The Priory of the Orange Tree

by Samantha Shannon

  The jaculi growled as their small party walked away from the coach. Loth fell into step beside Kit, and they followed the servants into a high-ceilinged vestibule, where a chandelier hung. He could have sworn its candles were burning with red flames.

  Lady Priessa disappeared through a side door. Loth and Kit exchanged baffled glances.

  Two braziers flanked a grand staircase. A servant lit a torch from one of them. He led Loth and Kit through deserted corridors and passages hid behind tapestries and trick walls, up cramped and tapering stairs that left Loth feeling even more nauseated, past oil paintings of former Vetalda monarchs, and finally into a gallery with a vaulted ceiling. The servant pointed first to one door, then another, and handed each of them a key.

  “Perhaps we could have some—” Kit began, but the man had already vanished behind a tapestry. “Food.”

  “We can eat tomorrow,” Loth said. Every word echoed in this corridor. “Who else do you think is here?”

  “I am no expert on the subject of foreign ambassadors, but we must assume there are some Ments about.” Kit rubbed his grumbling stomach. “They have their fingers in every pie.”

  That was true. It was said there was no place in the world the Ments refused to go.

  “Meet me here at noonday,” Loth said. “We ought to discuss what to do.”

  Kit clapped him on the back and went into one of the chambers. Loth slotted his key into the other door.

  It took his eyes a moment to attune to the shadows in his bedchamber. The Yscals might have declared their allegiance to the Nameless One, but they clearly spared no expense in the upkeep of their ambassadors-in-residence. Nine windows lined the west-facing wall, one smaller than the others. On closer inspection, this turned out to be a door to an enclosed balcony.

  A canopy bed dominated the north end of the room. An iron candle holder stood beside it. The candles were formed of a pearlescent wax, and their flames were red. True red. His chest had been set down nearby. On the south end, he swept aside a velvet curtain to discover a stone bath, full to the brim with steaming water.

  The windows made him feel as if all Yscalin could see in. He closed the drapes and snuffed all but a handful of the candles. They released a puff of black smoke when extinguished.

  He sank into the water and lay there for a long while. When his aches had dulled, he found a cake of olive soap and set about getting the ash from his hair.

  Wilstan Fynch might have slept in this very chamber while he investigated the murder of Queen Rosarian, the woman he had loved. He might have been here when the lavender fields burned, and when the birds flew out with news that the Chainmail of Virtudom had lost a link.

  Loth poured water over his head. If someone in Cárscaro had arranged for Queen Rosarian to die, that same person might be trying to kill Sabran. To remove her before she gave Virtudom an heir. To resurrect the Nameless One.

  With a shiver, Loth rose from the bath and reached for the folded linen beside it. He used his knife to shave, leaving a patch of hair on his chin and a little on his upper lip. As he worked, his mind lingered on Ead.

  He was sure Sabran was safe with her. From the moment he had first seen her in the Banqueting House—a woman with acorn skin and watchful eyes, whose posture had been almost regal—he had sensed an inner warmth. Not the heat of wyrmfire, but something soft and golden, like the first light of a summer morning.

  Margret had been telling him for a year that he should marry Ead. She was beautiful, she made him laugh, and they could talk for hours. He had brushed his sister off—not only because the future Earl of Goldenbirch could not take a commoner as a bride, as she knew full well, but because he loved Ead as he loved Margret, as he loved Sabran. As a sister.

  He had not yet experienced the all-consuming love reserved for a companion. At thirty, he was more than old enough to be wed, and he longed to honor the Knight of Fellowship by partaking in that most sacred institution.

  Now he might never have a chance.

  A silk nightshirt was laid out on the bed, but he donned his own, crumpled from travel, before stepping on to the balcony.

  The air was cooling. Loth rested his arms on the balustrade. Below him, Cárscaro sprawled toward the sheer drop to the plateau. The glow from the lava stained every street. Loth watched a silhouette plummet from above and drink from the river of fire.

  At midnight, he gingerly climbed into the bed and drew the coverlet to his chest.

  When he slept, he dreamed his sheets were poisoned.

  Close to noonday, Kit found him sitting by his table in the shade of the balcony, gazing down at the plateau.

  “Well met, sirrah,” Loth said.

  “Ah, sirrah, ’tis a beautiful day in the land of death and evil.” Kit was carrying a trencher. “These people might worship the Nameless One, but what fine beds! I never slept better.”

  Kit could never be serious, and Loth could never help but smile at his outlook, even here. “Where did you find food?”

  “The first place I look for in any new building is the kitchen. I hand-signed at the servants until they understood that I was famished. Here.” He set the trencher on the table. “They will bring us something more filling later.”

  The board was piled with fruit and toasted nuts, a jug of straw wine and two goblets. “You ought not to have wandered off alone, Kit,” Loth said.

  “My belly waits for no man.” When he saw his expression, Kit sighed. “All right.”

  The sun was an open wound, the sky a thousand variations on pink. A pale mist hung over the plain. Loth had never seen a view quite like it. They were shielded from the brunt of the heat, but their collarbones were jeweled with sweat.

  It must have been unspeakably beautiful when the lavender still grew. Loth tried to imagine walking through the open-air corridors in the summer, warmed by a perfumed breeze.

  Was it fear or evil that had seized King Sigoso, to corrupt this place the way he had?

  “So,” said Kit, through a mouthful of almonds, “how are we to approach the Donmata?”

  “With the greatest courtesy. As far as she knows, we are here as permanent ambassadors-in-residence. I doubt she will think it suspicious if we ask what became of the last one.”

  “If they did something to Fynch, she will lie.”

  “Then we will ask for evidence that he is alive.”

  “You do not demand evidence from a princess. Her word is law.” Kit peeled a blood orange. “We are spies now, Loth. You had better stop listening to that trusting nature of yours.”

  “What shall we do, then?”

  “Blend into the court, act like good ambassadors, and find out what we can. There may be other foreign diplomats here. Someone must know something useful.” He gave Loth a sunny smile. “And if all else fails, I shall flirt with the Donmata Marosa until she opens her heart to me.”

  Loth shook his head. “Knave.”

  A rumble passed through Cárscaro. Kit caught his cup before the wine could spill.

  “What was that?”

  “A quake,” Loth said, unsettled. “Papa told me once that fire mountains can cause such things.”

  The Yscals would not have built a city here if it could be razed by a quake. Trying not to think about it, Loth took a sip of his wine, still haunted by the thought of what Cárscaro must once have been. Humming, Kit took out his quill and a small knife.

  “Poesy?” Loth asked.

  “Inspiration has yet to strike. Terror and creativity, in my experience, do not often walk hand in hand.” Kit set about sharpening the quill. “No, this is a letter. For a certain lady.”

  Loth clicked his tongue. “Why you haven’t told Kate how you feel is beyond me.”

  “Because though I am charming in person, I am Sir Antor Dale on the page.” Kit shot him an amused look. “Do you think they send their letters by bird or basilisk nowadays?”

  “Cockatrice, most likely. It combines the qualities of both.” Loth watched his friend remove an in
kwell from a pouch. “You know Combe will burn any letters we send.”

  “Oh, I have no intention of trying. If Lady Katryen never reads this, so be it,” Kit said lightly, “but when the heart grows too full, it overflows. And mine, inevitably, overflows on to a page.”

  A knock rang out in the chamber behind them. Loth glanced at Kit before he went to open the door, ready to use his baselard.

  Outside was a servant in a black doublet and breeches.

  “Lord Arteloth.” He wore a pomander. “I am come to tell you that Her Radiance, the Donmata Marosa, will see you in due course. For now, you and Lord Kitston must go to the physician, so Her Radiance may be assured that you do not carry any sickness to her door.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The last thing Loth wanted was to be prodded at by a physician with Draconic sympathies, but he doubted they had a choice.

  “Then please,” he said, “do lead the way.”

  16

  East

  The rest of the water trials passed in a haze. The night when they were told to swim against the current in the swift-flowing river. The duel with nets. Demonstrating competence in signaling to other riders. Sometimes there would be a day between them, and sometimes many days. And before Tané knew it, the final trial was on top of her.

  Midnight found her in the practice hall again, coating the blade of her sword with clove oil. The smell of it cleaved to her fingers. Her shoulders ached and her neck was rigid as a tree stump.

  This sword could win or lose her everything tomorrow. She could see her own bloodshot eyes in its flat.

  Rain drizzled from the rooftops of the school. On her way back to her quarters, she heard a muffled laugh.

  The door to a small balcony was open. Tané glanced over the balustrade. In the courtyard below, where pear trees grew, Onren and Kanperu were sitting together, heads bowed over a game board, fingers intertwined.

  “Tané.”

  She startled. Dumusa was looking out from her own quarters, dressed in a short-sleeved robe, holding a pipe. She joined Tané on the balcony and followed her gaze.

  “You must not be envious of them,” she said after a long silence.

  “I am not—”

  “Peace. I envy them too, sometimes. How easy they seem to find it. Onren, especially.”

  Tané hid her face behind her hair.

  “She excels,” she said, “with so little—” The words lodged in her throat. “With so little.”

  “She excels because she trusts in her skill. I suspect you fear that yours will slip between your fingers if you loosen your grip for even a moment,” Dumusa said. “I was born a descendant of riders. That was a great blessing, and I always wanted to prove to myself that I was worthy of it. When I was sixteen, I stopped everything but my studies. I stopped going to the city. I stopped painting. I stopped seeing Ishari. All I did was practice until I became principal apprentice. I forgot how to possess a skill. Instead, the skill possessed me. All of me.”

  Tané felt a chill.

  “But—” She hesitated. “You do not look the way I feel.”

  Dumusa blew out a mouthful of smoke.

  “I realized,” she said, “that if I am fortunate enough to become a rider, I will be expected to answer the moment Seiiki calls. I will not have days of practice beforehand. Remember, Tané, that a sword does not need to be whetted at all hours to keep it sharp.”

  “I know.”

  Dumusa gave her a look. “Then stop sharpening. And go to sleep.”

  The final trial would take place in the courtyard. Tané broke her fast early and found a spot on the benches.

  Onren came to sit beside her at dawn. They listened to the distant rumble of the thunder.

  “So,” Onren said, “are you ready?”

  Tané nodded, then shook her head.

  “Me, too.” Onren turned her face into the heavy rain. “You will ride, Tané. The Miduchi judge us based on our performance across all of the water trials, and you have done enough.”

  “This is the most important,” Tané murmured. “We will use swords more than any other weapon. If we cannot win a fight in a school—”

  “We all know how good you are with a blade. You’re going to be fine.”

  Tané twisted her hands between her knees.

  The others trickled outside. When everyone was present, the Sea General emerged. The servant beside him craned on tiptoe to hold an umbrella over his head.

  “Your final trial is with swords,” the Sea General told them all. “First, the honorable Tané, of the South House.”

  She stood.

  “Honorable Tané,” he said, “this day you will face the honorable Turosa, of the North House.”

  Turosa rose from the benches without hesitation.

  “First blood wins.”

  They walked to separate ends of the courtyard to collect their swords. Gazes locked, blades unsheathed, they walked toward each other.

  She would show him what village chaff could do.

  Their bows were small and stiff. Tané gripped her sword with both hands. All she could see was Turosa, his hair dripping, nostrils flared.

  The Sea General called out, and Tané ran at Turosa. Sword clashed on sword. Turosa shoved his face so close to hers that she could feel his breath and smell the tang of sweat on his tunic.

  “When I command the riders,” he hissed, “I will see to it that no peasant ever rides a dragon again.” A clangor of blades. “Soon you will be back in that hovel they pulled you from.”

  Tané thrust at him. He stopped her blade just shy of his waist.

  “Remind me,” he said, so only she could hear, “where it was you came from?” He shoved her sword away. “Do they even give names to shit-heap villages?”

  If he thought to provoke her by insulting the family she had never known, he would be waiting a thousand years.

  He swung at her. Tané parried, and the duel began in earnest.

  This was no dance with wooden swords. There was no lesson to be learned here, no skill to be refined. In the end, her confrontation with her rival was as quick and ruthless as having a tooth pulled.

  Her world was a torrent of rain and metal. Turosa sprang high. Tané sliced up, deflecting his downcut, and he landed in a crouch. He was on her again before she could breathe, sword flashing like a fish through water. She matched every blow until he feinted and punched her in the chin. A brutal kick to the stomach sent her sprawling.

  She should have seen that feint from leagues away. Her exhaustion had been her undoing. Through the droplets on her lashes, she glimpsed the Sea General, observing them without expression.

  “That’s right, villager,” Turosa sneered. “Stay on the ground. Just where chaff belongs.”

  Like a prisoner awaiting execution, Tané lowered her head. Turosa looked her over, as if to decide where it would hurt most to cut her. Another step brought him within reach.

  That was when her head snapped up, and she swung her legs toward Turosa, forcing him into a leap to avoid them. She impelled her body away from the ground and whirled like a windstorm back to her feet. Turosa repulsed her first blow, but she had caught him off his guard. She saw it in his eyes. His footwork turned clumsy on the wet stone, and when her blade thrummed toward him again, his arm came up too slowly to block it.

  It shaved his jaw, soft as a blade of grass.

  A heartbeat later, his sword gashed open her shoulder. She gasped as he jerked away from her, teeth bared and slick with spittle.

  The other sea guardians were straining to see. Tané watched her opponent, breathing hard.

  If she had not broken the skin, this fight was lost.

  Slowly, rubies welled from the line she had drawn. Trembling and drenched, Turosa touched one finger to his jaw and found a smear, bright as a quince blossom.

  First blood.

  “The honorable Tané of the South House,” the Sea General announced, and he was smiling, “vi
ctory is yours.”

  No words had ever sounded sweeter.

  When she bowed to Turosa, blood oozed like molten copper from her shoulder. His face wheeled from the shallows to the depths of anger. He had fallen for the trick—a trick that should have fooled no one—because he had expected weakness. As he looked her in the face, Tané knew, at last, that he would never call her village chaff again. To call her that would prove that chaff could grow taller than grass.

  The only way to save face was to treat her as his equal.

  Under the cracked-open sky, the descendant of riders bowed to her, lower than he ever had.

  17

  West

  Having been declared free of plague, Loth and Kit were admitted into the presence of the Donmata Marosa several days after their arrival. During those days, they had kept to their rooms, unable to leave with guards keeping watch in the gallery. Loth still shuddered at the memory of the Royal Physician, who had placed leeches where leeches should never be placed.

  So it was that Loth found himself walking with Kit into the cavernous throne room of the Palace of Salvation. The space was awash with courtiers and nobles, but there was no sign of Prince Wilstan.

  The Donmata Marosa, crown princess of the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin, sat on a throne of volcanic glass beneath a canopy of state. Her head was encased in a horned mask of iron, shaped like the head of a High Western. The weight of it must have been enormous.

  “Saint,” Kit whispered, so low that only Loth could hear. “She wears the face of Fýredel.”

  Guards in golden armor stood in front of the throne. The canopy showed the badge of the House of Vetalda. Two black wyvems and a sword, broken in twain.

  Not just any sword, but Ascalon. The symbol of Virtudom.

  The ladies-in-waiting had folded back their plague veils, which hung from small but ornate coronets. Lady Priessa Yelarigas stood to the right of the throne. Now her face was revealed, Loth could see her pale, freckled cheeks, her deep-set eyes, and the proud bearing of her chin.

  The purr of conversation dwindled when they stopped in front of the throne.