The Priory of the Orange Tree

by Samantha Shannon

  Ead had not mentioned this on the ship. “The Lady of the Woods is real?” Loth asked.

  “She is.”

  He swallowed.

  “And you claim she made the True Sword,” Sabran said. “The terror of the haithwood.”

  “The very same,” Ead said, undaunted. “Ascalon was forged with both siden and sidereal magic—sterren—which comes from a substance left behind by the Long-Haired Star. It was these two branches of power that the Tablet of Rumelabar describes. When one waxes, the other wanes.”

  Sabran was wearing the same mask of indifference she often wore in the Presence Chamber.

  “To recapitulate,” she said tautly, “you believe my ancestor—the blessèd Saint—was a power-hungry, lustful craven who tried to press a country into accepting his religion, wielded a sword granted to him by a witch, and never defeated the Nameless One.”

  “And stole the recognition for the latter from Princess Cleolind, yes.”

  “You think I am the seed of such a man.”

  “Fair roses have grown from twisted seeds.”

  “What you did for me does not give you the right to blaspheme in my presence.”

  “So you would like your new Virtues Council to tell you only what you want to hear.” Ead raised her cup. “Very well, Your Majesty. Loth can be Duke of Flattery, and I’ll be Duchess of Deceit.”

  “Enough,” Sabran barked.

  “Peace,” Loth cut in. “Please.” Neither of them spoke. “We cannot quarrel. We must be united now. Because of—” His mouth was dry. “Because of what is to come.”

  “And what is to come?”

  Loth tried to say it, but the words fled from him. He gave Ead a defeated look.

  “Sabran,” Ead said quietly, “the Nameless One will return.”

  For a long time, Sabran seemed to withdraw into her own world. Slowly, she rose, walked toward the balcony, and stood upon it, limmed by the sun.

  “It is true,” Ead said eventually. “A letter to the Priory from a woman named Neporo convinced me. Cleolind stood with her to bind the Nameless One—but only for a thousand years. And that thousand years is very close to ending.”

  Sabran placed her hands on the balustrade. A breeze caught a few strands of her hair.

  “So,” she said, “it is as my ancestor said. That when the House of Berethnet ends . . . the Nameless One will return.”

  “It has naught to do with you,” Ead said. “Or your ancestors. Most likely Galian made the claim to consolidate his new-found power, and to make himself a god in the eyes of his people. He fed his descendants to the jaws of his lie.”

  Sabran said nothing.

  Loth wanted to comfort her, but nothing could soften tidings like these.

  “The Nameless One was bound on the third day of spring, during the twentieth year of the reign of Mokwo, Empress of Seiiki,” Ead said, “but I do not know when Mokwo ruled. You must ask High Princess Ermuna to find the date. She is Archduchess of Ostendeur, where documents on the East are stored.” When Sabran continued in her silence, Ead sighed. “I know this is heresy to you. But if you love the woman you know as the Damsel—if you have any respect for the memory of Cleolind Onjenyu—then you will do this.”

  Sabran lifted her chin. “And if we discover the date? What then?”

  Ead reached under her collar and withdrew the pale jewel she had taken from the Priory.

  “This is the waning jewel. It is one of a pair.” She placed it on the table. “It is made from sterren. Its sister is most likely in the East. The letter said we need them both.”

  Sabran looked at it over her shoulder.

  The sunshine glowed in the waning jewel. Being close to it gave Loth a sense of cool tranquility—almost the opposite of what he always felt from Ead. She was the living flame of the sun. This was starlight.

  “After Cleolind wounded the Nameless One, she appears to have traveled to the East,” Ead said. “There she met Neporo of Komoridu, and together they bound the Nameless One in the Abyss.” She tapped the jewel. “We must repeat what was done a thousand years ago—but we must finish it this time. And to do that, we also need Ascalon.”

  Sabran returned her gaze to the horizon. “Every Berethnet queen has searched for the True Sword, to no avail.”

  “None of them had a jewel that will call to it.” Ead hung it around her neck again. “Kalyba told me that Galian meant to leave Ascalon in the hands of those who would die to keep it hidden. We know he had a loyal retinue, but does anyone come to mind?”

  “Edrig of Arondine,” Loth said at once. “The Saint squired for him before he became a knight himself. Viewed him as a father.”

  “Where did he live?”

  Loth smiled. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “he is one of the founders of the Beck family.”

  Ead raised her eyebrows.

  “Goldenbirch,” she said. “Perhaps I will begin my search there—with you and Meg, if you will keep me company. Your father has been wanting to speak to her, in any case.”

  “You truly think it could be in Goldenbirch?”

  “It is as good a place as any to begin.”

  Loth thought of the night before. “One of us should stay,” he said. “Meg can go with you.”

  At last, Sabran turned to face them again.

  “Whether this legend is true or not,” she said, “I have no choice but to trust you, Ead.” Her face hardened. “Our mutual enemy will rise. Both our religions confirm it. I mean for us to stand against him. I mean to lead Inys to victory, as Glorian Shieldheart did.”

  “I believe you can,” Ead said.

  Sabran returned to her seat. “Since there are no ships heading north tonight,” she said, “I would like you to attend the Feast of High Winter. You, too, Loth.”

  Loth frowned. “The feast will still proceed?”

  “I think there is more need for it than ever. The arrangements ought to be in place.”

  “People will see that you are not with child.” Loth hesitated. “Will you tell them you are barren?”

  Sabran dropped her gaze to her belly.

  “Barren.” A thin smile. “We must think of a different word for it, I think. That one makes me sound like a field stripped of its crop. A waste with nothing left to give.”

  She was right. It was a cruel way to describe a person.

  “Forgive me,” he murmured.

  Sabran nodded. “I will tell the court that I lost the child, but as far as they will know, I might yet conceive another.”

  It would grieve her subjects, but leave them with a ray of hope.

  “Ead,” Sabran said, “I would like to make you a member of the Knights Bachelor.”

  “I want no titles.”

  “You will accept, or you will be in too much danger to remain at court. Crest told everyone you were a witch. This position will dispel any doubt that I believe you loyal.”

  “I agree,” Loth said.

  Ead offered the barest nod of acknowledgment. “Dame I am, then,” she said, after a pause.

  The silence yawned long between the three of them. Allies now, yet they seemed to sit on a glass in that moment—a glass broken into faultlines of religion and inheritance.

  “I will go and tell Margret of our journey,” Ead said, and rose. “Oh, and Sabran, I will not be wearing court fashions any longer. I’ve had more than enough of trying to protect you in a petticoat.”

  She left without waiting to be dismissed. Sabran looked after her with a strange expression.

  “Are you well?” Loth said to her quietly.

  “Now you are back.”

  They both smiled, and Sabran covered his hand with hers. Cold, as always, the nails tinged with lilac. He had teased her about it when they were children. Princess Snow.

  “I have not yet thanked you for all you did to liberate me,” she said. “I understand you were the one who roused the court in my defense.”

  He squeezed her hand. “You are my queen. And my friend.” />
  “When I heard that you had left, I thought I would go mad . . . I knew you would never have gone of your own accord, but I had no proof. I was powerless in my own court.”

  “I know.”

  She pressed his hand once more. “For now,” she said, “I am entrusting to you the duties of the Duchy of Justice. You will decide whether Combe, Fynch, and Stillwater truly were returning to help me.”

  “This is a grave obligation. Meant for one with holy blood,” Loth said. “Surely one of the Earls Provincial proper would be better.”

  “I trust it only to you.” Sabran pushed a sheet of parchment across the table. “Here is the Oath of Relinquishment pressed upon me by Crest. With my signature, this document would have yielded the throne to her family.”

  Loth read it. His throat dried out as he took in the wax seal, impressed with the twin goblets.

  “The fever and pain made me too weak to understand a great deal of what was happening to me. I was focused on surviving,” Sabran said. “Once, however, I heard Crest arguing with Roslain, saying that the Oath of Relinquishment would make her queen some day, and her daughter after that, and that she was an ingrate for resisting. And Ros— Ros said she would die before she took the throne from me.”

  Loth smiled. He would have expected nothing less from Roslain.

  “The night before you arrived,” Sabran continued, “I woke unable to breathe. Crest had a pillow over my face. She kept whispering that I was unworthy, like my mother before me. That the line was poisoned. That even Berethnets must answer to the call of justice.” Her hand ghosted to her mouth. “Ros broke her fingers prying her off me.”

  So much suffering, all for naught.

  “Crest must die,” Sabran concluded. “For their failure to act against her, I will have Eller and Withy confined to their castles to await my pleasure. I will strip them of their duchies in favor of their heirs.” Her face closed. “I tell you this. Holy blood or not, I will see Crest burn for what she has done.”

  Once, Loth would have protested such a brutal punishment, but Crest deserved no pity.

  “For a time, I almost believed I should yield the throne. That Crest wanted the best for the realm.” Sabran lifted her chin. “But we must be united in the face of the Draconic threat. I will cleave to my throne, and we will see what comes of it.”

  She sounded more a queen than ever.

  “Loth,” she added, quieter, “you were with Ead in this . . . Priory of the Orange Tree. You have seen the truth of her.” She held his gaze. “Do you still trust her?”

  Loth poured a little more ale for them both.

  “The Priory made me question the foundations of our world,” he admitted, “but throughout it all, I trusted Ead. She saved my life, at great risk to her own.” He handed her a cup. “She wants to keep you alive, Sab. I believe she wants it more than anything.”

  Something changed in her face.

  “I must write to Ermuna. Your chambers await you,” she said, “but be sure not to be late for the feast.” When she looked up at him, he saw a glint of the old Sabran in her eyes. “Welcome back to court, Lord Arteloth.”

  On the highest floor of the Dearn Tower, in the cell where Truyde utt Zeedeur had spent her final days, Igrain Crest was at prayer. Only an arrow-slit cast light into her prison. When Loth entered, she did not raise her lowered head, nor unclasp her hands.

  “Lady Igrain,” Loth said.

  She was still.

  “If it please you, I have come to ask you some questions.”

  “I will answer for what I have done,” Crest said, “only in Halgalant.”

  “You will not see the heavenly court,” Loth said quietly. “So let us begin here.”

  53

  West

  The Feast of High Winter began at six of the clock in the Banqueting House of Ascalon Palace. As always, it would be followed by music and dancing in the Presence Chamber.

  As the bells chimed in the clock tower, Ead studied her reflection. Her gown was palest blue silk, snowed with seed-pearls, the ruff made of white cutwork lace.

  For one more night, she would dress as a courtier. Her sisters would think her even more of a traitor when they discovered that she had accepted a title from the Queen of Inys. If she was to survive here, however, it seemed she had no other choice.

  A knock at the door, and Margret let herself in. She wore ivory satin and a silver girdle, and her attifet was studded with moonstones.

  “I just came from Sabran,” she said. “I am to be made a Lady of the Bedchamber.” She set down the candle. “I thought you might not want to go to the Banqueting House alone.”

  “You thought correctly. As always.” Ead met her gaze in the glass. “Meg, what has Loth told you about me?”

  “Everything.” Margret grasped her by the shoulders. “You know I take the Knight of Courage as my patron. There is courage, I think, in open-mindedness, and thinking for oneself. If you are a witch, then perhaps witches are not so wicked after all.” Her face turned serious. “Now, a question. Would you prefer me to call you Eadaz?”

  “No. But thank you for asking.” Ead was touched. “You may call me Ead, as I call you Meg.”

  “Very well.” Margret linked her arm. “Then let me reintroduce you to court, Ead.”

  Snow had settled thickly on every ledge and step. Courtiers were emerging from all over the palace, drawn to the light from the windows of the Banqueting House. As they entered, the steward called out, “Lady Margret Beck and Mistress Ead Duryan.”

  Her old name. Her false name.

  The Banqueting House fell almost silent. Hundreds of eyes turned to look upon the witch. Margret tightened her grip on her arm.

  Loth was alone at the high table, seated to the left of the throne. He beckoned with one hand.

  They walked between the rows of tables. When Margret went to the chair on the other side of the throne, Ead sat beside her. She had never once eaten at the high table, which had always been reserved for the queen, the Dukes Spiritual, and two other guests of honor. In the old days, those guests of honor had usually been Loth and Roslain.

  “I’ve seen more cheer in a charnel garden,” Margret muttered. “Did you speak to Roslain, Loth?”

  Loth rested his knuckles on his cheek and turned his face toward them, hiding his lips.

  “Aye,” he said. “After the bonesetter came to tend to her hand.” He kept his voice low. “It appears your instinct was right, Ead. Crest believes herself to be the judge of queens.”

  Ead took no pleasure in it.

  “I am not sure when her madness set in,” Loth went on, “but when Queen Rosarian was still alive, one of her ladies reported to Crest that she had taken Captain Gian Harlowe as a lover. Crest saw Rosarian as . . . a harlot, unfit to be queen. She punished her in several ways. Then decided that she was beyond reform.”

  Ead could see in his face that he was struggling to swallow this. He had believed for too long in the delicate artifice of court. Now the artfully placed leaves had blown away, revealing the shining jaws of the trap.

  “She warned Queen Rosarian,” Loth continued, brow pinched, “but the affair with Harlowe carried on. Even—” He glanced toward the doors. “Even after Sab was born.”

  Margret raised her eyebrows. “So Sabran may be his daughter?”

  “If Crest speaks true. And I think she does. Once she started talking, she seemed almost desperate to tell me every detail of her . . . enterprise.”

  Another secret to be kept. Another crack in the marble throne.

  “Once Sab was old enough to bear children of her own,” Loth said, “Crest sought help from King Sigoso. She knew he reviled Rosarian for refusing his hand, so together they conspired to kill her, with Crest hoping the blame would drift toward Yscalin.”

  “And Crest still considered herself pious?” Margret snorted. “After murdering a Berethnet?”

  “Piety can turn the power-hungry into monsters,” Ead said. “They can twist any teac
hing to justify their actions.”

  She had seen it before. Mita had believed she was serving the Mother when she executed Zāla.

  “Crest waited then,” Loth said. “Waited to see if Sabran would grow to be more devout than her mother. When Sab resisted the childbed, Crest sensed rebellion. She bribed people to enter the Queen Tower with blades to frighten her. Ead, it is just as you suspected. The cutthroats were supposed to be caught. Crest promised their families would be compensated.”

  “And she infiltrated Truyde’s plan in order to kill Lievelyn?” Margret asked, and Loth nodded. “But why?”

  “Lievelyn traded with Seiiki. That was the reason she gave me. She also considered him a drain on Inys—but in truth, I think she could not bear that Sabran spurned her choice of companion. That she was becoming influenced by someone other than her.”

  “Sab did seem to hearken to Lievelyn,” Margret conceded. “She went outside her palace for the first time in fourteen years because he asked it of her.”

  “Just so. An upstart sinner with too much power. Once he had served his purpose, and Sabran was pregnant, he had to die.” Loth shook his head. “When the physician told her Sabran would not conceive again, it proved to Crest, once and for all, that she was of tainted seed, and that the House of Berethnet was no longer fit to serve the Saint. She decided that the throne must pass, at last, to the only worthy descendants of the Holy Retinue. To her own heir.”

  “This confession must be enough to condemn Crest,” Ead said.

  Loth looked grimly satisfied. “I do believe it is.”

  At that moment, the steward thumped his staff on the floorboards.

  “Her Majesty, Queen Sabran!”

  The court fell silent as it rose. When Sabran came into the candlelight, with the silver-clad Knights of the Body behind her, there was a shared intake of breath.

  Ead had never seen her look so splendidly alone. Usually she came to the Banqueting Hall with her ladies, or with Seyton Combe or some other person of importance.

  She wore no powder on her face. No jewelry but her coronation ring. Her gown was black velvet, its sleeves and forepart mourning gray. It was clear to anyone with sense that she was not with child.