The Priory of the Orange Tree

by Samantha Shannon

  “Another missing face. Loth and Father . . . and Bella, too. Loyal Bella, who served three queens.” Sabran closed her eyes. “It bodes ill that she died so near to this day. In the bed where—”

  “Sabran,” Roslain said, “this is your wedding night. You must not have these dark thoughts, or they will taint the seed.”

  Ead emptied the pan back into the hearth. She wondered if the Inysh knew anything useful about childing, or if their physicians dealt in naught but guesswork.

  As the hour approached, the queen grew quiet. Roslain whispered guidance in her ear, and Katryen combed every petal from her hair.

  They dressed her in the nightgown and a fur-lined rail. Katryen lifted her hair from under the collar.

  “Ead,” Sabran said as they faced the door, “is this how it is done in the Ersyr?”

  A furrow had appeared in her brow. The same furrow that had been there when she had described her nightmare. Ead found herself wanting to smooth it.

  “Something like this, madam,” she said.

  Somewhere outside, a firework whistled skyward. The celebrations were beginning in the city.

  They led Sabran from the Withdrawing Chamber. She was shivering, but she kept her head up.

  A queen could not show fear.

  When the doors of the Royal Bedchamber came into sight, Roslain and Katryen pressed closer to their sovereign. Sir Tharian Lintley and two of his Knights of the Body, who had been standing guard, now knelt before her.

  “Your Majesty,” Lintley said, “for the sake of courtesy, I cannot guard your chamber on this, your wedding night. I entrust your protection to your companion, and your Ladies of the Bedchamber.”

  Sabran laid a hand on his head. “Good Sir Tharian,” she said, “the Knight of Courtesy smiles on you.”

  He stood, and he and his knights bowed to her. As they left, Katryen took the key from Roslain and opened the doors.

  At the foot of the bed, the Arch Sanctarian stood with a prayer book in hand, murmuring. Aubrecht Lievelyn waited with his Grooms of the Inner Chamber. His nightshirt, edged with blackwork, fell open to show his collarbones.

  “Your Majesty,” he said. In the firelight, his eyes were inkwells.

  Sabran gave just the barest dip of her head. “Your Royal Highness.”

  The Arch Sanctarian made the sign of the sword.

  “The Saint blesses this bed. Let it bear the fruit of his unending vine.” He closed his prayer book. “And now it is time for friends to take their leave, so that these new friends might come to know each other. Saint give us all goodnight, for he watches us in darkness.”

  “He watches us in darkness,” came the echo. Ead did not say it with the others.

  The ladies and the grooms all curtsied. As Roslain straightened, Sabran whispered, “Ros.”

  Roslain looked her in the eye. Out of sight of the men, she grasped Sabran so tightly by the hand that both their fingers blanched.

  Katryen led Roslain out. As Ead followed them back through the door, she looked back at the queen, and their gazes touched.

  For the first time, she saw Sabran Berethnet for who she was beneath the mask: a young and fragile woman who carried a thousand-year legacy on her shoulders. A queen whose power was absolute only so long as she could produce a daughter. The fool in Ead wanted to take her by the hand and get her away from this room, but that fool was too much of a coward to act. She left Sabran alone, like all the others had.

  Margret and Linora were waiting. The five of them gathered in the dark.

  “Did she seem all right?” Margret asked softly.

  Roslain ran her hands down the front of her gown. “I don’t know.” She paced back and forth. “For the first time in my life, I cannot tell.”

  “It is natural for her to be nervous.” Katryen spoke in a whisper. “How did you feel with Cal?”

  “That was different. Cal and I were betrothed as children. He was not a stranger,” Roslain said. “And the fate of nations did not rest upon the fruit of our union.”

  They kept their vigil, ears pricked for any changes in the Royal Bedchamber. When quarter of an hour had passed, Katryen pressed her ear to the doors.

  “He is talking about Brygstad.”

  “Let them talk,” Ead said, keeping her voice low. “They hardly know one another.”

  “But what will we do if the union is not consummated?”

  “Sabran will see it done.” Roslain looked into nothing. “She knows it is her bounden duty.”

  The waiting continued for some time. Linora, who had settled on the floor, dozed off against the wall. Finally, Roslain, who had been still as stone, began to pace again.

  “What if—” She wrung her fingers. “What if he is a monster?”

  Katryen stepped toward her. “Ros—”

  “You know, my lady mother told me that Sabran the Eighth was ill-used by her companion. He drank and whored and said cruel things to her. She never told anyone. Not even her ladies-in-waiting. Then, one night”—she pressed a hand flat to her stomacher—“the despicable knave struck her. Cracked her cheekbone and broke her wrist—”

  “And he was executed for it.” Katryen gathered her close. “Listen, now. Nothing is going to happen to Sab. I have seen how Lievelyn is with his sisters. He has the heart of a lambkin.”

  “He might be the very picture of a lambkin,” Ead said, “but monsters often have soft faces. They know how to mask themselves.” She looked them both in the eye. “We will watch her. We will listen well. Remember why we wear blades as well as jewels.”

  Roslain held her gaze, and slowly she nodded. A moment later, so did Katryen. Ead saw then that they would do anything for Sabran. They would take a life, or lay down theirs. Anything.

  At the turn of the hour, something changed in the Royal Bedchamber. Linora stirred awake and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Ead moved closer to the door. Thick as it was, she could hear enough to understand well what was happening within. When it was over, she nodded to the Ladies of the Bedchamber.

  Sabran had done her duty.

  In the morning, Lievelyn left the Royal Bedchamber at just past nine of the clock. Only when the Little Door had closed behind him could the ladies-in-waiting go to their queen.

  Sabran lay in bed, the sheets gathered over her breasts. She or Lievelyn had opened the curtains, but the sky was overcast, offering scant light.

  She looked over her shoulder when they entered. Roslain rushed to her side.

  “Are you well, Majesty?”

  “Yes.” Sabran sounded tired. “I believe I am, Ros.”

  Roslain pressed a kiss to her hand.

  When Sabran rose, Katryen was there at once with a mantle. While Ead stepped toward the bed with Margret and Linora, the two Ladies of the Bedchamber guided Sabran to the chair beside the fire.

  “Today, I will keep to my apartments.” Sabran tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I have a hankering for fruit.”

  “Lady Linora,” Katryen said, “fetch Her Majesty some blackberries and pears. And a cup of caudle, if you please.”

  Linora left, looking peeved to be dismissed. As soon as the door shut, Roslain knelt in front of Sabran, making her skirts puff around her.

  “Oh, Sab, I was so—” She shook her head. “Was everything well with His Royal Highness?”

  “Perfectly,” Sabran said.

  “Truly?”

  “Truly. It felt strange, but His Royal Highness was . . . attentive.” She placed a hand on her belly. “Might I be with child already?”

  A pregnancy was unlikely from one night, but the Inysh knew little of the body and its workings. “You must wait until the usual time of your courses,” Roslain said as she rose, always forbearing. “If no blood comes, you are with child.”

  “Not necessarily,” Ead said. When Sabran and both Ladies of the Bedchamber looked at her, she bobbed a curtsy. “Sometimes the body is a trickster, Majesty. They call it a false pregnancy.” Margret nodded at t
his. “It is hard to be sure until the child quickens.”

  “But of course,” Katryen added, “we have every faith that you will be with child very soon.”

  Sabran held the arms of her chair.

  “Then I should lie with Aubrecht again,” she said. “Until I am sure.”

  “A child will come when the time is right.” Roslain dropped a kiss on her head. “For now, you must think only to make your marriage a happy one. Perhaps you and Prince Aubrecht could take a honey month. Glowan Castle is lovely at this time of year.”

  “I cannot leave the capital,” Sabran said. “Not with a High Western on the wing.”

  “Let us not speak of High Westerns.” Roslain smoothed her hair. “Not now.”

  Margret rose to the occasion. “Since we are seeking a new subject,” she said, a teasing sparkle in her eye, “will you tell us about your wedding night, Ros?”

  Katryen tittered, and Roslain smiled a little as Sabran gave her a knowing look.

  Linora returned with the fruit as Roslain recounted her marriage to Lord Calidor Stillwater. When the bed was made, they all moved to the Withdrawing Chamber, where Sabran sat beside the washbasin. She was silent while Katryen worked creamgrail into her hair and gave her rosewater to rinse her mouth. At her request, Margret played the virginals.

  “Mistress Duryan,” Katryen said, “help rinse Her Majesty’s hair, if you please. I must go to the Lord Chamberlain.”

  “Of course.”

  Katryen scooped up the wicker basket and left. Ead, in the meantime, joined Roslain at the washbasin.

  She poured water from the ewer, washing away the sweet-smelling lather. As she reached for the linen, Sabran caught her wrist.

  Ead grew very still. An Ordinary Chamberer did not have leave to touch the queen, and this time Roslain had made no promises to overlook it.

  “The rose smelled beautiful, Mistress Duryan.”

  Sabran slid her fingers between hers. Thinking she meant to say more, Ead leaned down to hear—but instead, Sabran Berethnet kissed her on the cheek.

  Her lips were soft as swansdown. Gooseflesh whispered all over Ead, and she fought the need to let out all her breath.

  “Thank you,” Sabran said. “It was generous.”

  Ead glanced at Roslain, who looked stricken.

  “It was my pleasure, madam,” she said.

  Outside, the grounds were wreathed in mist. Rain slithered down the clouded windows of the Withdrawing Chamber. The queen reclined into her seat as if it were her throne.

  “Ros,” she said, “when Kate returns, bid her go back to the Lord Chamberlain. She will tell him that Mistress Ead Duryan has been raised to the position of Lady of the Bedchamber.”

  II

  Declare I Dare Not

  Consider the way she had to go,

  Think of the hungry snare,

  The net she herself had woven,

  Aware or unaware …

  —Marion Angus

  23

  South

  The hook of the ice staff bit into snow, and Lord Arteloth Beck bowed his head against the wind that bellowed through the Spindles. Beneath his gloves, his fingers were as red as if he had dipped them in madder. Draped over his shoulder was the carcass of a mountain ewe.

  The tears had frozen on his cheeks for days, but now the cold had entered him. He could not think of Kit for long when every step was agony. A mercy from the Saint.

  Night had fallen. Snow starched his beard. He crossed a rill of lava, which oozed from a cleft in the mountainside, and crawled into the cave, where he coasted in and out of sleep. When he had the strength, he forced himself to arrange the firewood and kindling he had gathered. He struck the flint and blew, urging the flame to grow. Then, steeling his nerves, he set about excoriating the ewe. When he had skinned his first animal on the third night, he had vomited and sobbed himself hoarse. Now his hands were well versed in the motions of survival.

  Once it was done, he fashioned himself a spit. He had feared, at first, that the wyrms would see his fires and fly to them like moths to a taper, but they never had.

  He cleaned his hands in the snow outside the cave, then heaped more of it over the blood, muffling the scent. In his shelter, he tore into the mutton and beseeched the Knight of Courtesy to look away. Once he had eaten as much as he could and stripped the remaining edible parts, Loth buried the carcass and sheathed his hands in gloves again. The sight of his red-tipped fingers made him queasy.

  The rash was already crawling down his back—at least, he thought it was. He had no way of knowing if the itch was real, or his imagination. The Donmata Marosa had not told him exactly how long he had, doubtless to stop him counting down the days.

  Chilled, he returned to the fire and cushioned his head on his pack. He would rest for a few hours and strike out again.

  As he lay there, swaddled in his cloak, he checked the compass that hung from a cord around his neck. The Donmata had instructed him to move southeast until he reached the desert. He would cross it to the Ersyri capital of Rauca and join a caravan to Rumelabar, where Chassar uq-Ispad lived on a vast estate. Ead had grown up there as his ward.

  It would be a hard journey, and if he meant to avoid joining the afflicted, he would have to make better time. There was no map in his pack, but he had discovered a purse of gold and silver suns. Each coin bore the image of Jantar the Splendid, King of the Ersyr.

  Loth tucked the compass back into his shirt. A fever torched his brow. Ever since his hands had flushed, his dreams had left him drenched in sweat. He dreamed of Kit, entombed in bloodstained glass, trapped forever between one world and the next. He dreamed of Sabran in her childbed, dying, and his being powerless to stop it. And he dreamed, inexplicably, of the Donmata Marosa dancing in Ascalon, before she had been yoked to her tower, at the mercy of the manikin her father had become.

  He came around to a rustling at the mouth of the cave. Ears pricked, he lay still and waited.

  Talon rang on stone. The fire had dwindled to a dusting of embers, but there was just enough light for Loth to catch a glimpse of the monstrosity.

  Bone-white plumage and scaled pink legs. Three toes on each foot. A comb of flesh above a beak. Loth had never laid eyes on anything so hideous, so wrong. He called on the Knight of Courage, but all he found was a pit of dread.

  It was a cockatrice.

  A guttural sound clacked from deep in its throat, and wattle slobbered. Its eyes were two blood blisters in its head. Unmoving in the shadows, Loth observed its torn and bloodied wing and the dirt across its plumage. A slug of a tongue rasped over the lesions.

  Butterfingered with fear, Loth eased the strap of his pack across his chest and took hold of the ice staff. As the cockatrice licked its wounds, he drew his sword and crept toward the mouth of the cave, cleaving to the closest wall.

  The cockatrice jerked up its head. It let out a deafening screech and clawed itself upright. Loth charged forward and hurdled its tail, and then he ran as he never had, out of the cave and down the slopes, boots scudding on ice. In his blind haste, he lost his footing and rolled, holding on to his pack as if it were the hand of the Saint himself.

  Talons punched into his shoulders from above. He shouted as the ground tumbled away. His sword slipped from his grasp, but he clung to the staff by his fingertips.

  The cockatrice flapped skyward, over a ravine. Its body listed toward its broken wing. Loth kicked and thrashed until he realized, through the fumes of panic, that the cockatrice was all that kept him from a fatal plunge. He let himself fall limp in its clutches, and it crowed in triumph.

  Solid ground lurched up to greet them. The moment the talons relaxed, Loth flung out his shoulder and rolled. The collision jarred every bone in his body.

  The beast had taken him to the summit of a low mountain. Panting, Loth shoved off the ground and snatched up the ice staff. He had often hunted with Sabran on horseback, but he had not been the quarry then.

  A scaled white tail caught h
im hard across the midriff. He flew backward and cracked his head against a burl of rock, belly clenched in protest, but kept hold of his weapon.

  Let him die here if he must, but he would take this monster with him.

  Sick from the blow, he thrust out the staff. The cockatrice stamped its feet, raised its hackle feathers, and thundered toward him. Loth hurled the ice staff like a spear. The cockatrice flattened itself to avoid it, and his only weapon skittered into the ravine.

  This time, the swing from its tail almost threw Loth over the precipice. The cockatrice bore down on him with a shudder of wet clucks. Talons click-clicked. He knotted himself into a ball and clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. Warmth soaked into his breeches.

  A heavy foot crashed down on his back. A beak savaged his cloak. He tried, as a sob heaved through him, to cling on to a kernel of joy. The first memory that came to him was the day Margret was born, and how lovely she had been, with her huge eyes and tiny hands. His dances with Ead at every Feast of Fellowship. Hunting from dawn until dusk with Sabran. Sitting in the Royal Library with Kit, reading his poems back to him.

  A new sound came, and the foot was gone. Loth cracked open his eyes to see the cockatrice blundering like a sodden-witted giant. It was fighting off another creature, furred where the cockatrice was scaled and feathered. The Draconic beast yawped and shrieked and lashed its tail, but its labors were in vain—the newcomer ripped out its throat.

  The cockatrice crumpled. Blood throbbed from its carcass. Its vanquisher let out a bark and shunted it into the canyon.

  Now it was still, Loth could see what his savior was. It had the shape of a mongoose, with a sweep of tail, coated in alder-brown fur that paled to white around its paws and muzzle—but it was giant, big as a Northern bear. Its chops were dark with gore.

  An ichneumon. The natural archenemy of wyrms. They were the champions of many an Inysh legend, but he had never dreamed that they still existed.

  The Saint had met one of these creatures on the road to Inys from Lasia. It had carried the Damsel on its back when she was too tired to carry on.