The Priory of the Orange Tree

by Samantha Shannon

  Sabran was in high spirits for the rest of the day. In the evening, she permitted all the ladies-in-waiting to retire so she could attend to matters of state in her Privy Library.

  Ead had inherited a double lodging from Arbella Glenn, closer to the royal apartments than her old quarters. The lodging was made up of two adjoining rooms, wood-paneled and hung with tapestries, and boasted a four-poster bed. Mullion windows looked out over the grounds.

  The servants had already lit a fire. Ead removed her riding habit and patted the sweat away with a cloth.

  A knock came on the door at eight. Outside was Tallys, the sweet young scullion.

  “Supper for you, Mistress Duryan.” She bobbed a curtsy. No matter how many times Ead had told her it was unnecessary, she always insisted. “The bread is good and hot. They say a dread frost is on its way.”

  “Thank you, Tallys.” Ead took the plate of food. “Tell me, child, how do your parents do?”

  “Things do not go so well with my mother,” Tallys admitted. “She broke her arm and cannot work for a time, and the landlord is so harsh. I send all my wages, but . . . for a scullion, it is not much.” She hastened to add, “I don’t complain, of course, mistress. I am so fortunate to work here. It’s just a hard month, is all.”

  Ead reached into her purse.

  “Here.” She handed some coins to Tallys. “That should pay the rent until high winter.”

  Tallys stared at them. “Oh, Mistress Duryan, I couldn’t—”

  “Please. I have plenty saved, and little need to spend it. Besides, are we not taught to practice generosity?”

  Tallys nodded, mouth quaking. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  When she was gone, Ead ate her supper at her table. Fresh bread, buttered ale, and a pottage garnished with fresh sage.

  Something tapped the window.

  A sand eagle sat outside, its yellow eye fixed on her. His plumage was the gold of almond butter, his wingtips darkening to chestnut. Ead hastened to the window and opened it.

  “Sarsun.”

  He hopped inside and cocked his head. She smoothed his ruffled feathers with her fingertips.

  “It has been a long time, my friend,” she said in Selinyi. “I see you avoided the Night Hawk.” He chirruped. “Hush. You’ll end up in the aviary with those silly doves.”

  He butted his head against her palm. Ead smiled and stroked his wings until he stuck out one leg. Gently, she took the scroll attached to it. Sarsun soared onto her bed.

  “By all means, make yourself comfortable.”

  He ignored her, preening.

  The scroll was unbroken. Combe could intercept anything that arrived by postrider or rock dove, but Sarsun was clever enough to elude him. Ead read the coded message.

  The Prioress grants you leave to remain in Inys until the queen is delivered of a daughter. Once news of the birth reaches us, I will come to you.

  Do not argue next time.

  Chassar had done it.

  Exhaustion lapped over her again. She dropped the letter into the fire. When she was under the covers, Sarsun burrowed into the crook of her arm like a nestling. Ead stroked his head with one finger.

  Reading that message had filled her with both sorrow and relief. An opportunity to go home had presented itself to her on a platter—yet here she was, by choice, in the same place she had longed for years to escape. On the other hand, this meant her years at court would not go to waste. She would be able to see Sabran through her childing.

  In the end, it mattered not how long she stayed. It was her destiny to take the red cloak. Nothing would alter that.

  She thought of Sabran’s cool touch on her hand. When she slept, she dreamed of a bloodred rose against her lips.

  Ead was dressed and on her way to the royal apartments by dawn, ready for the Feast of Early Autumn. Sarsun had taken off during the night. He had a long journey ahead of him.

  When she had passed the Knights of the Body and stepped into the Privy Chamber, Ead found Sabran already up. The queen was arrayed in a gown of chestnut silk with sleeves of cloth-of-gold, her hair a contrivance of topaz and plaiting.

  “Majesty.” Ead curtsied. “I did not know you had risen.”

  “The birdsong woke me.” Sabran put her book to one side. “Come. Sit with me.”

  Ead joined her on the settle.

  “I am pleased you have come,” Sabran said. “I have something of a private nature to tell you before the feast.” Her smile gave it away. “I am with child.”

  Caution was what came to Ead first. “Are you certain, Majesty?”

  “More than certain. I am long past the proper time for my courses.”

  At last. “Madam, this is wonderful,” Ead said warmly. “Congratulations. I am so very pleased for you and Prince Aubrecht.”

  “Thank you.”

  As Sabran looked down at her belly, her smile faltered. Ead watched the crease appear in her brow.

  “You must not tell anyone yet,” the queen said, recovering. “Even Aubrecht has no idea. Only Meg, the Dukes Spiritual, and my Ladies of the Bedchamber know of my condition. My councillors have agreed that we will announce it when I begin to show.”

  “When will you tell His Royal Highness?”

  “Soon. I mean to surprise him.”

  “Be sure there is a settle for him nearby when you do.”

  Sabran smiled again at that. “I will,” she said. “I shall have to be gentle with my dormouse.”

  A child would secure his position at court. He would be the happiest man alive.

  At ten of the clock, Lievelyn met the queen at the doors to the Banqueting House. A silver thaw made the grounds shine. The prince consort wore a heavy surcoat, trimmed with wolf fur, that made him seem broader than he was. He bowed to Sabran, but there, in sight of them all, she took his nape in hand and kissed him.

  Ead grew suddenly cold. She watched Lievelyn wrap his arms around Sabran and draw her flush against him.

  The maids of honor were all titters. When the couple broke apart at last, Lievelyn smiled and kissed Sabran on the brow.

  “Good morrow, Majesty,” he said, and they walked arm in arm, Sabran leaning into her companion, so their cloaks blended like ink.

  “Ead,” Margret said. “Are you well?”

  Ead nodded. The feeling in her chest had already dulled, but it had left a nameless shadow in her.

  When Sabran and Lievelyn entered the Banqueting House, a throng of courtiers rose to meet them. The royals went to the High Table with the Dukes Spiritual, while the ladies-in-waiting pared away to the benches. Ead had never seen the Dukes Spiritual so pleased. Igrain Crest was smiling, and Seyton Combe, who usually darkened every doorway he entered, looked as if he could hardly keep from rubbing his hands together.

  The Feast of Early Autumn was an extravagant affair. Black wine flowed, thick and heavy and sweet, and Lievelyn was presented with a huge rum-soaked fruit cake—his childhood favorite—which had been re-created according to a famous Mentish recipe.

  On the tables, the bounty of the season filled copper-gilt platters. White peacock with a gold-leaf beak, roasted and soaked in a honey and onion sauce, then stitched back into its feathers, so it gave an impression of life. Damsons plumped in rosewater. Apple halves in a crimson jelly. Spiced blackberry pie with a fluted crust and tiny venison tartlets. Ead and Margret made sympathetic noises as Katryen lamented the loss of her secret admirer, whose love letters had stopped coming.

  “Did Sabran tell you the news?” Katryen asked, voice low. “She wanted you both to know.”

  “Yes. Thank the Damsel for her mercies,” Margret said. “I was beginning to think I would die of irritation if one more person remarked that Her Majesty was looking very well of late.”

  Ead glanced behind her to make sure no one was eavesdropping.

  “Katryen,” she murmured, “are you quite sure Sabran missed her blood?”

  “Yes. Don’t trouble yourself, Ead.” Katryen sipped her bramble
wine. “Her Majesty will have to begin putting together a household for the princess in due course.”

  “Saint. That will set off more peacocking than poor Arbella’s death,” Margret said dryly.

  “A household.” Ead raised an eyebrow. “Does a child need its own household?”

  “Oh, yes. A queen has not the time to rear a child. Well,” Katryen added, “Carnelian the Third insisted on nursing her daughter herself, come to think of it, but it is not often done. The princess will need milk nurses, a governess, tutors, and so on.”

  “How many people will be in this household?”

  “Two hundred or so.”

  A household that large seemed excessive. Then again, everything in Inys was excessive.

  “Tell me,” Ead said, still curious, “what would happen if Her Majesty had a son?”

  Katryen tilted her head at that. “I suppose it would not matter,” she mused, “but it has never happened, not in all Berethnet history. Clearly the Saint meant for this isle to be a queendom.”

  When the dishes were finally cleared and chatter had begun, the steward tapped his staff on the floor.

  “Her Majesty,” he called, “Queen Sabran.”

  Lievelyn stood and extended a hand to his companion. She took it and rose, and the court rose with her.

  “People of the court,” she said, “we bid you welcome to the Feast of Early Autumn. The time of the harvest, loved above all by the Knight of Generosity. From this day forth, winter begins its slow approach toward Inys. It is a time that wyrms despise, for it is heat that sustains the fire within them.”

  Applause.

  “Today,” she continued, “we announce another reason to celebrate. This year, to mark the Feast of Generosity, we will be making a progress into Ascalon.”

  Murmurs rang up to the roof. Seyton Combe choked on his mulled wine.

  “During this visit,” Sabran said, her gaze taut with resolve, “we will pray at the Sanctuary of Our Lady, give alms to the poor, and comfort those whose homes and livelihoods were damaged by Fýredel. In showing ourselves to the people, we will remind them that we stand united under the True Sword, and that no High Western will break our spirits.”

  Ead looked to Lievelyn. He avoided her eyes.

  Her counsel had not been strong enough. She should have done more to hammer the danger into that copper saucepan of a head.

  He was a fool, and so was Sabran. Fools in crowns.

  “That is all.” The queen returned to her seat. “Now, I believe there is one more course.”

  Cheers erupted across the Banqueting House. At once, the servants came with yet more platters, and all concern was lost to feasting.

  Ead touched nothing else. She was no diviner, but anyone with half a wit could see that this would end in blood.

  25

  East

  Following his inglorious arrival in Ginura, Niclays Roos was an honored guest in the Moyaka household. Until the Warlord deigned to see him, he was free to do as he pleased, so long as he had his Seiikinese chaperons. Happily, Eizaru and Purumé were pleased to fulfill that role.

  The three of them joined a great throng in the streets for the festival of Summerfall, which celebrated the beginning of autumn. Many Seiikinese citizens traveled to Ginura for what was commonly agreed to be the most spectacular of the four tree festivals. Peddlers grilled bladefish over their stoves, simmered bites of sweet pumpkin in broth, and handed out hot wine and tea to keep the chill at bay. People took their meals outside, crowned with the golden leaves that whiffled like maple seeds from the branches, and when the final leaf had fallen, they watched new ones bud and spring forth, red as dawn, throughout the night.

  For Niclays, every day was a new lease of life. His friends took him for strolls across the beach. They pointed out the Grieving Orphan, the largest volcanic stack in the East, which formed a sole tooth in the mouth of the bay. They used a spyglass to watch mereswine in the sea.

  And slowly, perilously, Niclays allowed himself to dream of a future in this city. Perhaps the Seiikinese authorities would forget he existed. Perhaps, since he had been so well behaved, they would decide to let him live out the rest of his exile beyond Orisima. It was a sliver of hope, and he clung to it like a drowning sailor to flotsam.

  Panaya sent his books from Orisima with a note from Muste, who told him that his friends at the trading post gave him their warmest regards and hoped he would return soon. Niclays might have been touched had he considered any of them friends, or been interested in their regards, warm or otherwise. Now he had tasted freedom, the thought of returning to Orisima, to the same twenty faces and the same grid of streets, was intolerable.

  The Mentish ship Gadeltha docked at the landing gate, bringing with it a stack of letters from home. Niclays had received two.

  The first letter was closed with the seal of the House of Lievelyn. He fumbled it open and read the lines of neat handwriting.

  From Brygstad, Free State of Mentendon,

  by way of Ostendeur Port Authority

  Late Spring, 1005 CE

  Sir,

  I gather from my late grand-uncle’s records that you remain in a state of exile in our trading post of Orisima, and that you have petitioned for clemency from the House of Lievelyn. Having reviewed your case, I regret to conclude that I cannot give you permission to return to Mentendon. Your conduct caused some great affront to Queen Sabran of Inys, and to invite you back to court presently may serve to foster her rancor.

  If you can devise some way to appease Queen Sabran, I will be delighted to reconsider this unhappy conclusion.

  Your servant,

  Aubrecht II, High Prince of the Free State of

  Mentendon, Archduke of Brygstad, Defender of the Virtues,

  Protector of the Sovereignty of Mentendon, &c.

  Niclays crushed the letter into his hand. There must be some political reason that the new High Prince was wary of provoking Sabran. At least he was courteous, and willing to return to the matter if Niclays could find some way of pacifying Her Acrimony. Or Lievelyn himself. Even he might be tempted by the elixir of life.

  He opened the second letter, heart thumping. This one had been written over a year ago.

  From Ascalon, Queendom of Inys,

  by way of Zeedeur Custom House

  Early Summer, 1004 CE

  Dearest Uncle Niclays,

  Forgive me for not writing for some time. Duties in Upper Household keep me occupied & seldom allowed to go anywhere without a chaperon. Inysh court concerns itself most deeply with the private time of its young ladies! I pray this reaches Ostendeur before the next shipment eastward.

  I do bid you send me word how that you do in Orisima. Have been occupying myself in the meantime with remembering the books you left to me, which are presently held in the Silk Hall. I believe I have a theory & am certain the significance of a certain object has been overlooked. Will you write with all you know of the Tablet of Rumelabar? Have you an answer to its riddle?

  All my love, Truyde

  (Note to Zeedeur Custom House: I would appreciate your due haste in conferring this to Ostendeur Port Authority. Regards, your Marchioness.)

  Niclays read the words again, half-smiling, eyes hot.

  He was supposed to have received this letter long before Sulyard arrived. She might have warned him to expect the boy, but Lord Seyton Combe, the spymaster of Inys, would have seen through any code.

  He had sent replies to her earlier letters, but he suspected they had been destroyed. Exiles were not permitted to write home. Even if he had been able to reach her, he had no good tidings.

  That evening, Purumé and Eizaru took him to the river to spot night-flying herons. The day after, Niclays elected to keep to his room and ice his ankle. While he nursed an excitement-induced headache, he found himself thinking of Sulyard.

  He ought to feel shame for enjoying himself while the boy rotted in jail, especially when he believed that Niclays was finishing his quest for him
. A quest based on an unsolved riddle and the dangerous passion Truyde had inherited from Jannart.

  A passion for truth. A riddle that now refused to leave Niclays alone. At midday, he asked the servants for a writing box and painted out the words, just so he could see them on the page.

  What is below must be balanced by what is above,

  and in this is the precision of the universe.

  Fire ascends from the earth, light descends from the sky.

  Too much of one doth inflame the other,

  and in this is the extinction of the universe.

  Niclays thought back to what he had learned about the riddle at university. It was from the Tablet of Rumelabar, found many centuries ago in the Sarras Mountains.

  Ersyri miners had discovered a subterranean temple in those mountains. Stars had been carved on its ceiling, flaming trees onto its floor. A block of skystone had stood at its heart, and the words scored into it, written in the script of the first Southern civilization, had captivated academic minds the world over.

  Niclays underlined one part of the riddle and contemplated its meaning.

  Fire ascends from the earth.

  Wyrms, perhaps. The Nameless One and his followers were said to have come from the Womb of Fire in the core of the world.

  He underlined again.

  Light descends from the sky.

  The meteor shower. The one that had ended the Grief of Ages, weakened the wyrms, and granted strength to the Eastern dragons.

  Too much of one doth inflame the other, and in this is the extinction of the universe.

  A warning of disparity. This theory posited the universe as yoked to the balance of fire and starlight, weighed on a set of cosmic scales. Too much of either would tip them.

  The extinction of the universe.

  The closest the world had ever come to ending was the arrival of the Nameless One and his followers. Had some sort of imbalance in the universe created these beasts of fire?

  The sun beat hard on the back of his head. He found himself drowsing. When Eizaru woke him, his cheek was stuck to the parchment, and he felt as heavy as a sack of millet.