The Priory of the Orange Tree

by Samantha Shannon

  The thought unsettled Tané. Cape Hisan was scalloped with small coves, but fate had made her choose the one the outsider had arrived in.

  Onren looked down at her blue silk. Like Tané, she was from an impoverished home.

  “They are marvelous,” she whispered, nodding at the dragons. “I take it you hope to be one of the twelve.”

  “Aren’t you too small to ride a dragon, little Onren?” Turosa drawled. “You might be able to perch on one’s tail, I suppose.”

  Onren looked over her shoulder at him. “I thought I heard you talking. Have we met?” When he opened his mouth, she said, “Don’t tell me. You’re plainly a fool, and I have no interest in befriending fools.”

  Tané hid her smile behind her hair. For once, Turosa closed his mouth.

  When the last apprentice had accepted his uniform, the two groups turned to face the Sea General. Ishari, whose cheeks were tear-stained, did not look up from the cloth in her arms.

  “You are children no longer. Your paths are before you.” The Sea General glanced to his right. “Four of the sea guardians have performed above expectations. Turosa, of the North House; Onren, of the East House; Tané, of the South House; and Dumusa, of the West House—turn to face our elders, so they might know your names and faces.”

  They did. Tané stepped forward with the others and pressed her forehead to the floor again.

  “Rise,” one of the dragons said.

  The voice made the ground quake. It was so deep, so low, that Tané hardly understood at first.

  The four of them obeyed and straightened their backs. The largest Seiikinese dragon lowered his head until he was at eye level with them. A long tongue lashed from between his teeth.

  With a great push of his legs, he suddenly took flight. The apprentices all threw themselves to the ground, leaving only the Sea General standing. He let out a booming laugh.

  The milky-green Lacustrine dragon displayed her teeth in a grin. Tané found herself locked in those wild eddies of eyes.

  The dragon rose with the rest of her kin over the rooftops of the city. Water made flesh. As a mist of divine rain streamed from their scales, soaking the humans below, a Seiikinese male reared up, gathered his breath, and expelled it in a mighty gust of wind.

  Every bell in the temple rang out in answer.

  Niclays woke with a dry mouth and a fearsome headache, as he had a thousand times before. He blinked and rubbed a knuckle in the corner of his eye.

  Bells.

  That was what had woken him. He had been on this island for years, but never heard a single bell. Niclays grasped his cane and stood, his arm trembling with the effort.

  It must be an alarm. They were coming for Sulyard, coming to arrest them both.

  Niclays turned on the spot, desperate. His only chance was to pretend the man had hidden in the house without his knowledge.

  He peered past the screen. Sulyard was sound asleep, facing the wall. Well, at least he would die in peace.

  The sun was sweating too much light. Close to the little house where Niclays lived, his assistant, Muste, was sitting under the plum tree with his Seiikinese companion, Panaya.

  “Muste,” Niclays shouted. “What in the world is that sound?”

  Muste just waved. Cursing, Niclays jammed on his sandals and picked his way toward Muste and Panaya, trying to ignore the sense that he was walking to his doom.

  “Good day to you, honorable Panaya,” he said in Seiikinese, bowing.

  “Learnèd Niclays.” The corners of her eyes crinkled. She wore a light robe, white flowers on blue, the sleeves and collar embroidered in silver. “Did the bells wake you?”

  “Yes. May I ask what they mean?”

  “They are ringing for Choosing Day,” she said. “The eldest apprentices at the Houses of Learning have completed their studies, and have been placed into the ranks of the scholars or the High Sea Guard.”

  Nothing to do with intruders, then. Niclays took out his handkerchief and mopped at his face.

  “Are you well, Roos?” Muste asked, shading his eyes.

  “You know how I loathe the summer here.” Niclays stuffed the handkerchief back into his jerkin. “Choosing Day takes place once a year, does it not?” he said to Panaya. “I have never once heard bells.”

  Not bells, but he had heard the drums. The inebriating sounds of joy and revelry.

  “Ah,” Panaya said, her smile growing, “but this is a very special Choosing Day.”

  “It is?”

  “Do you not know, Roos?” Muste chuckled. “You have been here longer than I have.”

  “This is not something Niclays would have been told,” Panaya said gently. “You see, Niclays, it was agreed after the Great Sorrow that every fifty years, a number of Seiikinese dragons would take human riders, so we might always be prepared to fight together once again. Those who were chosen for the High Sea Guard this morning have been given this chance, and will now endure the water trials to decide which of them will be dragonriders.”

  “I see,” Niclays said, interested enough to forget his terror about Sulyard for a moment. “And then they fly their steeds off to fight off pirates and smugglers, I presume.”

  “Not steeds, Niclays. Dragons are not horses.”

  “Apologies, honorable lady. A poor choice of word.”

  Panaya nodded. Her hand strayed to the pendant around her neck, carved into the shape of a dragon.

  Such a thing would be destroyed in Virtudom, where there was no longer any distinction between the ancient dragons of the East and the younger, fire-breathing wyrms that had once terrorized the world. Both were deemed malevolent. The door to the East had been closed for so long that misunderstanding about its customs had flourished.

  Niclays had believed it before he had arrived in Orisima. He had been half-convinced, on the eve of his departure from Mentendon, that he was being exiled to a land where people were in thrall to creatures just as wicked as the Nameless One.

  How frightened he had been that day. All Mentish children knew the story of the Nameless One from the moment they could fathom language. His own dear mother had relished scaring him to tears with her descriptions of the father and overking of all fire-breathing creatures—he who had emerged from the Dreadmount bent on chaos and destruction, only to be grievously wounded by Sir Galian Berethnet before he could subjugate humankind. A thousand years later, the specter of him still lived in all nightmares.

  Just then, hooves thundered across the bridge into Orisima, jolting Niclays from his musings.

  Soldiers.

  His bowels turned to water. They were coming for him—and now the moment was at hand, he found himself light-headed rather than afraid. If today was the day, so be it. It was either this, or death at the hands of the sentinels for his gambling debts.

  Saint, he prayed, let me not piss myself at the end.

  The soldiers wore green tunics beneath their coats. Leading them, of course, was the Chief Officer—handsome, ever-so-good-natured Chief Officer, who refused to tell anyone in Orisima his name. He was a foot taller than Niclays and always wore full armor.

  The Chief Officer dismounted and strode toward the house where Niclays lived. He was surrounded by his sentinels, and one hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

  “Roos!” A gauntlet-covered fist rapped on the door. “Roos, open this door, or I will break it down!”

  “There is no need to break anything, honored Chief Officer,” Muste called. “The learnèd Doctor Roos is here.”

  The Chief Officer turned on his heel. His dark eyes flashed, and he walked toward them.

  “Roos.”

  Niclays liked to pretend that nobody had ever addressed him with such contempt, but that would be a lie. “You’re very welcome to call me Niclays, honored Chief Officer,” he said, with all the false cheer he could muster. “We’ve known each other long en—”

  “Be quiet,” the Chief Officer snapped. Niclays shut his mouth. “My sentinels found the door to the
landing gate open last night. A pirate ship was seen nearby. If any of you are hiding trespassers or smuggled goods, speak now, and the dragon may show mercy.”

  Panaya and Muste said nothing. Niclays, meanwhile, did brief and violent battle with himself. There was nowhere for Sulyard to hide. Was it better to declare what he had done?

  Before he could decide, the Chief Officer motioned to his sentinels. “Search the houses.”

  Niclays held his breath.

  There was a certain bird in Seiiki with a call like a babe beginning to wail. To Niclays, it had become a torturous symbol of his life in Orisima. The whimper that never quite turned into a scream. The wait for a blow that never came. As the sentinels rummaged through his house, that wretched bird took up its cry, and it was all Niclays could hear.

  When they returned, the sentinels were empty-handed. “Nobody there,” one of them called.

  It was all Niclays could do to stop himself sinking to his knees. The Chief Officer looked at him for a long time, his face a mask, before he marched to the next street.

  And the bird kept calling. Hic-hic-hic.

  4

  West

  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 tou
ched 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.”