The Priory of the Orange Tree

by Samantha Shannon

  The Lady Usher tapped her staff.

  “Mistress Ead Duryan,” she said. “An Ordinary Servant of Her Majesty’s Privy Chamber.”

  The Queen of Inys was at the head of the table. Her lips were painted red as blood.

  “Mistress Duryan,” she said.

  “Your Majesty.” Ead gave her obeisance. “Your Graces.”

  “Do sit.”

  As she took a seat, Ead caught the eye of Sir Tharian Lintley, Captain of the Knights of the Body, who offered a reassuring smile from his post by the doors. Like most members of the Royal Guard, Lintley was tall, robust, and had no shortage of admirers at court. He had been in love with Margret since she had arrived, and Ead knew she returned his affection, but the difference in station had kept them apart.

  “Mistress Duryan,” Lord Seyton Combe said, eyebrows raised. The Duke of Courtesy was seated to the left of the queen. “Are you unwell?”

  “Your pardon, my lord?”

  “There are shadows under your eyes.”

  “I am very well, Your Grace. Only a little tired after the excitement of the Mentish visit.”

  Combe took the measure of her over the rim of his cup. Close to sixty, with eyes like storms, a sallow complexion, and a near-lipless mouth, the Principal Secretary was a formidable presence. It was said that if a plot was hatched against Queen Sabran in the morning, he would have the accomplices on the rack by noon. A pity the master of cutthroats still eluded him.

  “Indeed. An unforeseen visit, but a pleasant one,” Combe said, and a mild smile returned to his lips. All his expressions were mild. Like wine tempered with water. “We have already questioned many members of the royal household, but we thought it prudent to leave Her Majesty’s ladies until last, busy as you were during the Mentish visit.”

  Ead held his gaze. Combe might speak the language of secrets, but he did not know hers.

  Lady Igrain Crest, the Duchess of Justice, sat on the other side of the queen. She had been the chief influence on Sabran during her minority after the death of Queen Rosarian, and had apparently had a great hand in molding her into a paragon of virtue.

  “Now that Mistress Duryan has arrived,” she said, with a smile at Ead, “perhaps we can begin.”

  Crest had the same fine bone structure and azure eyes as her granddaughter, Roslain—though her hair, frizzled at the temples, had long since turned silver. Small lines were notched around her lips, which were nearly as pale as the rest of her face.

  “Indeed,” Lady Nelda Stillwater said. The Duchess of Courage was a full-figured woman, with skin of a deep brown and a head of dark curls. A carcanet of rubies glistered around her neck. “Mistress Duryan, a man was found dead at the threshold of the Great Bedchamber the night before last. He was holding an Yscali-made dagger.”

  A parrying dagger, specifically. In duels, they were used in place of a shield, to protect and defend the wielder, but they could also kill. Each cutthroat had carried one.

  “It seems he meant to kill Her Majesty,” Stillwater said, “but was himself killed.”

  “Terrible,” the Duke of Generosity muttered. Lord Ritshard Eller, at least ninety, wore thick furs even in summer. From what Ead had observed, he was also a sanctimonious fool.

  She schooled her features. “Another cutthroat?”

  “Yes,” Stillwater said, her brow creasing. “As you will no doubt have heard, this has happened more than once in the past year. Of the nine would-be killers that have gained entry to Ascalon Palace, five were slain before they could be apprehended.”

  “It is all very strange,” Combe said, musingly, “but it seems sensible to conclude that someone in the Upper Household killed the knave.”

  “A noble deed,” Ead said.

  Crest snorted. “Hardly, my dear,” she said. “This protector, whoever it is, is a killer as well, and they must be unmasked.” Her voice was thin with frustration. “Like the cutthroat, this person entered the royal apartments unseen, somehow eluding the Knights of the Body. They then committed a murder and left the corpse for Her Majesty to find. Did they intend to frighten our queen to death?”

  “I imagine they intended to stop our queen being stabbed to death, Your Grace.”

  Sabran lifted an eyebrow.

  “The Knight of Justice frowns upon all bloodshed, Mistress Duryan,” Crest said. “If whoever has been killing cutthroats had only come to us, we might have forgiven them, but their refusal to reveal themselves speaks of sinister intent. We will know who they are.”

  “We are relying on witnesses to help us, mistress. This incident happened the night before last, about midnight,” Combe said. “Tell me, did you see or hear anything suspicious?”

  “Nothing comes to mind, Your Grace.”

  Sabran had not stopped looking at her. The scrutiny made Ead a little warm under her ruff.

  “Mistress Duryan,” Combe said, “you have been a loyal servant at court. I sincerely doubt that Ambassador uq-Ispad would have presented Her Majesty with a lady who was not of faultless character. Nonetheless, I must warn you that silence now is an act of treason. Do you know anything about this cutthroat? Have you heard anyone expressing dislike for Her Majesty, or sympathy toward the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin?”

  “No, Your Grace,” Ead said, “but if I should hear of any whispers, I will bring them to your door.”

  Combe exchanged a look with Sabran.

  “Good day to you, mistress,” the queen said. “Attend to your duties.”

  Ead curtsied and left the chamber. Lintley closed the doors behind her.

  There were no guards here; they waited at the base of the tower. Ead made certain her footfalls were loud as she walked to the stair, but stopped after the first few steps.

  She had sharper hearing than most. A perquisite of the lingering magic in her blood.

  “—seems truthful,” Crest was saying, “but I have heard that some Ersyris dabble in the forbidden arts.”

  “Oh, rot,” Combe interjected. “You don’t really believe in talk of alchemy and sorcery.”

  “As Duchess of Justice, I must consider every possibility, Seyton. We all know the cutthroats are an Yscali enterprise, of course—no one has stronger motivation than the Yscals to see Her Majesty slain—but we must also root out this protector, who kills with such manifest expertise. I would be very interested to speak with them about where they learned their . . . craft.”

  “Mistress Duryan has always been a diligent lady-in-waiting, Igrain,” Sabran said. “If you have no evidence that she was involved, perhaps we should move on.”

  “As you decree, Your Majesty.”

  Ead released a long-held breath.

  Her secret was safe. No one had witnessed her entering the royal apartments that night. Moving unseen was another of her gifts, for with flame came the subtlety of shadow.

  Sound from below. Armored feet on the stair. The Knights of the Body, carrying out their rounds.

  She needed somewhere less open to eavesdrop. Swiftly, she descended to the next floor and slipped on to a balcony.

  “… is of an age with you, by all accounts very pleasant and intelligent, and a sovereign of Virtudom.” Combe. “As you know, Majesty, the last five Berethnet queens have taken Inysh consorts. There has not been a foreign match for more than two centuries.”

  “You sound concerned, Your Grace,” Sabran said. “Do you have so little faith in the charms of Inysh men that you are surprised my ancestors chose them as consorts?”

  Chuckles.

  “As an Inysh man myself, I must protest that assessment,” Combe said lightly, “but times have changed. A foreign match is critical. Now our oldest ally has betrayed the true religion, we must show the world that the remaining three countries who swear allegiance to the Saint will stand together, come what may, and that none will support Yscalin in its misguided belief that the Nameless One will return.”

  “There is danger in their claim,” Crest said. “The Easterners venerate wyrms. They may be
tempted by the idea of an alliance with a Draconic territory.”

  “I think you misjudge the danger of that, Igrain,” Stillwater said. “Last I heard, the Easterners still feared the Draconic plague.”

  “So did Yscalin once.”

  “What is certain,” Combe cut in, “is we cannot afford any signs of weakness. If you were to wed Lievelyn, Majesty, it would send a message that the Chainmail of Virtudom has never been tighter.”

  “The Red Prince trades with wyrm-worshippers,” Sabran said. “Surely it would be unwise to give our implicit approval to such a practice. Especially now. Do you not agree, Igrain?”

  As she listened, Ead had to smile. Already the queen had found an issue with her suitor.

  “Though producing an heir as soon as possible is the bounden duty of a Berethnet, I do agree, Your Majesty. Wisely observed,” Crest said, her tone motherly. “Lievelyn is unworthy of the scion of the Saint. His trade with Seiiki shames all Virtudom. If we imply our tolerance of this heresy, we may embolden those who love the Nameless One. Lievelyn was also—lest we forget—engaged to the Donmata Marosa, who is now the heir to a Draconic territory. An affection may remain.”

  A Knight of the Body walked past the balcony. Ead pressed herself flat to the wall.

  “The engagement was broken off the moment Yscalin betrayed the faith,” Combe spluttered. “As for the Eastern trade, the House of Lievelyn would not trade with Seiiki unless it were essential. The Vatten might have brought Mentendon into the faith, but they also beggared it. If we gave the Mentish favorable terms in an alliance, and if a royal match were on the horizon, perhaps the trade could be broken off.”

  “My dear Seyton, it is not necessity that compels the Mentish, but greed. They enjoy having a monopoly on trade with the East. Besides, we can hardly be expected to prop them up indefinitely,” Crest said. “No, there is no need to discuss Lievelyn. A far stronger match—which I have long advocated to you, Majesty—is the High Chieftain of Askrdal. We must keep our links with Hróth strong.”

  “He is seventy years old,” Stillwater said, sounding dismayed.

  “And did Glorian Shieldheart not wed Guma Vetalda, who was four and seventy?” Eller piped up.

  “Indeed she did, and he gave her a healthy child.” Crest sounded pleased. “Askrdal would bring experience and wisdom that Lievelyn, prince of a young realm, would not.”

  After a pause, Sabran spoke. “Are there no other suits?”

  There was a long silence. “Rumor of your familiarity with Lord Arteloth has spread, Majesty,” Eller said, his voice tremulous. “Some believe you may be secretly wed to—”

  “Spare me, Your Grace, from baseless gossip. And from talk of Lord Arteloth,” Sabran said. “He has left court without reason or warning. I will not hear of him.”

  Another tense silence.

  “Your Majesty,” Combe said, “my intelligencers have informed me that Lord Arteloth has boarded a ship bound for Yscalin, accompanied by Lord Kitston Glade. Apparently, he discovered my intention to send a spy to find your lord father . . . but believed himself to be the only man fit for a mission that touches Your Majesty so closely.”

  Yscalin.

  For a terrible moment, Ead could not move or breathe.

  Loth.

  “It may be for the best,” Combe continued into the stillness. “Lord Arteloth’s absence will allow rumors of an affair between you to cool—and it is high time we knew what was happening in Yscalin. And whether your lord father, Prince Wilstan, is alive.”

  Combe was lying. Loth could not have just stumbled upon a plot to send a spy to Yscalin and decided to go himself. The idea was absurd. Not only would Loth never be so reckless, but the Night Hawk would never allow such plans to be discovered.

  He had contrived this.

  “Something is not right,” Sabran finally said. “It is not like Loth to behave so rashly. And I find it exceedingly difficult to believe that none of you guessed his intentions. Are you not my councillors? Do you not have eyes in every corner of my court?”

  The next silence was as thick as marchpane.

  “I asked you to send someone to retrieve my father two years ago, Lord Seyton,” the queen said, softer. “You told me the risk was too great.”

  “I feared it was, Majesty. Now I think a risk is needful if we are to know the truth.”

  “Lord Arteloth is not to be risked.” There was marked strain in her voice. “You will send your retainers after him. To bring him back to Inys. You must stop him, Seyton.”

  “Forgive me, Majesty, but he will be in Draconic territory by now. It is quite impossible to send anyone to retrieve Lord Arteloth without betraying to the Vetalda that he is there on unsanctioned business, which they will already suspect. We would only endanger his life.”

  Ead swallowed the tightness in her throat. Not only had Combe sent Loth away, but he had sent him to a place where Sabran had lost all influence. There was nothing she could do. Not when Yscalin was now an unpredictable enemy, capable of destroying the fragile peace in a heartbeat.

  “Your Majesty,” Stillwater said, “I understand that this news has pained you, but we must make a final decision on the suit.”

  “Her Majesty has already decided against Lievelyn,” Crest cut in. “Askrdal is the only—”

  “I must insist upon further discussion, Igrain. Lievelyn is a better candidate, in many respects, and I would not see him dismissed.” Stillwater spoke in clipped tones. “This is a delicate subject, Majesty, forgive me—but you must have a successor, and soon, to reassure your people and secure the throne for another generation. The need would not be half so urgent if not for the attempts on your life. If you only had a daughter—”

  “Thank you for your concern, Your Grace,” Sabran said curtly, “but I am not yet recovered enough from seeing a corpse by my bed to discuss its use for childing.” A chair scraped on the floor, followed by four others. “You may question Lady Linora at your leisure.”

  “Majesty—” Combe began.

  “I would break my fast. Good morrow.”

  Ead was back inside and descending before the doors to the Council Chamber opened. At the base of the tower, she walked down the path, her heart beating hard.

  Margret would be devastated when she found out. Her brother was too naïve, too gentle, to be a spy in the court of the Vetalda.

  He was not long for this world.

  In the Queen Tower, the royal household danced to the dawn chorus. Grooms and maids crisscrossed between rooms. The scent of rising bread poured from the Privy Kitchen. Swallowing her bitterness as best she could, Ead edged her way through the Presence Chamber, where petitioners were packed tight, as always, waiting for the queen.

  Ead sensed her warding as she approached the Great Bedchamber. They were laid like traps across the palace. For the first year at court, she had been a tattered nerve, unable to sleep as they rang with movement, but little by little, she had learned to recognize the sensations they sparked in her, and to shift them as if on a counting frame. She had taught herself to notice only when someone was out of place. Or when a stranger came to court.

  Inside, Margret was stripping the bed, and Roslain Crest was shaking out plain-woven cloths. Sabran must be near her blood—the monthly reminder that she was not yet swollen with an heir.

  Ead joined Margret in her work. She had to tell her about Loth, but it would have to wait until they were alone.

  “Mistress Duryan,” Roslain said, breaking the silence.

  Ead straightened. “My lady.”

  “Lady Katryen has taken ill this morning.” The Chief Gentlewoman hooked one of the cloths on to a silk girdle. “You will taste Her Majesty’s food in her stead.”

  Margret frowned.

  “Of course,” Ead said calmly.

  This was punishment for her deviation during the storytelling. The Ladies of the Bedchamber were rewarded in kind for the risks they took as food-tasters, but for a chamberer, it was a thankless and dangerou
s chore.

  For Ead, it was also an opportunity.

  On her way to the Royal Solarium, another opportunity presented itself. Truyde utt Zeedeur was walking behind two other maids of honor. When Ead passed, she took her by the shoulder and drew her aside, breathing into her ear, “Meet me after orisons tomorrow evening, or I will see to it that Her Majesty receives your letters.”

  When the other maids of honor looked back, Truyde smiled, as if Ead had told her a joke. Sharp little fox.

  “Where?” she said, still smiling.

  “The Privy Stair.”

  They parted ways.

  The Royal Solarium was a quiet haven. Three of its walls jutted out from the Queen Tower, providing a peerless view of the Inysh capital, Ascalon, and the river that wound through it. Columns of stone and woodsmoke rose from its streets. Some two hundred thousand souls called the city their home.

  Ead seldom went out there. It was not proper for ladies-in-waiting to be seen quibbling with merchants and toeing through filth.

  The sun cast shadows on the floor. The queen was silhouetted at her table, alone but for the Knights of the Body in the doorway. Their partizans crossed in front of Ead.

  “Mistress,” one of them said, “you are not due to serve Her Majesty’s meal today.”

  Before she could explain, Sabran called, “Who is that?”

  “Mistress Ead Duryan, Your Majesty. Your chamberer.”

  Silence. Then: “Let her pass.”

  The knights stood aside at once. Ead approached the queen, the heels of her shoes making no sound.

  “Good morrow, Your Majesty.” She curtsied.

  Sabran had already looked back at her gold-enameled prayer book. “Kate should be here.”

  “Lady Katryen has taken ill.”

  “She was my bedfellow last night. I would know if she was ill.”

  “Lady Roslain says it is so,” Ead said. “If it please you, I will taste your food today.”

  When she received no reply, Ead sat. This close to Sabran, she could smell her pomander, stuffed with orris root and clove. The Inysh believed such perfumes could ward off illness.

  They sat in silence for some time. Sabran’s breast rose and fell steadily, but the set of her jaw betrayed her anger.