“I’m going to wash,” Ead said.
While she was gone, Loth lay down on his pallet and listened to the rain.
Igrain Crest was a tick on his thoughts. In his childhood, he had seen her as a comforting figure. Stern but kind, she had radiated a sense that everything would be well.
Yet he knew she had burdened Sabran in the four years of her minority. Even before that, when she was a young princess, Crest had hammered into her a need for temperance, for perfection, for devotion to duty. During those years, Sabran had not been permitted to speak with any children but Roslain and Loth, and Crest had always been near at hand, watching her. Though Prince Wilstan had been Protector of the Realm, he had been too deep in mourning to raise his daughter. Crest had taken charge of that.
And there had been one incident. Before the Queen Mother had died.
He recalled a freezing afternoon. Twelve-year-old Sabran on the edge of Chesten Forest, folding a snowball in her gloved hands, her cheeks pink. Both of them laughing until it hurt. After, they had clambered up one of the snow-clad oaks and huddled together on a knotted branch, much to the consternation of the Knights of the Body.
They had climbed almost to the top of that tree. So high they had been able to see into Briar House. And there had been Queen Rosarian in a window, visibly furious, a letter in her fist.
With her had been Igrain Crest, hands behind her back. Rosarian had stormed away. The only reason Loth remembered it so clearly was because Sabran had fallen from that tree a moment later.
It was some time before Ead returned, her hair damp from the river. She removed her boots and settled on the other pallet.
“Ead,” Loth said, “do you regret leaving the Priory?”
Her gaze was on the ceiling.
“I have not left,” she said. “All I do, I do for the Mother. To glorify her name.” She closed her eyes. “But I hope—I pray—that my path will bend southward again someday.”
Hating the pain in her voice, Loth reached for her. A careful brush of his thumb along her cheekbone.
“I am glad,” he said, “that it bends westward this day.”
She returned his smile.
“Loth,” she said, “I did miss you.”
They were riding again before the sun rose in the morning, and on they rode for days. A snowstorm had blown in, slowing their horses, and one night brigands set upon them, demanding all their coin. Alone, Loth would have been overwhelmed, but Ead put up such a spirited fight that they retreated.
There was no more time for sleep. Ead was in her saddle again before the brigands were out of sight; it was all Loth could do to keep up with her. They turned northeast at Crow Coppice and galloped up the South Pass, keeping their heads down as they joined the wagons, packhorses, and coaches moving toward Ascalon. And finally, by owl light, they arrived.
Loth slowed his horse. The spires of Ascalon were black against the evening sky. Even in the rain, this city was the beacon of his heart.
They rode on to Berethnet Mile. Fresh snow was a bordcloth on it, as yet untrampled. At its end, far away, loomed the wrought-iron gates of Ascalon Palace. Even in the gloaming, Loth could see the damage to the Dearn Tower. He had almost not believed that Fýredel had been upon it.
He could smell the River Limber. The bells of the Sanctuary of Our Lady were ringing.
“I want to ride past the palace,” Ead said. “To see if there are increased defenses.” Loth nodded.
Each ward of the city began at its gatehouse. Queenside, the closest to the palace, had the most impressive, tall and gilded, carved with likenesses of past queens. As they neared it, the street, usually busy at dusk as people flocked to orisons, was quiet.
The snow beneath the gatehouse was stained dark. When Loth looked up, the feeling left his face. High above them, two severed heads were mounted on pikes.
One was unrecognizable. Little more than a skull. The other had been tarred and parboiled, but the features slumped with decay. Ears and nose leaking rot. Flies on pallid skin.
He might not have recognized her if not for the hair. Long and red, streaming like blood.
“Truyde,” Ead breathed.
Loth could not tear his gaze from the head. From that swaying hair, grotesquely animate.
Once, he and Sabran and Roslain had all gathered by the fire in the Privy Chamber and listened to Arbella Glenn tell them about Sabran the Fifth, the only tyrant of the House of Berethnet, who had adorned every finial on the palace gates with the heads of those who had displeased her. No queen had dared to raise her ghost by doing it again.
“Quickly.” Ead turned her horse. “Follow me.”
They rode to the ward of Southerly Wharf, where silk merchants and clothiers reigned. They soon reached the Rose and Candle, one of the finest inns in the city, where they handed their horses to an ostler. Loth stopped to retch. Vomit seethed in his belly.
“Loth.” Ead ushered him indoors. “Hurry. I know the innkeeper here. We will be safe.”
Loth no longer remembered what it was to be safe. The stench of rot was etched into his throat.
An attendant led them inside and knocked on a door. A ruddy-faced woman in a boxy doublet answered it. When she saw Ead, her eyebrows shot up.
“Well,” she said, recovering, “you ought to come in.”
She ushered them into her quarters. As soon as the door was closed, she embraced Ead.
“Dear girl. It’s been a very long time,” she said, her voice hushed. “What in damsam are you doing on the streets?”
“We had no choice.” Ead drew back. “Our common friend told me you would give me shelter if I should ever need it.”
“The promise stands.” The woman inclined her head to Loth. “Lord Arteloth. Welcome to the Rose and Candle.”
Loth wiped his mouth. “We thank you for your hospitality, goodwife.”
“We need a room,” Ead said. “Can you help?”
“I can. But have you only just arrived in Ascalon?” When they nodded, she took a roll of parchment from the table. “Look.”
Ead unraveled it. Loth read over her shoulder.
In the name of QUEEN SABRAN, Her Grace, the DUCHESS OF JUSTICE, offers a reward of eighteen thousand crowns for the capture of Ead Duryan, a low-born Southerner in the guise of a lady, wanted alive for Sorcery, Heresy, and High Treason against HER MAJESTY. Curling black hair, dark brown eyes. Report any sighting at once to a city guard.
“The heralds have read your name and description every day,” the innkeeper said. “I trust those you met in the yard, but you must speak to no one else. And be gone from this city as soon as you can.” She shivered. “Something is not right in the palace. They said that child was a traitor, but I cannot think Queen Sabran would execute one so young.”
Ead handed the notice back. “There were two heads,” she said. “Whose was the other?”
“Bess Weald. Wicked Bess, they call her now.”
The name meant nothing to Loth, but Ead nodded. “We cannot leave the city,” she stated. “We are about most important business.”
The innkeeper blew out a breath. “Well,” she said, “if you want to risk staying, I vowed to the ambassador that I would help you on your way.” She picked up a candle. “Come.”
She led them up a staircase. Music and laughter echoed from the hall. The innkeeper opened one of the doors and handed Ead the key.
“I shall have your belongings brought up.”
“Thank you. I will not forget this, and neither will His Excellency,” Ead told her. “We will also need clothes. And weapons, if you can manage it.”
“Of course.”
Loth took the candle from the innkeeper before he joined Ead, who bolted the door. The chamber boasted one bed, a roaring fire, and a copper bath, full and steaming.
“Bess Weald was the merchant who shot Lievelyn.” Ead swallowed. “This is Crest.”
“Why would she have murdered Lady Truyde?”
“To silence her. Only Truyde, Sabran, and mys
elf knew that Bess Weald worked for someone called the Cupbearer. And Combe,” she added, after a moment. “Crest is covering her spoor. My head would have been up there, too, sooner or later, if I had not left court.” She paced the room. “Crest could not have executed Truyde without Sabran knowing. Surely death warrants must have a royal signature.”
“No. The signature of whomsoever holds the Duchy of Justice is also valid on a death warrant,” Loth said, “but only if the sovereign is unable to sign with her own hand.”
The implication settled over them both, heavy with portent.
“We need to get into the palace. Tonight,” Ead said, frustration mounting in her voice. “I must speak with someone. In another ward.”
“Ead, no. This entire city is looking for—”
“I know how to evade discovery.” Ead put her hood back up. “Lock the door behind me. When I get back, we will make a plan.” She paused to kiss his cheek on the way out. “Fear not for me, my friend.”
And she was gone.
Loth undressed and sank into the copper bath. All he could think about was the heads staked on the gatehouse. The promise of an Inys he could not recognize. An Inys without his queen.
He battled sleep for as long as he could, but days of riding in the cold had taken their toll. When he tumbled into bed, he dreamed not of severed heads, but of the Donmata Marosa. She came to him naked, with eyes full of ash, and her kiss tasted of wormwood. You left me, she breathed. You left me to die. Just like you left your friend.
When a knock finally came, he jerked awake.
“Loth.”
He groped for the bolt. Ead was outside. He stood aside to let her into the chamber.
“I have our way in,” she said. “We will go with the waterfolk.”
They crewed the barges and wherries that crossed the River Limber every day, taking people and goods from one side to the other. “I assume you have more friends among them.”
“One,” she confirmed. “A shipment of wine is being taken to the Privy Stair for the Feast of High Winter. He has agreed that we can join the waterfolk. That will get us inside.”
“And when we are?”
“I mean to find Sabran.” Ead looked at him. “If you would prefer to stay here, I will go in alone.”
“No,” Loth said. “We go together.”
They set out dressed like merchants, armed to the chin under their cloaks. Soon they entered the ward of Fiswich-by-Bridge and slipped down the wherry stairs on Delphin Street. The stairs were squeezed alongside a tavern, the Gray Grimalkin, where the waterfolk drank after a long day on the Limber.
The tavern faced the east wall of Ascalon Palace. Loth followed Ead. Their riding boots crunched through the shells on the riverbank.
He had never set foot in this part of the city. Fiswich-by-Bridge had a reputation for knavery.
Ead approached one of the men outside the tavern.
“My friend,” she said. “Well met.”
“Mistress.” The man was grubby as a rat, but sharp-eyed. “Do you still wish to join us?”
“If you’ll have us.”
“I said I would.” He glanced at the tavern. “Wait by the barge. Need to fish some of the others from their cups.”
Nearby, the barge in question was being loaded with barrels of wine. Loth walked to the edge of the river and watched candles flicker to life in the windows of the Alabastrine Tower. He could only just see the top of the Queen Tower. The royal apartments, benighted.
“Tell me,” he muttered to Ead, “what does Ambassador uq-Ispad do to make your friends so agreeable?”
“He pays the innkeeper a pension. As for this man, Chassar covered his gambling debts,” she said. “He calls them the Friends of the Priory.”
The waterfellow shepherded his associates from the tavern. When the last of the wine was loaded into the barge, Loth and Ead got in and found themselves a place on a bench.
Ead pulled on a flat cap and tucked every curl inside. Each waterfellow grasped an oar and rowed.
The Limber was wide and swift-flowing. It took them some time to reach the landing.
The Privy Stair led up to a postern in the palace wall, designed to be a discreet way for the royal family to leave. Sabran never used her pleasure barge, but her mother had always been out on the river, waving at the people, skimming her fingers through the water. Loth found himself wondering if Queen Rosarian had ever used the stair to escape for trysts with Gian Harlowe.
He was no longer sure if he should give credence to that rumor. His every belief had been bruised and battered. Perhaps nothing he had thought about this court had been true.
Or perhaps this was a test of faith.
They followed the waterfolk up the steps. On the other side of the wall, Loth caught his first glimpse of the three knights-errant who blocked their way. Ead pulled Loth into an alcove to the left, and they crouched behind the well.
“Good evening to you all,” one of the knights-errant said. “You have the wine?”
“Aye, sirs.” The head waterfellow doffed his cap. “Sixty barrels.”
“Take them to the Great Kitchen. But first, your fellows will need to show us their faces. All of you, lower your hoods and remove your caps.”
The waterfolk did as they were told.
“Good. Be on your way,” the knight-errant said.
The barrels were duly carried up the stairs. Ead crept toward the mouth of the alcove—only to withdraw.
One of the knights-errant was coming down the steps. When he thrust his torch into their hiding place, a voice said, “What’s this?” The flame came closer. “Are we defying the Knight of Fellowship in here?”
Then the knight-errant saw Loth, and he saw Ead, and under the shadow cast by his helm, Loth saw his mouth open wide to raise the alarm.
That was when a knife sliced across his throat. As blood sprayed, Ead threw him into the well.
Three heartbeats, and he hit the bottom.
50
West
She had hoped not to kill anyone in the palace. If there had been more time, Ead might have candled the man.
She retrieved the torch and let it fall into the well. She wiped the blood from her knife.
“Find Meg and hide in her quarters,” she said quietly. “I want to scout the palace.”
Loth was staring at her as if she were a stranger. She gave him a push up the steps.
“Hurry. They will search everywhere when they find the body.”
He went.
Ead followed him before paring away. She crossed the courtyard with the apple tree and pressed her back to the limewashed wall of the Great Kitchen. She waited until a detail of guards had gone past before she slipped into the passage that led to the Sanctuary Royal.
Two more knights-errant, both in black surcoats and armed with partizans, stood outside its doors.
She candled them both. Mother willing, they would wake up too addled to report what had happened. Inside, she hid behind a pillar and gazed into the gloom. As always, many courtiers had gathered for orisons. Voices rang to the vaulted ceiling.
Sabran was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Margret.
Ead took note of how the worshippers were sitting. Usually they would huddle on the benches in the spirit of fellowship. Tonight, however, there was a clear-cut faction. Retainers in full livery. Black and murrey, the twin goblets embroidered on their tabards.
Once, you would have seen Combe’s retainers strutting about in his livery, Margret had told her, as if their first loyalty were not to their queen.
“Now,” the Arch Sanctarian said, once the hymn was finished, “we pray to the Knight of Generosity for Her Majesty, who prefers to pray in seclusion at this most sacred time. We pray for the princess in her belly, who will one day be our queen. And we give thanks to Her Grace, the Duchess of Justice, who tends so vigilantly on them both.”
Ead left the sanctuary as soundlessly as she had entered it. She had seen enough.
&nbs
p; Carnelian House was not far from the Privy Stair. Loth evaded a brace of retainers, both wearing the badge of the Duchess of Justice, and slipped through the unlocked door.
He chased a winding stair and emerged in a corridor he knew well, decorated with portraits of Ladies of the Bedchamber who had served under long-dead queens. A new likeness of a young Lady Arbella Glenn had appeared at one end.
When he reached the right door, he listened. Silence within. He turned the handle and stepped inside.
Candles lit the chamber. His sister was bent over a book. At the sound of the door opening, she startled to her feet.
“Courtesy’s name—” She snatched her knife from the nightstand, her eyes wide. “Get you gone, knave, or I will cut out your heart. What sends you to my door?”
“Fraternal duty.” He lowered his hood. “And a terrible fear of your wrath if I stayed away a moment longer.”
The knife fell from her hand, and her eyes filled. She ran to him and flung her arms around his neck.
“Loth.” Her body heaved with sobs. “Loth—”
He drew her into an embrace, close to tears himself. It was only now he held her that he dared believe that he was home.
“I really could cut out your heart, Arteloth Beck. Abandoning me for months, sneaking in here like a vagabond—” Margret laid her hands on his cheeks. Hers were wet with tears. “And what is that on your face?”
“I must insist that the Night Hawk shoulders the blame for my absence. Though not for the beard.” He kissed her brow. “I will tell you everything later. Meg, Ead is here.”
“Ead—” Joy sparked in her eyes, then went out. “No. It’s too dangerous for both of you—”
“Where is Sab?”
“The royal apartments, I assume.” Margret gripped his shoulder with one hand and used the other to wipe her eyes. “They say she is in confinement because of the pregnancy. Only Roslain is permitted to attend on her, and Crest retainers guard her door.”
“Where is Combe in all this?”
“The Night Hawk took wing a few days ago. Stillwater and Fynch, too. I have no idea whether it was of their own volition.”
“What of the other Dukes Spiritual?”
The Priory of the Orange Tree Page 52