The Priory of the Orange Tree

by Samantha Shannon

  “Majesty,” Ead finally said, “this may be too bold, but you seem not to be in high spirits today.”

  “It is far too bold. You are here to see that my food is not poisoned, not to remark upon my spirits.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “I have been too forgiving.” Sabran snapped her book shut. “You clearly pay no heed to the Knight of Courtesy, Mistress Duryan. Perhaps you are no true convert. Perhaps you only pay empty service to my ancestor, while you secretly hold with a false religion.”

  She had been here for only a minute, and already Ead was walking on quicksand.

  “Madam,” she said carefully, “Queen Cleolind, your ancestor, was a crown princess of Lasia.”

  “There is no need for you to remind me of that. Do you think me a halfwit?”

  “I meant no such insult,” Ead said. Sabran set her prayer book to one side. “Queen Cleolind was noble and good of heart. It was through no fault of hers that she knew nothing of the Six Virtues when she was born. I may be naïve, but rather than punishing them, surely we should pity those in ignorance and lead them to the light.”

  “Indeed,” Sabran said dryly. “The light of the pyre.”

  “If you mean to put me to the stake, madam, then I am sorry for it. I hear we Ersyris make very poor kindling. We are like sand, too used to the sun to burn.”

  The queen looked at her. Her gaze dipped to the brooch on her gown.

  “You take the Knight of Generosity as your patron.”

  Ead touched it.

  “Yes,” she said. “As one of your ladies, I give you my loyalty, Majesty. To give, one must be generous.”

  “Generosity. The same as Lievelyn.” Sabran said this almost to herself. “You may yet prove more giving than certain other ladies. First Ros insisted upon getting with child, so she was too tired to serve me, then Arbella could not walk with me, and now Kate feigns illness. I am reminded every day that none of them calls Generosity their patron.”

  Ead knew Sabran was angry, but it still took considerable restraint not to empty the wine over her head. The Ladies of the Bedchamber sacrificed a great deal to attend on the queen around the clock. They tasted her food and tried on her gowns, risking their own lives. Katryen, one of the most desirable women at court, would likely never take a companion. As for Arbella, she was seventy years old, had served both Sabran and her mother, and still would not retire.

  Ead was spared from answering by the arrival of the meal. Truyde utt Zeedeur was among the maids of honor who would present it, but she refused to look at Ead.

  Many Inysh customs had confounded her over the years, but royal meals were absurd. First, the queen was poured her choice of wine—then not one, not two, but eighteen dishes were offered to her. Wafer-thin cuts of brown meat. Currants stirred into frumenty. Pancakes with black honey, apple butter, or quail eggs. Salted fish from the Limber. Woodland strawberries on a bed of snow cream.

  As always, Sabran chose only a round of goldenbread. A nod toward it was the only indication.

  Silence. Truyde was gazing toward the window. One of the other maids of honor, looking panicked, jabbed her with her elbow. Jolted back to the task at hand, Truyde scooped up the goldenbread with a coverpane and set it on the royal plate with a curtsy. Another maid of honor served a whorl of buttersweet.

  Now for the tasting. With a sly little smile, Truyde handed Ead the bone-handled knife.

  First, Ead sipped the wine. Then she sampled the buttersweet. Both were unmeddled. Next, she cut off a piece of the bun and touched it with the tip of her tongue. A drop of the dowager would make the roof of the mouth prickle, dipsas parched the lips, and eternity dust—the rarest of poisons—gave each bite of food a cloying aftertaste.

  There was nothing but dense bread inside. She slid the dishes before the queen and handed the tasting knife back to Truyde, who wiped it once and enclosed it in linen.

  “Leave us,” Sabran said.

  Glances were exchanged. The queen usually desired amusement or gossip from the maids of honor at mealtimes. As one, they curtsied and quit the room. Ead rose last.

  “Not you.”

  She sat again.

  The sun was brighter now, filling the Royal Solarium with light. It danced in the jug of sweetbriar wine.

  “Lady Truyde seems distracted of late.” Sabran looked toward the door. “Unwell, perhaps, like Kate. I would expect such ailments to strike the court in winter.”

  “No doubt it is the rose fever, madam, no more. But Lady Truyde, I think, is more likely to be homesick,” Ead said. “Or . . . she may be sick in love, as young maids often are.”

  “You cannot yet be old enough to say such things. What is your age?”

  “Six and twenty, Majesty.”

  “Not much younger than myself, then. And are you sick in love, as young maids often are?”

  It might have sounded arch on different lips, but those eyes were as cold as the jewels at her throat.

  “I fear an Inysh citizen would find it hard to love someone who was once sworn to another faith,” Ead answered after a moment.

  It was not a light question Sabran had asked. Courting was a formal affair in Inys.

  “Nonsense,” the queen said. The sun gleamed in her hair. “I understand you are close to Lord Arteloth. He told me the two of you have exchanged gifts at every Feast of Fellowship.”

  “Yes, madam,” Ead said. “We are close. I was grieved to hear he had left the city.”

  “He will return.” Sabran gave her an appraising glance. “Did he pay court to you?”

  “No,” Ead said truthfully. “I consider Lord Arteloth a dear friend, and want no more than that. Even if I did, I am not of a fit station to wed the future Earl of Goldenbirch.”

  “Indeed. Ambassador uq-Ispad told me that your blood was base.” Sabran sipped her wine. “You are not in love, then.”

  A woman so quick to insult those beneath her must be vulnerable to flattery. “No, madam,” Ead said. “I am not here to squander time in pursuit of a companion. I am here to attend the most gracious Queen of Inys. That is more than enough.”

  Sabran did not smile, but her face softened from its stern cast.

  “Perhaps you would care to walk with me in the Privy Garden tomorrow,” she said. “That is, if Lady Arbella is still indisposed.”

  “If it gives you pleasure, Majesty,” Ead said.

  The cabin was only just large enough for two berths. A burly Ment delivered them a supper of salted beef, a thumb-sized fish apiece, and raveled bread, stale enough to splinter their teeth. Kit managed half his beef before he fled to the deck.

  Midway into his bread, Loth gave up. This was a far cry from the sumptuous offerings at court, but vile food was the least of his worries. Combe was sending him to his doom, and for naught.

  He had always known that the Night Hawk could make people vanish. People he perceived as a threat to the House of Berethnet, whether they behaved in a manner that disgraced their positions or craved more power than their due.

  Even before Margret and Ead had warned him that the court was talking, Loth had known about the rumors. Rumors that he had seduced Sabran, that he had wed her in secret. Now the Dukes Spiritual sought a foreign match for her, and the hearsay, however baseless, was an impediment. Loth was a problem, and Combe had solved him.

  There had to be some way to get word to Sabran. For now, however, he would have to concentrate on the task at hand. Learning to be a spy in Cárscaro.

  Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Loth thought of all he knew about Lord Wilstan Fynch.

  As a child, Sabran had never been close to her father. Neat and bearded, military in his bearing, Fynch had always seemed to Loth to embody the ideals of his ancestor, the Knight of Temperance. The prince consort had never been given to displays of emotion, but he had plainly cherished his family, and had made Loth and Roslain, who were closest of all to his daughter, feel that they were part of it.

  When Sabran was crowned, their relat
ionship had changed. Father and daughter often read together in the Privy Library, and he had counseled her on the affairs of the queendom. The death of Queen Rosarian had left a space in both their lives, and it was in that space that they had finally befriended one another—but that had not been quite enough for Fynch. Rosarian had been his guiding star, and without her, he had felt lost in the vastness of the Inysh court. He had asked Sabran for permission to take up residence in Yscalin as her ambassador, and had been content in that role ever since, writing to her every season. She had always looked forward to his letters from Cárscaro, where the House of Vetalda ruled over a joyful court. Loth supposed it must have been easier for Fynch to bury his grief away from the home he had shared with Rosarian.

  His final letter had been different. He had told Sabran, in as many words, that he believed the Vetalda had been involved in killing Rosarian. That was the last anyone in Inys had heard from the Duke of Temperance before rock doves had flown out from Cárscaro, declaring that Yscalin now took the Nameless One as its god and master.

  Loth meant to find out what had happened in that city. What had caused the break from Virtudom, and what had become of Fynch. Any information could be invaluable if Yscalin ever declared war on the House of Berethnet, which Sabran had long feared it would.

  He wiped his brow. Kit must be boiling like a coney on the deck. Come to think of it, Kit had been on the deck for rather a long time.

  Heaving a sigh, Loth stood. There was no lock on the door, but he supposed there was nowhere for the pirates to lug the traveling chest of garments and other effects that had been on the coach. Combe must have sent his retainers to collect them while Loth was oblivious in the Privy Chamber, sharing a quiet supper with Sabran and Roslain.

  The air was cool above. A breeze scuffed over the waves. As the crew moved hither and thither, they bellowed a song, too quick and drenched in sea cant for Loth to understand. Despite what Harlowe had said, nobody took any notice of him as he ascended to the quarterdeck.

  The Swan Strait divided the Queendom of Inys from the great continent that held the West and the South. Even in high summer, perishing winds blew through it from the Ashen Sea.

  He found Kit hanging over the side, wiping vomit from his chin. “Good evening to you, sirrah.” Loth clapped him on the back. “Did you indulge in a little pirate wine?”

  Kit was pale as a lily. “Arteloth,” he said, “I don’t think I’m at all well, you know.”

  “You need ale.”

  “I dare not ask them for it. They’ve been roaring like that for the whole time I’ve been up here.”

  “They’re singing shanties,” a husky voice said.

  Loth started. A woman in a wide-brimmed black hat was leaning against the gunwale nearby.

  “Work songs.” She tossed Kit a wineskin. “Helps the swabbers pass the time.”

  Kit twisted off the stopper. “Did you say swabbers, mistress?”

  “Them that clear the decks.”

  Going by her looks and accent, this privateer was from Yscalin. Deep olive skin, tanned and freckled. Hair like barley wine. Eyes of a clear amber, thinly outlined with black paint, the left eye underscored by a scar. She was well presented for a pirate, down to the sheen on her boots and her spotless jerkin. A rapier hung at her side.

  “If I were you, I’d be back in my cabin before it gets dark,” she said. “Most of the crew don’t care overmuch for lordlings. Plume keeps them in check, but when he sleeps, so do their good manners.”

  “I don’t believe we’ve made your acquaintance, mistress,” Kit said.

  Her smile deepened. “And what makes you think I wish to make your acquaintance, my lord nobleman?”

  “Well, you did speak to us first.”

  “Perhaps I was bored.”

  “Perhaps we’ll prove interesting.” He bowed in his extravagant way. “I am Lord Kitston Glade, court poet. Future Earl of Honeybrook, to my father’s chagrin. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  “Lord Arteloth Beck.” Loth inclined his head. “Heir of the Earl and Countess of Goldenbirch.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “Estina Melaugo. Heir to my own gray hairs. Boatswain of the Rose Eternal.”

  It was clear from Kit’s expression that he knew of this woman. Loth chose not to ask.

  “So,” Melaugo said, “you’re heading for Cárscaro.”

  “Are you from that city, mistress?” Loth enquired.

  “No. Vazuva.”

  Loth watched her drink from a glass bottle.

  “Mistress,” he said, “I wonder if you could tell us what to expect in the court of King Sigoso. We know so little about what has happened in Yscalin over the last two years.”

  “I know as much as you, my lord. I fled Yscalin, along with some others, the day the House of Vetalda announced its allegiance to the Nameless One.”

  Kit spoke again: “Did many of those who fled become pirates?”

  “Privateers, if you please.” Melaugo nodded to the ensign. “And no. Most exiles went to Mentendon or the Ersyr to start again, as best they could. But not everyone got out.”

  “Is it possible that the people of Yscalin do not all bow to the Nameless One, then?” Loth asked her. “That they are only afraid of their king, or trapped in the country?”

  “Likely. Nobody goes out now, and very few go in. Cárscaro still accepts foreign ambassadors, as evidenced by your good selves, but the rest of the country could be dead from plague, for all I know.” A curl blew across her eyes. “If you ever get out, you must tell me what Cárscaro is like now. I hear there was a great fire just before the birds flew out. Lavender fields used to grow near the capital, but they burned.”

  This was making Loth feel more uneasy than he had before.

  “I’ll confess to curiosity,” Melaugo said, “as to why your queen is sending you into the snake pit. I had thought you were a favorite of hers, Lord Arteloth.”

  “It is not Queen Sabran who sends us, mistress,” Kit said, “but the ghastly Seyton Combe.” He sighed. “He never liked my poetry, you know. Only a soulless husk could hate poetry.”

  “Ah, the Night Hawk,” Melaugo said, chuckling. “A suitable familiar for our queen.”

  Loth stilled. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Saint.” Kit looked fascinated. “A heretic as well as a pirate. Do you imply that Queen Sabran is some sort of witch?”

  “Privateer. And keep your voice down.” Melaugo glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t misunderstand me, my lords. I’ve no personal dislike of Queen Sabran, but I come from a superstitious part of Yscalin, and there is something odd about the Berethnets. Each queen only having one child, always a daughter, and they all look so similar . . . I don’t know. Sounds like sorcery to—”

  “Shadow!”

  Melaugo turned. The roar had come from the crow’s nest.

  “Another wyvern,” she said under her breath. “Excuse me.”

  She vaulted onto the ropes and climbed. Kit ran to the side. “Wyvern? I’ve never seen one.”

  “We don’t want to see one,” Loth said. His arms were prickling. “This is no place for us, Kit. Come, back below deck before—”

  “Wait.” Kit shielded his eyes. His curls flew in the wind. “Loth, do you see that?”

  Loth looked askance at the horizon. The sun was low and red, almost blinding him.

  Melaugo was clinging to the ratlines, one eye to a spyglass. “Mother of—” She lowered it, then lifted it again. “Plume, it’s— I can’t believe what I’m seeing—”

  “What is it?” the quartermaster called. “Estina?”

  “It’s a— a High Western.” Her shout was hoarse. “A High Western!”

  Those words were like a spark on kindling. Order splintered into chaos. Loth felt his legs become stone.

  High Western.

  “Ready the harpoons, the chainshot,” a Mentish woman called. “Prepare for heat! Do not engage unless it attacks!”

  When he saw
it, Loth turned cold to the marrow of his bones. He could not feel his hands or face.

  It was impossible, yet there it was.

  A wyrm. A monstrous, four-legged wyrm, over two hundred feet long from its snout to the tip of its tail.

  This was no wyverling prowling for livestock. This was a breed that had not been seen in centuries, since the last hours of the Grief of Ages. Mightiest of the Draconic creatures. The High Westerns, largest and most brutal of all the dragons, the dread lords of wyrmkind.

  One of them had woken.

  The beast glided above the ship. As it passed, Loth could smell the heat inside it, the reek of smoke and brimstone.

  The bear-trap of its mouth. The hot coals of its eyes. They wrote themselves into his memory. He had heard stories since he was a child, seen the hideous illustrations that lurked in bestiaries—but even his most harrowing nightmares had never conjured such a soul-fearing thing.

  “Do not engage,” the Ment called again. “Steady!”

  Loth pressed his back against the mainmast.

  He could not deny what his eyes could see. This creature might not have the red scales of the Nameless One, but it was of his like.

  The crew moved like ants fleeing water, but the wyrm appeared to have its mind set on another course. It soared over the Swan Strait. Loth could see the fire pulsing inside it, down the length of its throat to its belly. Its tail was edged with spines and ended in a mighty lash.

  Loth caught the gunwale to hold himself upright. His ears were ringing. Close by, one of the younger seafarers was trembling all over, standing in a dark gold pool.

  Harlowe had emerged from his cabin. He watched the High Western leave them behind.

  “You had better start praying for salvation, my lords,” he said softly. “Fýredel, the right wing of the Nameless One, appears to have woken from his sleep.”

  8

  East

  Sulyard snored. Yet another reason Truyde had been a fool to pledge herself to him. Not that Niclays would have been able to sleep even if his guest had shut up, for a typhoon had blown in.

  Thunder rumbled, making a horse whinny outside. Drunk on a single cup of wine, Sulyard slept through it all.