip past unnoticed and make a break for the cellars.

Another arrow was in her hand a moment later, nocked and drawn. This time, she angled it toward a softer part of the face before she let go. It clanked off a scaled eyelid.

The slit of the pupil constricted, and the High Western turned its head to face her. Now its attention was all hers.

She iced a third arrow.

Hurry, Lintley.

“Wyrm,” she called in Selinyi. “I am Eadaz du Zāla uq-Nāra, a handmaiden of Cleolind. I carry the sacred flame. Leave this city untouched, or I will see you brought down.”

The Knights of the Body had reached the end of the Marble Gallery. The wyrm gazed at her with eyes as green as willow. She had never seen that eye color in a Draconic thing.

“Mage,” it said in the same tongue, “your fire is spent. The God of the Mountain comes.”

Its voice churned like a millstone through the palace. Ead did not flinch.

“Ask Fýredel if my fire is spent,” she answered.

The wyrm hissed.

Most Draconic creatures were easy to distract. Not this one. Its gaze snapped to where the Knights of the Body had emerged. Their copper-plated armor reflected the flames, drawing its eye.

“Sabran.”

Ead felt a chill in her bones. The wyrm said that name with a softness. A familiarity.

That softness did not last. Teeth bared, the beast threw back its head and spoke in the Draconic tongue. As fireballs rained from the wyverns, the Knights of the Body, in terror, divided. Half retreated into the Marble Gallery, while the others ran for the Banqueting House. Lintley was one of the latter. So was Margret. So was Heath, ever fearless. Ead could see him with his shield raised high, cradling Sabran with his sword arm. She was bent over her belly.

The wyrm opened its jaws. The Marble Gallery melted beneath its fiery breath, cooking the knights inside.

Ead released the bowstring. With punishing force, her arrow seared across the space between mage and wyrm.

It found its mark.

The bay of agony was deafening. She had struck it in the place Jondu had shown her, the supple armor under the wing. Blood poured down its scales and bubbled around the spit of ice.

One green eye burned into Ead. She felt herself etched into that eye. Into its memory.

Then it happened. As it took off, bleeding and enraged, the wyrm swung his spiked tail—and the vestibule of the Dearn Tower, its foundations already weakened by Fýredel, collapsed into the courtyard. So did the statues of the Great Queens atop it. Ead looked down in time to see Heath struck by a block of masonry, and Sabran falling from his arms, before a cloud of dust swallowed them both.

The silence was a held breath. It rang with a secret that could not be spoken.

Ead dropped like a shadow from the roof, and she ran as she never had in her life.

Sabran.

She was curled, like a feather shaken from a bird, by the body of Sir Gules Heath. Eyes closed. Still breathing. Just breathing. Ead wrapped the Queen of Inys in her arms and gathered her up as darkness stole into her nightgown, stemming from between her thighs.

The stone head of Glorian Shieldheart watched her bleed.