The Priory of the Orange Tree

by Samantha Shannon

  “Radiance,” the steward called, “I present to you two Inysh gentlemen. Here is Lord Arteloth Beck, son of the Earl and Countess of Goldenbirch, and here is Lord Kitston Glade, son of the Earl and Countess of Honeybrook. Ambassadors from the Queendom of Inys.”

  Silence fell in the throne room, followed swiftly by hissing. Loth got down on one knee and bowed his head.

  “Your Radiance,” he said, “we thank you for receiving us at your court.”

  The hissing tapered off when the Donmata raised her hand.

  “Lord Arteloth and Lord Kitston,” she said. The iron helm made her voice echo strangely. “My beloved father and I bid you welcome to the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin. My sincere apologies for delaying this audience—I had business elsewhere.”

  “You need not justify it, Radiance,” was all Loth said. “You have the right to see us at your pleasure.” He cleared his throat. “Lord Kitston has our letters of credence, if you will accept them.”

  “Of course.”

  Lady Priessa nodded to a servant, who took the letters from Kit.

  “When the Duke of Courtesy wrote to my father, we were delighted that Inys wishes to strengthen its diplomatic ties to Yscalin,” the Donmata continued. “We would hate to think that Queen Sabran would endanger our long friendship over . . . religious differences.”

  Religious differences.

  “Speaking of Sabran, it has been such a long time since I last heard from her,” the Donmata remarked. “Tell me, is she yet with child?”

  A muscle flinched beneath Loth’s eye. That she could sit beneath that blasphemous device and proclaim friendship to Sabran was repulsive.

  “Her Majesty is not wed, madam,” Kit said.

  “But soon.” She laid a hand on each arm of her throne. When neither of them answered her, she said, “I think you do not yet know the happy tidings, my lords. Sabran is lately promised to Aubrecht Lievelyn, High Prince of the Free State of Mentendon. My one-time betrothed.”

  Loth could only stare at her.

  Of course, he had known Sabran would eventually choose a companion—a queen had no choice in that—but he had always assumed that it would be someone from Hróth, the more established of the two other countries in Virtudom. Instead she had chosen Aubrecht Lievelyn, grand-nephew to the late Prince Leovart, who had also courted Sabran despite the decades between them.

  “Sadly,” the Donmata said, “I was not asked to attend the ceremony.” She leaned back. “You look troubled, Lord Arteloth. Come, speak your mind. Is the Red Prince not worthy of bedding your mistress?”

  “Queen Sabran’s heart is a private matter,” Loth bit out. “It is not to be discussed in such a place as this.”

  Laughter shattered the hush in the throne room, making his spine tingle. The Donmata joined in merrily from behind her terrible mask. “Her Majesty’s heart may be a private matter, but her bed is not. After all, they say the day the Berethnet bloodline ends, the Nameless One will return to us. If she means to keep him bound, had Sabran better not get on with the business of opening her . . . country to Prince Aubrecht?”

  More laughter.

  “I pray the Berethnet bloodline continues to the end of time,” Loth said, before he quite knew what he was doing, “for it stands between us and chaos.”

  In one smooth movement, the guards unsheathed their rapiers. The laughter stopped.

  “Careful, Lord Arteloth,” the Donmata said. “Do not say anything that could be construed as speaking ill of the Nameless One.” She held a hand toward the guards, who put away their blades. “Do you know, I heard tell that you were to become prince consort. Did you prove too low to love a queen?” Before he could protest, she clapped. “Never mind. We can remedy your lack of companion here in Yscalin. Musicians! Play the thirty turns! Lady Priessa will dance with Lord Arteloth.”

  At once, Lady Priessa stepped down to the marble floor. Loth steeled himself and walked toward her.

  The dance of thirty turns had once been taught in many courts. It had been outlawed in Inys by Jillian the Fifth, who had deemed it lewd, but later queens had been more lenient. Most courtiers learned it in one way or another.

  Lady Priessa curtsied as the consort struck up a sprightly tune. Loth bowed to his partner before they both turned to face the Donmata and took hands.

  At first his legs moved stiffly. Lady Priessa was light on her feet. He skipped in a circle about her, never letting his heels touch the floor.

  She shadowed him. Hither and thither they pranced and sprang, side to side and face to face—then the music surged, and with one hand on the small of her back and the other on her waist, Loth raised his partner off the floor. Over and over he lifted her, until his arms ached and sweat welled on his face and nape.

  He could hear Lady Priessa catching her breath. A coil of dark hair came loose as they spun around each other, slowing with each step, until at last they joined hands to face the Donmata Marosa again.

  Something crunched between their palms. Loth dared not look at her as he took whatever she had slipped into his hand. The Donmata and her court applauded.

  “You are tired, Lord Arteloth,” came the voice from the mask. “Was Lady Priessa too heavy for you?”

  “I think the gowns in Yscalin weigh more than the ladies, Radiance,” Loth said, breathing hard.

  “Oh, no, my lord. It is the ladies, the gentlemen, all. Our hearts are heavy with grief that the Nameless One has not yet returned to guide us.” The Donmata rose. “A long and peaceful night to you.” The helm tilted. “Unless there is anything you wish to ask me.”

  Loth was painfully aware of the paper in his hand, but this was an opportunity.

  “One thing, Radiance.” He cleared his throat. “There is another ambassador-in-residence at your court, who has served Queen Sabran here for many years. Wilstan Fynch, the Duke of Temperance. I was wondering where in the palace he lodges, so we might speak to him.”

  No one moved or spoke.

  “Ambassador Fynch,” the Donmata finally said. “Well, Lord Arteloth, you and I are both in the dark on that front. His Grace left several weeks ago, heading for Córvugar.”

  “Córvugar,” Loth echoed. It was a port in the far south of Yscalin. “Why would he go there?”

  “He said he had business elsewhere, the nature of which he did not disclose. I am surprised he did not write to Sabran to tell her.”

  “I am also surprised, Your Radiance. In fact,” Loth said, “I find it difficult to believe.”

  There was a brief silence as his implication settled over the throne room.

  “I hope, Lord Arteloth,” the Donmata said, “that you are not accusing me of lying.”

  The courtiers had pressed closer. Like hounds with the scent of blood. Kit gripped Loth by the shoulder, and he closed his eyes.

  If they were ever to find out the truth, they had to survive this court, and to survive, they would have to play along with its rules.

  “No, Your Radiance,” he said. “Of course not. Forgive me.”

  Without speaking again, the Donmata Marosa glided out of the throne room with her ladies.

  The courtiers began to murmur. Jaw clenched, Loth turned his back on the line of guards and strode through the doors, Kit hurrying at his heels.

  “She could have had your tongue ripped out for that,” his friend muttered. “Saint, man, what possessed you to all but accuse a princess of lying in her own throne room?”

  “I cannot stomach it, Kit. The blasphemy. The deceit. The barefaced contempt for Inys.”

  “You can’t let them see that their taunting has worked. Your patron is the Knight of Fellowship. At least give these people the impression of that virtue.” Kit caught his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “Arteloth, listen to me. We are no use to Inys dead.”

  Sweat was beading on his face, and his pulse was distinct in his neck. Loth had never seen him look this worried.

  “The Knight of Courtesy is your patron, Kit.” Loth sighed. “Let us
hope she will help me to mask my intentions.”

  “Even with her help, it will not be easy.”

  Kit walked to the windows of the gallery.

  “I masked my anger with my father all my life,” he said softly. “I learned to smile as he sneered at my poetry. As he called me a hedonist and a milksop. As he cursed his lack of other heirs, and cursed my poor mother for not giving them to him.” He breathed in. “You helped me to do that, Loth. For as long as I had someone I could be myself with, I could bear to be someone else with him.”

  “I know,” Loth murmured. “And I promise you that from now on, I will show my true face only to you.”

  “Good.” Kit turned back to him with a smile. “Have faith, as you always do, that we will survive this. Queen Sabran is to be wed. Our exile will not be long.” He clapped Loth on the shoulder. “In the meantime, let me find us some supper.”

  They parted ways. Only when Loth had secured the door to his chamber did he look at the scrap of parchment Priessa Yelarigas had pressed into his hand.

  The Privy Sanctuary at three of the clock.

  The door is beside the library. Come alone.

  The Privy Sanctuary. Now the House of Vetalda had abandoned the Six Virtues, it would have been left to gather dust.

  This could be a trap. Perhaps Prince Wilstan had received a note like this before he disappeared.

  Loth ran his palms over his head. The Knight of Courage was with him. He would see what Lady Priessa had to say.

  Kit returned at eleven that night with lamb drenched in wine, a block of spiced cheese, and plaits of olive bread with garlic. They sat on the balcony to eat while the torches of Cárscaro flickered below.

  “What I would not pay for a food-taster,” Loth said, picking through the meal.

  “Tastes superb to me,” Kit said, his mouth full of oil-dipped bread. He wiped his mouth. “Now, we must assume that Prince Wilstan is not sunning himself in Córvugar. Nobody with a wit goes to Córvugar. Nothing there but graves and crows.”

  “You think His Grace is dead?”

  “I fear it.”

  “We must know for certain.” Loth glanced toward the door and lowered his voice. “Lady Priessa passed me a note during the dance, asking me to meet her tonight. Perhaps she has something to tell me.”

  “Or perhaps she has a dagger, and means to introduce it to your back.” Kit raised an eyebrow. “Wait. You’re not going, are you?”

  “Unless you have any other leads, I must. And before you ask, she stipulated that I must go alone.”

  Kit grimaced and drank. “The Knight of Courage has lent you his sword, my friend.”

  Somewhere in the mountains, a wyvern screamed a war cry. A deathly chill scraped through Loth.

  “So,” Kit said, and cleared his throat, “Aubrecht Lievelyn. The former betrothed of our wyrm-headed Donmata.”

  “Aye.” Loth gazed at the starless firmament. “Lievelyn seems a respectable choice. From what I’ve heard, he is kind and virtuous. He will make Sab a fine companion.”

  “Doubtless, but now she will have to marry him without her dearest friend beside her.”

  Loth nodded, lost in memory. He and Sabran had always promised that when they wed, they would give each other away. That he would miss the ceremony was the final twist of the knife.

  Seeing his face, Kit let out a theatrical sigh. “Pity us both,” he said. “I made a solemn promise to myself that if Queen Sabran ever married, I would ask Kate Withy to dance with me and unmask myself as the man who has been sending her lovelorn poems these past three years. Now I shall never discover if I have the mettle.”

  Loth allowed Kit to distract him while they finished their supper. Fortunate indeed that his friend had come with him on this journey, or he would have gone mad by now.

  At midnight, the palace grew quiet as the Yscals began to retire. Kit returned to his chamber after exacting a promise that Loth would knock on his door on his return from meeting the lady.

  A bell tolled somewhere in Cárscaro every hour. Close to three of the clock, Loth rose and slid his baselard into the sheath at his side. He took a red-flamed candle from one of the holders and left the colonnade.

  The Library of Isalarico formed the heart of the Palace of Salvation. As Loth walked toward its doors, he almost missed the corridor on his left. He approached the door at its end, found the key in its lock, and stepped into the darkness of the Privy Sanctuary.

  The glow from his candle flickered on a vaulted ceiling. Prayer books and broken statues were strewn across the floor. A portrait of Queen Rosarian was among the ruins, the face knifed almost beyond recognition. All evidence of Virtudom had been stashed in here and locked away.

  A figure stood before the stained-glass window at the end of the sanctuary. She held a candle with a natural flame. When he was close enough to touch her, Loth broke the silence.

  “Lady Priessa.”

  “No, Lord Arteloth.” She lowered her hood. “You look upon a princess of the West.”

  In the clean flame of her candle, her features were made plain to him. Brown skin and dark, heavy brows. An eagle nose. Her hair was black velvet, so long that it reached past her elbows, and her eyes were such a striking amber that they looked like topaz. The eyes of the House of Vetalda.

  “Donmata,” Loth murmured.

  She held his gaze.

  The sole heir of King Sigoso and the late Queen Sahar. He had seen Marosa Vetalda once before, when she had come to Inys to celebrate the thousand-year anniversary of the Foundation of Ascalon. She had still been engaged to Aubrecht Lievelyn then.

  “I don’t understand.” He tightened his grip on the candle. “Why are you dressed as your lady-in-waiting?”

  “Priessa is the only person I trust. She lends me her livery so I can move about the palace undetected.”

  “Were you the one who came to collect us from Perunta?”

  “No. That was Priessa.” When Loth started to speak, she held a gloved finger to her lips. “Listen well, Lord Arteloth. Yscalin does not only worship the Nameless One. We are also under Draconic rule. Fýredel is the true king of Yscalin, and his spies lurk everywhere. It was why I had to act the way I did in the throne room. It is all a performance.”

  “But—”

  “You seek the Duke of Temperance. Fynch is dead, and has been for months. I sent him to carry out a task for me, in the name of Virtudom, but . . . he never returned.”

  “Virtudom.” Loth stared at her. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want your help, Lord Arteloth. I want you to do for me what Wilstan Fynch could not.”

  Summer was on its way out. A chill was on the breeze, and the days were growing shorter. In the Privy Library, Margret had shown Ead a knot of ladybeetles nestled in the scrollwork of a bookshelf, and they had known it was almost time to travel downriver.

  A day later, Sabran had decreed that the court would move to Briar House, one of the oldest royal palaces in Inys. Built during the reign of Marian the Second, it sprawled in the outskirts of Ascalon and backed onto the ancient hunting ground of Chesten Forest. The court usually journeyed to it in the autumn, but since Sabran had elected to marry Lievelyn in its sanctuary, it would take up residence there earlier than usual.

  The moving of the court was always a chaos of folding and packing. Ead had departed with Margret and Linora in one of many coaches. Their possessions, locked in trunks, had followed.

  Sabran had ridden with Lievelyn in a coach with gilded wheels. As the procession trundled down Berethnet Mile—the sweeping thoroughfare that divided the capital—the people of Ascalon had waved and cheered for their queen and their soon-to-be prince consort.

  Briar House was cosier than Ascalon Palace. Its windows were forest glass, its corridors laid with honey-colored stone in a checkered pattern, and its walls blackbrick, which held in warmth like nothing else. Ead liked it well.

  Two days after the court had arrived, she found herself at a dance in the can
dlelit Presence Chamber. Tonight, the queen had told her chamberers and maids of honor to go and enjoy themselves while she played cards with her Ladies of the Bedchamber.

  A viol consort played gentle music. Ead sipped her mulled wine. It was strange, but she was almost sorry that she was here, and not with the queen. The Privy Chamber at Briar House was inviting, with its bookshelves and fireplace and Sabran playing the virginals. Her music had grown melancholy as the days went by, her laughter tapering into silence.

  Ead looked to the other side of the room. Lord Seyton Combe, the Night Hawk, was watching her.

  She turned away as if she had not seen him, only for him to approach. Like a shadow crossing a patch of sunlight.

  “Mistress Duryan,” he said. He wore a livery collar with a pendant shaped like a book of manners. “Good evening.”

  Ead dipped a small curtsy and spruced her face into a mask of indifference. She could bite down her loathing, but she would give him no smiles. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

  There was a long silence. Combe studied her with his peculiar gray eyes.

  “I have a sense,” he said, “that you do not think well of me, Mistress Duryan.”

  “I do not think of you often enough to have formed any opinion of you, Your Grace.”

  The corner of his mouth flinched. “A fine hit.”

  She made no apology.

  A page offered them wine, but Combe refused it with a gesture. “Do you not partake, my lord?” Ead asked civilly, even as she imagined stretching him on one of his own racks.

  “Never. My ears and eyes must always be open for danger to the crown, and drink works hard to close them both.” Combe softened his voice. “Whether you think of me or not, I wanted to reassure you that you have a friend in me at court. Others may whisper about you, but I see that Her Majesty values your counsel. As she values mine.”

  “That is kind of you to say.”

  “Not kind. Merely truth.” He made a polite bow. “Excuse me.”

  He walked away, parting the crowd, and Ead was left wondering. Combe did nothing without purpose. Perhaps he had talked to her because he needed a new intelligencer. Perhaps he thought she could wring knowledge about the Ersyr from Chassar and pass it on to him.