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

Damp skin moved against his own, and a hand gentled his hair. Those were the first things he knew before the agony broke into his sleep, sharp and vengeful.

The air burned his mouth, reeking of brimstone. A whimper escaped his lips.

“Jan.”

“Shh, Niclays.”

He knew that voice. “Laya,” he tried to say, but only a groan came out.

“Oh, Niclays, thank the gods.” She pressed a cloth to his brow when he whimpered. “You must be quiet.”

The events of Komoridu came back to him in a flash. Ignoring her pleas for him to be still, he groped for his throat. Where a second mouth had been, he could feel shiny, tender skin—the scar of cautery. He raised his arm and saw that it now ended in a puffy stump, webbed with black stitches. Tears squeezed from his eyes.

He was an anatomist. Even now, he knew this wound would almost certainly kill him.

“Shh.” Laya stroked his hair. Her cheeks were damp, too. “I’m so sorry, Niclays.”

A sickening throb filled his arm. He took the piece of leather she offered and bit with all his might to keep from screaming.

A strained creak came to his attention. Slowly, he realized that the swaying was not the result of pain, but the fact that he and Laya were suspended in an iron cage.

If he had been seized by fear before, he was losing his mind to it now. His first thought was that the Golden Empress had taken them ashore and left them to starve—then he remembered the last thing he had heard before fainting. The drumbeat of Draconic wings.

“Where?” he forced out. Vomit threatened to follow his words. “Laya. Where?”

Laya swallowed, hard enough for him to see the movement of her throat. “Dreadmount.” She held him close. “The red veins in the rock. No other mountain has them.”

Birthplace of the Nameless One. Niclays knew he ought to be pissing himself with fear, but all he could think was how close he was to Brygstad.

He wadded down his gasps. The bars were wide enough to squeeze through, but the fall would kill them both. In the sunless cavern, he could just make out the mass of scales.

Red scales.

Not on a living beast. No—painted on the wall of this cavern was a memory. It showed a woman in a Lasian war cap facing the Nameless One, sword piercing his breast.

The sword was unmistakably Ascalon. And its wielder was Cleolind Onjenyu, Princess of the Domain of Lasia.

So many lies.

Red scales. Red wings. The immensity of the beast covered most of the wall. Delirious, Niclays began to count its scales while Laya dabbed his brow. Anything to distract him from the agony. He had counted them twice over before he fell into a doze, and dreamed of swords and blood and a redheaded corpse. When Laya stiffened against him, he opened his eyes.

A woman had appeared in the cage, dressed all in white. That was when he knew he was delirious.

“Sabran,” he gasped.

A fever dream. Sabran Berethnet was standing in front of him, hair black against waxen skin. The supposed beauty that had always given him a chill, as if he had put a foot through ice.

Her face came closer. Those eyes, the creamy green of jade.

“Hello, Niclays,” she said. “My name is Kalyba.”

He could not even summon a croak. His body was a nerveless thing, unmoving and cold.

“I suppose you must be confused.” Her lips were red as apples. “I am sorry to have brought you so far, but you were very close to dying. I find the loss of life distasteful.” She laid a glacial hand on his head. “Let me explain. I am of the Firstblood, like Neporo, whose story you read in Komoridu. I ate of the hawthorn tree when Inys had no queen.”

Even if Niclays had been able to speak in more than whimpers, he would not have known what to say in the presence of this being. Laya held him tighter, shivering.

“I suppose you know where you are. I imagine it frightens you, but this is a safe place. I have been preparing it, you see. For spring.” Kalyba teased a wisp of hair back from his eyes. “The Nameless One came here after Cleolind wounded him. He bid me find an artist to paint the story, to show how it was on that day in Lasia. So he might always remember.”

Niclays might have thought her mad, had he not felt mad himself. All this had to be a nightmare.

“Immortality is my gift,” Kalyba whispered. “Unlike Neporo, I learned to share it. Even restore the dead to life.”

Jannart.

Her breath was the chill of high winter. Niclays gazed at her, mesmerized by her eyes.

“I know you are an alchemist. Let me share the gift with you. Show you how to unknit the seams of age. I could teach you how to build a man from the ashes of his bones.”

Her face began to change. The green in her eyes drained to gray, and her hair turned red as blood.

“All I need,” said Jannart, “is one small favor in return.”

It was the first time in many decades that the House of Berethnet had received the rulers of the South. Ead was on Sabran’s right, watching them.

Jantar Taumargam, who was called the Splendid, was as much of a presence as his epithet implied. He was not imposing in the physical sense; he was fine-boned, slim as a feather, almost delicate at first glance—but his eyes were dungeons. Once he had you in his gaze, you were his until he let it go. He wore a brocaded sapphire robe with a high collar, closed with a gold belt. His queen, Saiyma, was already on her way to Brygstad.

Beside him was the High Ruler of Lasia.

At five and twenty, Kagudo Onjenyu was the youngest monarch in the known world, but her bearing made it clear that those who took her lightly would pay a heavy toll. Her skin was a deep brown. Cowry shells encircled her neck and wrists, and each of her fingers gleamed with gold. A shawl of sea silk, knitted in the Kumenga fashion, draped her shoulders. Four sisters of the Priory had been assigned to defend her since the day she was born.

Not that Kagudo needed much defending. Rumor had it she was as great a warrior as Cleolind had been.

“As you know, the Mentish land army is small,” Sabran was saying. “The wolfcoats of Hróth will be a great help, as will their navy on my side of this battle, but more soldiers are needed.” She paused to breathe. Combe gave her a concerned look. “You both have soldiers and weapons at your disposal, strong enough to damage Sigoso’s armies.”

There were dark circles under her eyes. She had insisted on rising to greet the Southern rulers, but Ead knew her skin was still on fire.

Tané was bed bound with her own fever. She had eaten of the fruit. Sabran had wanted the Easterner present, but it was best that she slept. She would need her strength for the task ahead.

“The Ersyr does not hold with conflict,” Jantar said. “The Dawnsinger spoke against war. But if the rumors spreading across my country are true, it seems we have no choice but to take up arms.”

The Southern monarchs had arrived under cover of night. Next they would join Saiyma in Brygstad to confer with High Princess Ermuna. It was too much of a risk to discuss strategy by letter.

None of the rulers wore their crowns. At this table, they faced each other as equals.

“Cárscaro has never been taken,” Kagudo commented. There was a richness to her voice that made everyone sit up a little straighter. “The Vetalda built it in the mountains with good reason. An approach across the volcanic plain would be madness.”

“I agree.” Jantar leaned forward to study the map. “The Spindles are riddled with wyrms.” He tapped a finger on it. “Yscalin has natural defenses on all sides but one. Its border with Lasia.”

Kagudo looked at the map without changing her expression.

“Lord Arteloth Beck was in the Palace of Salvation in the summer,” Sabran said. “He learned that the people of Cárscaro are not willing servants of the Nameless One. If we can remove King Sigoso, Cárscaro will fall from within, perhaps bloodlessly.” She pointed to the city on the map. “There is a siege passage that runs underneath the palace. The Donmata Marosa is apparently an ally, and she may be able to help from inside. If a small group of soldiers could fight their way to the passage and enter the palace before the main assault begins, you could put an end to Sigoso.”

“That will not kill the wyrms that defend Cárscaro,” Kagudo said.

A servant came to pour them all more wine. Ead declined. She needed a clear head.

“You should know, Sabran,” Kagudo continued, “that I would not affix my seal to this siege were it not crucial to Lasia. Frankly, the idea that we should sacrifice our soldiers to a grand diversion while you face the Nameless One is questionable. You have decided that we will fight the kittens, and you the cat, though he would come for me just as quickly as you.”

“The diversion was my suggestion, Majesty,” Ead said.

It was at this point that the High Ruler of Lasia looked at her for the first time. Ead felt a tingle at her nape.

“Lady Nurtha,” Kagudo said.

“Queen Sabran was the one who proposed an assault on Cárscaro, but I suggested that she meet the Nameless One on the Abyss.”

“I see.”

“Of course,” Ead said, “you are blood and heir of the House of Onjenyu, whose land the Nameless One threatened before any other. If you wish to avenge his cruelty toward your people, leave one of your generals to oversee the siege of Cárscaro. Join us on the sea.”

“I would be grateful for your sword, Kagudo,” Sabran said. “If you chose my battle front.”

“Indeed.” Kagudo sipped her wine. “I imagine you would enjoy the company of a heretic very much.”

“We call you heretics no more. As I promised in my letter, those days are at an end.”

“I see it only took the House of Berethnet a thousand years and a crisis of this magnitude to follow its own teachings on courtesy.”

Sabran had the wisdom to let her consider. Kagudo looked for some time at Ead.

“No,” she finally said. “Let Raunus go with you. He is a seafarer, and my people take precedence over an ancient grudge. They will want to see their ruler on the battlefield closest to home. In any case, Cárscaro has threatened our domain for too long.”

From there, all talk was of strategy. Ead tried to listen, but her mind was elsewhere. The Council Chamber seemed to press in on her, and at last she said, “If Your Majesties will excuse me.”

They all stopped talking.

“Of course, Lady Nurtha,” Jantar said, with a brief smile.

Sabran watched her go. So did Kagudo.

Outside, night was on the turn. Ead used her key to enter the Privy Garden, where she sat on the stone bench and gripped its edge.

It must have been hours that she sat there, lost in thought. For the first time, she could feel the weight of her responsibility like a boulder on her back.

Everything now depended on her ability to use the jewels with Tané. Thousands of lives and the very survival of humankind hung on that requisite. There was no other plan. Only the hope that two fragments of a legend would be able to bind the Beast of the Mountain. Every moment he remained alive would be another moment of soldiers dying on the foothills of Cárscaro. Every moment would be another ship burned.

“Lady Nurtha.”

Ead looked up. The sky held its first light, and Kagudo Onjenyu stood before her.

“Your Majesty,” she said, and rose.

“Please,” Kagudo said. She wore a fur-lined cloak now, fastened with a brooch over one shoulder. “I know the sisters of the Priory know no sovereign but the Mother.”

Ead gave her obeisance nonetheless. It was true that the Priory answered to no ruler but its Prioress, but Kagudo was the blood of the Onjenyu, the dynasty of the Mother.

Kagudo regarded her with apparent interest. The High Ruler was beautiful in a way that stopped the heart for an instant. Her eyes were long and narrow, slicing upward at the corners, set deep above broad cheekbones. Now she was standing, Ead could see the rich orange barkcloth of her skirt. The cap of a royal warrior had been placed over her hair.

“You seemed to be deep in thought,” she said.

“I have a great deal to consider, Majesty.”

“As do we all.” Kagudo glanced back at the Alabastrine Tower. “Our council of war is over, for now. Perhaps you would care to walk with me. I find myself in need of air.”

“I should be honored.”

They took to the gravel path that snaked through the Privy Garden. Kagudo’s guards, who wore circlets of gold on their upper arms and carried deadly looking spears, walked a short way behind them.

“I know who you are, Eadaz uq-Nāra.” Kagudo spoke in Selinyi. “Chassar uq-Ispad told me years ago about the young woman whose duty was to guard the Queen of Inys.”

Ead hoped she looked less surprised than she felt.

“I suspect you know by now that the Prioress is dead. As for the Priory, it appears that it has been occupied by a witch.”

“I prayed it was not true,” Ead said.

“Our prayers do not always bear fruit,” Kagudo said. “Your people and mine have long had an understanding. Cleolind of Lasia was of my house. Like my ancestors, I have honored our relationship with her handmaidens.”

“Your support has been instrumental to our success.”

Kagudo stopped and turned to face her. “I will speak plainly,” she said. “I asked you to walk with me because I wanted to make myself known to you. To meet you in person. After all, the time will soon come for the Red Damsels to choose another Prioress.”

A weight dropped into her belly. “I will have no say in that. The Priory considers me a traitor.”

“That may be, but it is possible that you are about to face its oldest enemy. And if you could slay the Nameless One . . . your crimes would surely be forgiven.” If only that were true. “Mita Yedanya, unlike her predecessor, looked inward. Now, a little inwardness is reasonable, even necessary—but if your climb to this position at the Inysh court is anything to go by, Eadaz, you also look outward. A ruler should know how to do both.”

Ead let these words take root inside her. They might never grow into anything, but there the seed lay.

“Did you never dream of being Prioress?” Kagudo asked. “You are a descendant of Siyāti uq-Nāra, after all. The woman Cleolind deemed worthy to succeed her.”

Of course she had dreamed of it. Every girl in the Priory wanted to be a Red Damsel, and every Red Damsel hoped that she would one day be the representative of the Mother.

“I do not know that looking outward has served me well,” Ead said quietly. “I have been banished, named a witch. One of my own sisters was sent to dispatch me. I gave eight years to protect Queen Sabran, believing she might be the blood of the Mother, only to find that she never was.” Kagudo smiled thinly at that. “You never believed it?”

“Oh, not for a moment. You and I both know that Cleolind Onjenyu, who was willing to die for her people, would never have abandoned them for Galian Berethnet. You knew it, too, even if you had no proof . . . but the truth has a way of always surfacing.”

The High Ruler raised her face. The moon was fading from the sky.

“Sabran has promised me that after our battles, she will ensure the world knows who really vanquished the Nameless One a thousand years ago. She will restore the Mother to prominence.”

The truth would shake Virtudom to its foundations. It would ring out like a bell across the continents.

“You look just as surprised as I was,” Kagudo said, with a not-quite-smile. “Centuries of lies will not be undone in a day, of course. The children of the past died believing that Galian Berethnet wielded the sword, and that Cleolind Onjenyu was no more than his adoring bride. That can never be undone, nor mended . . . but the children of tomorrow will know the truth.”

Ead knew what pain this would cause Sabran. To finally, publicly sever her ties to the woman she had known as the Damsel. The woman whose truth she had never known.

But she would do it. Because it was the right thing—the only thing—to do.

“I trust in the Priory. As I always have,” Kagudo said, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “The gods walk with you, Eadaz uq-Nāra. I hope very much that we meet again.”

“I hope the same.”

Ead bowed to the blood of the Onjenyu. She was surprised when Kagudo returned the gesture.

They parted at the gates to the Privy Garden. Ead pressed her back to its wall as dawn blanched the horizon. Her head was a spinning top of new and uncertain possibilities.

Prioress. If she could defeat the Nameless One, the High Ruler would support any claim she made to the position. That was no small thing. Few Prioresses of the past had been honored with the backing of the Onjenyu.

She returned with a start to the present when a voice called her name. Margret was running to her as fast as her skirts would allow.

“Ead,” she said, taking her by the hands, “King Jantar received my letter. He brought Valour.”

Ead winched up a smile. “I am glad of it.”

Margret frowned. “Are you well?”

“Perfectly.”

They both turned to face the palace gates, where courtiers were flocking to hear Sabran make her speech. Margret linked their arms.

“I was sure this day would never come,” she said as they slowly followed the rest of the court. “The day a Berethnet queen would have to announce that we are once again at war with the Draconic Army.”

The palace gates were not yet open. The city guards were out in force beyond them, while the court assembled behind. Lords and peasants faced each other through the bars.

“You asked about my wedding. I meant to marry Tharian as soon as you woke,” Margret said, “but I can hardly do it now, without Loth.”

“When, then?”

“After the battle.”

“Can you wait that long?”

Margret elbowed her. “The Knight of Fellowship commands I wait that long.”

The crowd outside grew larger and louder, calling for their queen. As the hands of the clock edged toward six, Tané came to stand beside them. Someone had combed the knots out of her hair and garbed her in a shirt and breeches.

Ead returned her nod. She could sense the siden in the Easterner now, bright as a hot coal.

Bells chimed in the tower. When the royal fanfare began, the crowd at last fell silent. The sound of hooves soon broke it. Sabran rode forth on a white horse in full barding.

She wore the silver-plated armor of winter. Her cloak was crimson velvet, arranged so the ceremonial sword could be seen at her side, and her lips were red as a new rose. Her hair was braided in the ramshorn style that Glorian the Third had favored. The Dukes Spiritual rode behind her, each carrying their family banner. Tané watched them pass with an opaque expression.

The war horse stopped outside the gates. Sabran gripped its reins as Aralaq prowled out from behind and took up a defensive stance beside her. He growled low in his throat. With her head held high, the Queen of Inys faced the stunned eyes of her city.

“My loving people of Virtudom,” she said, and her voice was her power, “the Draconic Army has returned.”