The Priory of the Orange Tree

by Samantha Shannon

  “I am not here to hurt you.”

  “Why do you come to me, then, sweet mage?”

  “To learn.”

  Kalyba remained still and expressionless. Water trickled down her belly and thighs.

  “I have just returned from Inys,” Ead said. “The last Prioress sent me there to serve its queen. While I was in Ascalon, I heard tell of the great power of the Lady of the Woods.”

  “Lady of the Woods.” Kalyba closed her eyes and breathed in, as if the name had a rich scent to it. “Oh, it has been a very long time since they called me by that name.”

  “You are dreaded and revered in Inys, even now.”

  “Doubtless. Strange, as I seldom went to the haithwood, even as a child,” the witch said. “The villagers would not set foot in it for fear of me, but I spent most of my years away from my birthplace. It took them far too long to realize that my home was with the hawthorn.”

  “People fear the haithwood because of you. Only one road leads through it, and those who walk on it speak of corpse candles and screams. Remnants of your magic, they say.”

  Kalyba smiled faintly.

  “Mita Yedanya has called me back to Lasia, but I would sooner pledge my blade to a greater mage.” Ead took a step toward her. “I come to offer myself as your student, Lady. To learn the whole truth of magic.”

  Her voice sounded awestruck even to her own ears. If she could fool the Inysh court for almost a decade, she could also fool a witch.

  “I am flattered,” Kalyba said, “but surely your Prioress can give you truth.”

  “Mita Yedanya is not like her predecessors. She looks inward,” Ead said. “I do not.”

  That part, at least, was true.

  “A sister who sees beyond her own nose. Rare as silver honey, I should say,” Kalyba said. “Are you not frightened of the stories they tell of me in my native land, Eadaz uq-Nāra? There I am a child-stealer, a hag, a murderess. Monster of the tales of old.”

  “Tales to frighten wayward children. I do not fear that which I do not understand.”

  “And what makes you think you are worthy of the power I have wielded through the ages?”

  “Lady, I am not,” Ead said, “but with your guidance, perhaps I could be. If you will honor me with your knowledge.”

  Kalyba considered her for some time, like a wolf considering the lamb.

  “Tell me,” she said, “how is Sabran?”

  Ead almost shivered at the intimate way the witch said that name, as if she spoke of a close friend.

  “The Queen of Inys fares well,” she replied.

  “You ask for truth, yet your own lips lie.”

  Ead met her gaze. Her face was a carving, its etchings too ancient to translate. “The Queen of Inys is imperiled,” she admitted.

  “Better.” Kalyba tilted her head. “If your offer is sincere, you will do me the kindness of surrendering your weapons. When I lived in Inysca, it was considered a grave insult for guests to bring weapons to the threshold of a hall.” Her gaze drifted to the archway of thorns. “Let alone over it.”

  “Forgive me. I have no wish to insult you.”

  Kalyba watched her without expression. With the sense that she was signing her own death warrant, Ead divested herself of her weapons and set them on the grass.

  “There. Now you have put your trust in me,” Kalyba said almost gently, “and in return, I will not harm you.”

  “My thanks, Lady.”

  They stood facing one another for a time, with half the clearing between them.

  There was no reason for Kalyba to tell her anything. Ead knew that, and so would the witch.

  “You say you desire truth, but truth is a weave with many threads,” Kalyba said. “You know I am a mage. A sidensmith, like you—or I was, before the old Prioress denied me the fruit of the orange tree. All because Mita Yedanya told her I had poisoned your birthmother.” She smiled. “As if I would ever stoop to poison.”

  So Mita was personally responsible for the banishment. The last Prioress had been a kind woman, but easily influenced by those around her, including her munguna.

  “I am Firstblood. I was first and last to eat of the hawthorn, and it granted me eternal life. But of course,” Kalyba said, “you have not come out of curiosity about my siden, for siden is familiar to you. You wish to know the source of my other power—the one no sister understands. The power of dream and illusion. The power of Ascalon, my hildistérron.”

  War-star. A poetic term for the sword. Ead had seen it before, in prayer books—but now it plucked a string in her, and the realization came forth like a note of music.

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

  Light from the sky.

  Hildistérron.

  And Ascalon. Another name from the ancient tongue of the Isles of Inysca. A corruption of astra—another word for star—and lun, for strength. Loth had told her that.

  Strong star.

  “When I was in Inys . . . I remembered the text of the Tablet of Rumelabar. It spoke of a balance between fire and starlight.” Even as Ead spoke, her mind spun out an explanation that seemed sounder by the moment. “The siden trees grant mages fire. I wondered if your power—your other power—comes from the sky. From the Long-Haired Star.”

  Kalyba did not possess a face that lent itself to shock, but Ead saw it. A flicker in her gaze.

  “Good. Oh, very good.” A little thrum of laughter escaped her. “I had thought its name was lost to time. How ever did a mage hear of the Long-Haired Star?”

  “I went to Gulthaga.”

  Truyde utt Zeedeur had spoken those words. The girl had acted like a fool, but her instinct had been right.

  “Clever and brave, to venture to the Buried City.” Kalyba regarded her. “It would be pleasant to have company in my Bower, since I am denied the sisterhood of the Priory. And since you already have most of the truth . . . I see no harm in telling you the rest.”

  “I would treasure the knowledge.”

  “No doubt. Of course,” Kalyba mused, “to understand my power, you would have to know the whole truth of siden, and the two branches of magic, and Mita has so little understanding of such things. She keeps her daughters in the dark, draped in the comfort of well-worn books. All of you are soaked in ignorance. My knowledge—true knowledge—is a valuable thing.”

  This was the next move in a game. “One might say it was priceless,” Ead agreed.

  “I paid a price for it. As must you.”

  At last, Kalyba approached. Water beaded from her hair as she walked around Ead.

  “I will take a kiss,” she whispered at her ear. Ead stayed rooted in place. “I have been alone for so many years. A kiss from you, sweet Eadaz, and my knowledge is yours.”

  A metallic scent hung on her skin. For a sudden, eldritch moment, Ead felt something in her blood—something vital—sing in answer to that scent. “Lady,” Ead murmured, “how will I know that what you say is the truth?”

  “Do you ask the same of Mita Yedanya, or does she receive your unconditional trust?” Receiving no answer, Kalyba said, “I give you my word that I will speak true. When I was young, a word was a sworn oath. It has been many years since then, but I still respect the ancient ways.”

  There was no choice but to risk it. Steeling herself, Ead leaned close to her and placed a kiss on her cheek.

  “There,” Kalyba said. Her breath was icy. “The price is paid.”

  Ead drew back as fast as she dared. She forced down a sudden thought of Sabran.

  “There are two branches of magic,” Kalyba began. The sunlight picked out threads of gold in her hair and limned each drop of water. “The sisters of the Priory, as you know, are practitioners of siden—terrene magic. It comes from the core of the world, and is channeled through the tree. Those who eat of its fruit can wield its magic. Once there were at least three siden trees—the orange, the hawthorn, and the mulberry—but now, to my knowledge, only one remains.

 
; “But siden, dear Eadaz, has a natural opposite. Sidereal magic, or sterren—the power of the stars. This kind of magic is cold and elusive, graceful and slippery. It allows the wielder to cast illusions, control water . . . even to change their shape. It is far harder to master.”

  Ead no longer had to feign her look of curiosity.

  “When the Long-Haired Star passes, it leaves behind a silver liquid. I named it star rot,” Kalyba said. “It is in star rot that sterren lives, just as it is in the fruit that siden lives.”

  “It must be rare.”

  “Unspeakably so. There has not been a meteor shower since the end of the Grief of Ages—and understand, Eadaz, that the shower was the end of the Grief of Ages. It was not coincidence that it came when the wyrms fell. The Easterners believe the comet was sent by their dragon god, Kwiriki.” Kalyba smiled. “The shower closed an era when siden was stronger, and forced the wyrms, who are made of it, into their slumber.”

  “And then sterren was the stronger,” Ead said.

  “For a time,” Kalyba confirmed. “There is a balance between the two branches of magic. They keep one another in check. When one waxes, the other wanes. An Age of Fire will be followed by an Age of Starlight. At present, siden is much stronger, and sterren is a shadow of itself. But when a meteor shower comes . . . then sterren will burn bright again.”

  The world had ridiculed alchemists for their fascination with the Tablet of Rumelabar, but for centuries they had been circling the truth.

  And truth it was. Ead felt it in the lining of her belly, in the strings of her heart. She would not have believed it from Kalyba alone, but her explanation formed the thread that held the beads together. The Long-Haired Star. The Tablet of Rumelabar. The fall of the wyrms in the Grief of Ages. The strange gifts of the woman who now stood before her.

  All of it connected. All of it stemming to one truth: fire from beneath, light from above. A universe built on this duality.

  “The Tablet of Rumelabar speaks of this balance,” Ead said, “but also what happens when the balance is unsettled.”

  “Too much of one doth inflame the other, and in this is the extinction of the universe,” Kalyba recited. “A dire warning. Now, what—or who—is the extinction of the universe?”

  Ead shook her head. She knew the answer well enough, but best to play the fool. It would keep the witch off her guard.

  “Oh, Eadaz, you were doing so well. Still,” Kalyba said, “you are young. I must not be too hard a judge.”

  She turned away. As she moved, her hand came to her right side. It was as smooth and unmarked as the rest of her, but her gait betrayed the pain in it.

  “Are you hurt, Lady?” Ead asked.

  Kalyba did not reply.

  “Long ago, the cosmic duality was . . . upset,” was all she said. Ead thought she glimpsed something terrible in those eyes. A shadow of hatred. “Sterren grew too strong in the world and, in return, the fire beneath our feet forged an abomination. A miscreation of siden.”

  The extinction of the universe.

  “The Nameless One,” Ead said.

  “And his followers. They are children of the imbalance. Of chaos.” Kalyba seated herself on a boulder. “Successive Prioresses have long seen the connection between the tree and the wyrms, but denied it to themselves and their daughters. Mages can even create Draconic flame during Ages of Fire, like this one . . . but of course, you are forbidden from using it.”

  All sisters knew they had the potential to make wyrmfire, but it was not taught.

  “Your illusions come from sterren,” Ead murmured, “so siden burns them away.”

  “Siden and sterren can destroy each other in particular circumstances,” Kalyba conceded, “but they also attract one another. Both forms of magic are drawn to themselves most of all, but also to their opposites.” Her dark eyes were alight with interest. “Now, my puzzle-solver. If the orange tree is the natural channel of siden, what are the natural channels of sterren?”

  Ead thought on it. “The dragons of the East, perhaps.”

  From what little she knew about them, they were creatures of water. It was a guess, but Kalyba smiled.

  “Very good. They were born of sterren. When the Long-Haired Star comes, they can give dreams and change their shapes and knit illusions.”

  As if to demonstrate, the witch cast a hand down the length of her own body. All at once, she wore an Inysh gown of brown samite and a girdle studded with carnelians and pearls. Jewel lilies opened in her hair. Had the nakedness been the illusion, or was this?

  “Long ago, I used my fire to reshape the star rot I had gathered.” Kalyba combed her fingers through her hair. “To create the most remarkable weapon ever made.”

  “Ascalon.”

  “A sword of sterren, forged with siden. A perfect union. It was when I beheld it—the sword I had made from the tears of a comet—that I knew I was not just a mage.” Her mouth flinched. “The Priory calls me witch for my gifts, but I prefer enchantress. It has a pretty ring to it.”

  Ead had learned more than she had bargained for, but she had come to ask about the jewel.

  “Lady,” she said, “your gifts are miraculous indeed. Did you ever forge anything else from sterren?”

  “Never. I wanted Ascalon to be unlike anything in this world. A gift for the greatest knight of his time. Of course,” Kalyba said, “that is not to say that there are no other objects . . . but they were not cast by my hand. And if they exist, they are long since lost.”

  It was tempting to tell her about the jewel, but it was best that Kalyba remained ignorant of it, or she would go out of her way to make it hers. “I would like nothing better than to lay eyes on the sword. All Inys talks of it,” Ead said. “Will you show it to me, Lady?”

  Kalyba chuckled low. “If I had it, I would be happy indeed. I searched for Ascalon for centuries, but Galian hid it well.”

  “He left no clue as to its whereabouts?”

  “Only that he meant to leave it in the hands of those who would die to keep it from me.” Her smile faded. “The Queens of Inys have also sought it, given that it is sacred to them . . . but they will not find it. If I could not, then no one will.”

  That Kalyba had forged Ascalon for Galian Berethnet was common knowledge in the Priory. It was part of the reason many sisters had distrusted her. The two of them had been born in the same era and had both lived in or around the village of Goldenbirch, but beyond those scant facts, no one understood the nature of their relationship.

  “Queen Sabran dreamed of this Bower of Eternity,” Ead said. “While I was her lady-in-waiting, she told me so. Only you can weave dreams, Lady. Was it you who sent them to her?”

  “That knowledge,” Kalyba said, “will require a higher price.”

  With that, the witch slid from the boulder. Naked once more, she listed on to her side, and the rock beneath her transformed into a bed of flowers. They smelled of cream and honey.

  “Come to me.” She smoothed a hand over her petals. “Come, lie with me in my Bower, and I will sing to you of dreaming.”

  “Lady,” Ead said, “I desire nothing more than to please you, and to prove my loyalty, but my heart belongs to another.”

  “The secret of dream-weaving must surely be worth the price of one night. It has been centuries since I felt the soft touch of a lover.” Kalyba drew a finger down her own abdomen, stopping just shy of where her thighs met. “But . . . I do admire loyalty. So I will accept another gift from you. In exchange for my knowledge of the stars, and their gifts.”

  “Anything.”

  “Twenty years they have kept me from the orange tree. Once a mage has tasted of the fire, she burns for it evermore. The hunger eats me from within. I would very much like my flame back.” Kalyba held her gaze. “Bring me the fruit, and you will be my heir. Swear it to me, Eadaz du Zāla uq-Nāra. Swear that you will bring me what I desire.”

  “Lady,” Ead said, “I swear it by the Mother.”

  “And she s
aid nothing about the jewels,” the Prioress said. “Only that she did not make them.”

  Ead stood in her sunroom, facing her.

  “Yes, Prioress,” she said. “Ascalon is her only creation. I thought it best not to mention the jewels, for fear she would pursue them.”

  “Good.”

  Chassar was grim-faced. The Prioress placed her hands on the balustrade, and her ring glinted in the sun.

  “Two strands of magic. I have never heard anything of the sort.” She breathed in. “I mislike this. The witch is a liar by nature. There is a reason they called her Rattletongue.”

  “She might embellish the truth,” Chassar said, “but bloodthirsty and cold though she is, she never struck me as a liar. In her day in Inysca, there were brutal punishments for oath-breaking.”

  “You forget, Chassar, that she lied about Zāla. She claimed she never poisoned her, but only an outsider would have murdered a sister.”

  Chassar dropped his gaze.

  “The jewels must be sterren,” Ead said. “Even if Kalyba did not make them. If they are not our kind of magic, they must be the other.” The Prioress nodded slowly. “I vowed to her that I would bring her the fruit. Is she like to pursue me when I do not?”

  “I doubt she will squander her magic on a hunt. In any case, you are protected here.” The Prioress watched the sun descend. “Say nothing of this to your sisters. Our next line of enquiry is this . . . Neporo.”

  “An Easterner,” Ead said quietly. “Surely that tells you that the Mother was interested in the world beyond the South.”

  “I tire of this subject, Eadaz.”

  Ead bit her tongue. Chassar shot her a cautionary look.

  “If Neporo spoke true, then to defeat our enemy, we will need both Ascalon and the jewels.” The Prioress rubbed her temple. “Leave me, Eadaz. I must . . . consider our course.”

  Ead inclined her head and left.

  In her sunroom, Ead found Aralaq snoozing at the foot of her bed, weary from their journey. She sat on the bed beside him and stroked his silken ears. They twitched in his sleep.