The Priory of the Orange Tree

by Samantha Shannon

“And you, Lord Kitston.”

  Her footsteps echoed as she left. Loth felt a sudden regret that they could not take her with them. Marosa Vetalda, Donmata of Yscalin, imprisoned in her tower.

  The passageway was unspeakably dark. A breeze drew Loth on like a beckoning hand. He snared his boot on the uneven ground at once, almost robbing himself of an eye with his torch. They were surrounded by the glimmer of volcanic glass and the porous swell of pumice. The glass mirrored the light of his torch, casting a hundred different reflections.

  They walked for what seemed like hours, sometimes turning a corner, but otherwise moving in a straight line. Their staves tapped out a rhythm.

  Once Kit coughed, and Loth tensed. “Hush,” he said. “I would rather not wake whatever dwells down here.”

  “A man must cough when need be. And nothing dwells down here.”

  “Tell me these walls don’t look as if a basilisk carved them.”

  “Oh, stop being such a doomsinger. Think of this as another adventure.”

  “I never wanted an adventure,” Loth said wearily. “Not even one. At this moment, I want to be at Briar House with a cup of mulled wine, preparing to walk my queen to the altar.”

  “And I should like to be waking up beside Kate Withy, but alas, we cannot have everything.”

  Loth smiled. “I’m glad you’re here, Kit.”

  “I should think so,” Kit said, his eyes shining.

  This place made Loth think of the Nameless One, and how he had torn through the earth until he found his way into the world above. His mother had often told him the story when he was a child, using different voices to frighten him and make him laugh.

  He took another step. The ground underfoot gave a hollow rumble, like the belly of a giant.

  Loth stopped dead, clutching the torch. Its flame guttered as another cold wind feathered through the tunnel.

  “Is it a quake?” Kit murmured. When Loth did not reply, his voice grew tense. “Loth, is it a quake?”

  “Hush. I don’t know.”

  Another rumble came, louder this time, and the earth seemed to tilt. Loth lost his footing. No sooner had he caught himself than a terrific shuddering began—first soft, like a shiver of fear, then more and more violent, until his teeth rattled in their sockets.

  “It’s a quake,” he shouted. “Run. Kit, run, man. Run!”

  The iron box pounded against his back. They barreled through the darkness, desperately searching for any glint of daylight ahead. It was as if the very mantle of the earth was convulsing.

  “Loth!” Kit, his voice shot through with terror. “The torch—my torch is out!”

  Loth turned on his heel, winded, and thrust out his torch. His friend had fallen far behind.

  “Kit!” He ran back. “On your feet, man, hurry. Follow my voice!”

  A creak. Like weak ice underfoot. Small rocks, like gravel, peppering his back. He threw his hands over his head as the roof of the tunnel came pouring down.

  For a long time, he expected to die. The Knight of Courage fled from him, and he whimpered like a child. The darkness blinded him. Rock smashed. Glass shattered and rang. He coughed on foul-tasting dust.

  And then, just like that, it stopped.

  “Kit,” Loth bellowed. “Kit!”

  Panting, he reached for his torch—still lit, miraculously—and swung it toward the place he had heard Kit calling out to him. Rock and volcanic glass filled the tunnel.

  “Kitston!”

  He could not be dead. He must not be dead. Loth shoved at the wall of debris with all his might, threw his shoulder against it time and again, struck at it with the ice staff and pounded his fists bloody. When at last it gave way, he reached into the rubble and hauled at the rocks with his bare hands, and the air down here was like half-set honey, sticky in his throat . . .

  His fingers closed around a limp hand. He shoved more glass aside, his muscles straining with the effort.

  And there, at last, was Kit. There were the eyes Loth knew, their laughter gone. The mouth, so quick to smile, that would never smile again. There was the tablet about his neck, twin to the one he had given Loth at their last Feast of Fellowship. The rest of him was out of sight. All Loth could see was the blood that seeped between the rocks.

  A desperate sob heaved out of him. His cheeks were wet with sweat and tears, his knuckles bled, and his mouth tasted of iron.

  “Forgive me,” he said thickly. “Forgive me, Kitston Glade.”

  22

  West

  The marriage of Sabran the Ninth and Aubrecht the Second took place as summer turned to autumn. It was customary for the vows to be taken at midnight, during the new moon, for it was in the darkest hours that companionship was needed most.

  And a dark hour it was. Never in Berethnet history had a marriage come so soon after a burial.

  The Great Sanctuary of Briar House, like most sanctuaries, was round, modeled on the shields used by the early knights of Inys. After the Grief of Ages, when its roof had caved in, Rosarian the Second had ordered red stained-glass windows be set into the arches in memory of those whose blood had been spilled.

  Over the centuries, three scoundrel trees had broken through the floor and pleached their branches over the walkway. Their leaves already burned with gold and umber. Six hundred people had gathered beneath them for the ceremony, including the Most Virtuous Order of Sanctarians.

  When the Queen of Inys appeared at the south-facing doors, the witnesses fell silent. Her hair was brushed to an ebony gloss, threaded with white flowers. A partlet latticed her neckline. She wore a crown of filigrain gold, inlaid with rubies that caught the light of every candle.

  The choir began to sing, their voices fluting high and rich. Sabran took one step, then stopped.

  From her position among the candle-bearers, Ead watched the queen as she stayed there, rooted to the spot. Roslain, her giver, pressed her arm.

  “Sab,” she whispered.

  Sabran drew herself up. In the darkness of the sanctuary, few would be able to see the rigid set of her shoulders, or the shiver that might have been put down to the chill.

  A moment later, she was on her way.

  Seyton Combe observed her approach from where the Dukes Spiritual and their families stood. The candlelight revealed the pinch of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth.

  He had sent Loth to his death for this night. Loth, who should be with Sabran. It was traditional in Inys for the closest friends of the betrothed to lead them into the state of companionship.

  Nearby, Igrain Crest was impenetrable. Ead supposed this was both a victory and a defeat for her. She wanted an heir, but not by this father. It was also proof that Sabran was no longer the grief-stricken girl who had needed so much guidance in her minority.

  The Red Prince entered on the other side of the sanctuary. His eldest sister was his giver. He wore a cloak to match his betrothed, lined with crimson silk and ermine, and a doublet with gold fastenings. Like Sabran, he wore gloves with ostentive cuffs, the better to draw the eye during the ceremony. A circlet of gilded silver declared his royalty.

  Sabran walked with poise toward him. Her wedding gown was something to behold. Deep crimson, like cherry wine, and a black forepart, rich with goldwork and pearls. Her ladies, Ead included, were her inverse, their black gowns set off by red stomachers.

  The marriage party met on the boss of the sanctuary, beneath a gilded baldachin that stood on ornate columns. The witnesses formed a circle around it. Now Sabran was lit by the candles on the boss, close enough to Lievelyn for him to see her clearly, he swallowed.

  Sabran took Roslain by the hand, while Lievelyn locked fingers with his eldest sister, and the four of them knelt on hassocks. Everyone else fanned away. As she snuffed her candle, Ead spied Chassar in the crowd.

  The Arch Sanctarian of Inys was spindle-fingered, so pale that traceries of blue veins could be seen about his temples. The True Sword was figured in silver on the front of his herigaut.

>   “Friends.” He spoke into the silence. “We meet tonight, in this haven from the world, to bear witness to the union of these two souls in the sacred state of companionship. Like the Damsel and the Saint, they seek to meet in soul and in flesh for the preservation of Virtudom. Companionship is a great service, for Inys itself was built on the love between Galian, a knight of Inysca, and Cleolind, a heretic woman of Lasia.”

  Moments in, and someone had already called the Mother a heretic. Ead exchanged a brief look with Chassar across the aisle.

  After clearing his throat, the Arch Sanctarian opened a silver-fronted prayer book and read the story of the Knight of Fellowship, who had been first to join the Holy Retinue. Ead only half-listened. Her gaze was fixed to Sabran, who was perfectly still. Lievelyn glanced at her.

  When the story was finished, Roslain and Ermuna, their duties as givers complete, stepped away from the royal couple. Roslain went to stand by her companion, Lord Calidor Stillwater, who drew her close. She never pulled her gaze from Sabran, who in turn watched her friend leave her under the baldachin with an all-but stranger.

  “Let us begin.” The Arch Sanctarian nodded to Lievelyn. The High Prince removed the glove from his left hand and held it out. “Sabran the Ninth of the House of Berethnet, Queen of Inys, your betrothed extends to you the hand of fellowship. Will you accept, and be his faithful companion, from this day to the end of days?”

  Lievelyn gave Sabran a smile that barely creased his eyes. The shadows made it hard to tell if she was smiling back as she took a love-knot ring from the Arch Sanctarian.

  “Friend,” she said, “I will.”

  She paused, jaw tight, and Ead saw the slight rise of her breast.

  “Aubrecht Lievelyn,” she continued, “I take you now as my companion.” She slid the ring onto his forefinger. Gold, reserved for sovereigns. “My friend, my bedfellow, my constant partner in all things.” Pause. “I swear to love you with my soul, defend you with my sword, and give nobody else my favor. This I vow to you.”

  The Arch Sanctarian nodded again. Now it was Sabran who removed her left glove.

  “Aubrecht the Second of the House of Lievelyn, High Prince of the Free State of Mentendon,” came the exhortation, “your betrothed extends to you the hand of fellowship. Will you accept, and be her faithful companion, from this day to the end of days?”

  “Friend,” Lievelyn said, “I will.”

  When he took Sabran’s ring from the Arch Sanctarian, her hand gave a barely visible quake. This was her last chance to withdraw from the marriage before it was legally binding. Ead glanced toward Roslain, whose lips were moving just a little, as if in encouragement. Or in prayer.

  Sabran looked up at Lievelyn and, at last, gave him a subtle nod. He took her left hand, as gently as if it were a butterfly, and placed the ring. It gleamed on her finger.

  “Sabran Berethnet,” he said, “I take you now as my companion. My friend, my bedfellow, my constant partner in all things. I swear to love you with my soul, defend you with my sword, and give nobody else my favor.” He pressed her hand. “This I vow to you.”

  There was a brief silence as their gazes locked. Then the Arch Sanctarian opened his arms as if to embrace the witnesses, shattering the moment.

  “I now pronounce these two souls joined in the holy state of companionship in the eyes of the Saint,” he called out, “and through him, all of Virtudom.”

  Cheers erupted across the sanctuary. That sound of shared joy seemed loud enough to bring down the roof again. As she clapped, Ead took stock of the Dukes Spiritual within her sight. Nelda Stillwater and Lemand Fynch looked pleased. Crest stood like a scepter, her mouth a lipless stripe, but tapped her fingertips on her palm in a game attempt at applause. Behind them, the Night Hawk was all smiles.

  Companions usually kissed once they were wed, but for royals, such a display was not seemly. Sabran instead took the arm Lievelyn proffered, and they descended from the platform together. And Ead saw that, though her face was drawn, the Queen of Inys smiled for her people.

  Ead traded a glance with Margret, who took a teary-eyed Linora by the elbow. Like ghosts, the three of them walked away.

  In the Royal Bedchamber, they arrayed the bed and checked every nook for danger. A cast-bronze figurine of the Knight of Fellowship had been placed beneath the leadlight. Ead lit the candles on the mantelpiece, drew the curtains, and knelt to start a fire. The Arch Sanctarian had insisted upon a great deal of warmth. A prayer book was on the nightstand, turned to the tale of the Knight of Fellowship. A red apple sat on top of it. A symbol of fertility, Linora told Ead as they worked. “It is an old heathen tradition,” she explained, “but Carnelian the Second liked it so much that she asked the Order of Sanctarians to include it in the consummation.”

  Ead wiped her forehead. The Arch Sanctarian clearly meant for an heir to be baked into existence like a loaf of bread.

  “I must fetch something for them to drink.” Margret touched Ead on the arm and left. Linora filled two warming pans with coals, humming, and slid them under the coverlet.

  “Linora,” Ead said to her, “go and join in with the celebrations. I will finish here.”

  “Oh, you are good, Ead.”

  When Linora was gone, Ead made sure the leadlight was fastened. The Royal Bedchamber had been locked and guarded all day, the key held only by Roslain, but she trusted no one in this court.

  After a long moment, during which she reflected on whether this was a wise decision, Ead took out the rose she had cut that afternoon and tucked it behind the pillow on the right side of the bed. The pillow embroidered with the Berethnet badge.

  Let her have sweet dreams tonight, at least.

  The wardings rang with a footstep Ead recognized. A shadow appeared in the doorway, and Roslain Crest surveyed the room, her chin pinched.

  A thread of hair had escaped her heart-shaped coiffure. She looked around the chamber as if it were unfamiliar to her, and not where she had slept beside her queen on countless occasions.

  “My lady.” Ead curtsied. “Are you well?”

  “Yes.” Roslain let out a breath through her nose. “Her Majesty requests your presence, Ead.”

  This was unexpected. “Surely only the Ladies of the Bedchamber can disrobe her on—”

  “As I said,” Roslain interrupted, “she has asked for you. And you appear to have completed your duties in here.” With a last glance at the room, she returned to the corridor, and Ead followed her. “A chamberer is not permitted to touch the royal person, as you know, but I will overlook it tonight. In so far as is necessary.”

  “Of course.”

  The Withdrawing Chamber, where Sabran was washed and dressed each day, was a square room with an ornate plaster ceiling, the smallest in her royal apartments. Its curtains were shut.

  Sabran stood barefoot beside the fire, gazing into the flames as she took off her earrings. Her gown had doubtless been locked away in the Privy Wardrobe, leaving her in her shift. Katryen was removing the padded roll from about her waist.

  Ead went to the queen and moved her hair aside to reach her nape, where her carcanet was clasped.

  “Ead,” Sabran said. “Did you enjoy the ceremony?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. You looked magnificent.”

  “Do I not still?”

  She asked it lightly, but Ead heard the trace of doubt in her voice.

  “You are always beautiful, madam.” Ead worked the hook free and slipped the jewels from about her throat. “But in my eyes . . . never more so than you are now.”

  Sabran looked at her.

  “Do you suppose,” she said, “that Prince Aubrecht will find me so?”

  “His Royal Highness is mad or a fool if he does not.”

  Their gazes pulled apart when Roslain returned to the chamber. She approached Sabran and set about unlacing her corset.

  “Ead,” she said, “the nightgown.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  While Ead found a pan to warm
the garment, Sabran raised her arms, allowing Roslain to slip her shift over her head. The two Ladies of the Bedchamber took their queen to the washbasin, where they cleaned her from head to toe. As she smoothed the nightgown, Ead stole a glance.

  Divested of her regalia, Sabran Berethnet did not look like the scion of any saint, false or true. She was mortal. Still imposing, still graceful, but softer, somehow.

  Her body was a sandglass. Round hips, a small waist, and full breasts, the nipples whetted. Long legs, strong from riding. When she saw the dusk between them, a chill flickered through Ead.

  She wrenched her attention back to her task. The Inysh were squeamish about nakedness. She had not seen a disrobed body that was not her own in years.

  “Ros,” Sabran said, “will it hurt?”

  Roslain patted her skin dry with clean linen. “It can a little, at first,” she said, “but not for long. And not if His Royal Highness is . . . attentive.”

  Sabran stared into the room without seeming to see it. She turned her love-knot ring.

  “What if I cannot conceive?”

  In the silence that followed that question, a mouse could not have breathed unheard.

  “Sabran,” Katryen said gently, taking her arm, “of course you will.”

  Ead kept quiet. This seemed like a conversation only for the intimates, but no one had ordered her to leave.

  “My grandmother could not for many years,” Sabran murmured. “High Westerns are on the wing. Yscalin has betrayed me. If Fýredel and Sigoso invade Inys and I have no heir—”

  “You will have an heir. Queen Jillian gave birth to a beautiful daughter, your lady mother. And soon enough, you will be a mother, too.” Roslain rested her chin on Sabran’s shoulder. “After it is done, lie still for a time, and sleep on your back.”

  Sabran leaned into her.

  “I wish Loth had been here,” she said. “He was to be my giver. I promised him.” Now the powder was gone, the bruise-like marks under her eyes had never looked starker. “Now he is . . . lost. Somewhere in Cárscaro. And I am powerless to reach him.”

  “Loth will be all right. I have faith that he will come home soon.” Roslain held her closer. “And when he does, he will bring news of your lord father.”