The Priory of the Orange Tree

by Samantha Shannon

  By the time dusk fell, they lay entwined in front of the fire, heavy-eyed and slippery with sweat. Jannart skimmed his fingers through Niclays’s hair.

  “Clay,” he murmured, “I must go away for a while.”

  Niclays looked up. “What?”

  “You wonder what I do in my study all day,” Jannart said. “A few weeks ago, I inherited a fragment of text from my aunt, who was Viceroy of Orisima for forty years.”

  Niclays sighed. Once Jannart was in pursuit of a mystery, he was like a crow on a carcass, driven by his nature to pick every bone clean. As Niclays craved alchemy and wine, Jannart craved the restoration of knowledge.

  “Do tell me more,” Niclays said, as gamely as he could.

  “The fragment is many centuries old. I almost fear to handle it in case it falls apart. According to her journal, my aunt received it from a man who told her to carry it far from the East and never bring it back.”

  “How mysterious.” Niclays couched his head on his arms. “What has this to do with your going away?”

  “I cannot read the text. I must go to the University of Ostendeur to see if anyone knows the language. I think it is an ancient form of Seiikinese, but something about the characters sits oddly with me. Some are larger, others smaller, and they are spaced in a strange manner.” His gaze was distant. “There is a hidden message in it, Clay. Intuition tells me that it is a vital piece of history. Something of more importance than anything I have studied before. I must understand it. I have heard of a library that might help me do that.”

  “Where is this place, exactly?” Niclays asked. “Is it part of the University?”

  “No. It is . . . rather isolated. A few miles from Wilgastrōm.”

  “Oh, Wilgastrōm. Thrilling.” It was a sleepy town on the River Lint. No wyverns there. “Well, come back soon. The moment you leave, Ed tries to involve me in hunting or battledore or some other pastime that involves talking to courtiers.”

  Jannart pressed closer. “You will survive.” His smile faded and, just for a moment, there was darkness in his eyes. “I would never leave you without reason, Clay. On my oath.”

  “I will hold you to it, Zeedeur.”

  There existed a realm between dreaming and waking, and Niclays was imprisoned in it. As he stirred, a tear squeezed from the corner of his eye.

  Rain dusted his face. He was in a rowing boat, swayed like an infant in a cradle. Figures hunkered around him, trading words, and a fearsome thirst blazed in his throat.

  Dim memories swam at the back of his mind. Hands dragging him. Food being shoveled between his lips, almost choking him. A cloth over his nose and mouth.

  He groped for the side of the boat and retched. All around the vessel were green waves, clear as forest glass.

  “Saint—” His voice was dry. “Water,” he said in Seiikinese. “Please.”

  Nobody answered.

  It was twilight. Or dawn. The sky was bruised with cloud, but the sun had left a finger-smear of honey. Niclays blinked the rain from his eyes and beheld the fire-orange sails that loomed over the boat, illuminated by scores of lanterns.

  A ghost ship, wreathed in sea mist. One of his captors slapped him across the head and barked something in Lacustrine.

  “All right,” Niclays murmured. “All right.”

  He was heaved up by the ropes that bound his wrists and forced at knifepoint to a ladder. The sight of the ship undid his jaw and shook the last of the drowse from him.

  A nine-masted galleon, its hull banded with iron, at least twice the length of a High Western. Niclays had never seen a ship as colossal as this, not even in Inysh waters. He placed his bare feet on the wooden slats and climbed, chased by shouts and jeers.

  He was among pirates, undoubtedly. From the jade-green of the waves, this was most likely the Sundance Sea, which bled into the Abyss—the dark ocean that separated East from West and North and South. This was the sea he had crossed when he had sailed toward Seiiki all those years ago.

  It would also be the sea he died in. Pirates were not known for their mercy, or their civil treatment of hostages. It was a wonder he had made it this far without having his throat slit.

  At the top, he was led by his ropes across the deck. All around him were Eastern men and women, with a handful of Southerners scattered among them. Several of the pirates nailed suspicious looks on Niclays, while others ignored him. Many had a Seiikinese word inked on to their brows: murder, theft, arson, blasphemy—the crimes for which they had been punished.

  Niclays was lashed to one of the masts, where he reflected on the misery of his condition. This had to be the largest ship in existence, which meant he had been snatched by the Fleet of the Tiger Eye: pirates who specialized in the shadow-market trade in parts taken from dragons. They also, like all pirates, indulged in many other crimes.

  They had taken all his possessions, including the text Jannart had died for—the fragment that was never supposed to have come back to the East. It was the last piece of him Niclays still possessed and, damn his soul, he had lost it. The thought made him want to weep, but he had to convince these pirates that they needed an old man. Sobbing in terror was not the way to achieve that end.

  It felt like months before somebody approached him. By that time, the sun was rising.

  A Lacustrine woman came to stand before him. Paint darkened her lips. Over her grizzled hair was a headdress, golden and heavy with razor-sharp ornaments, each a little work of art. At her side was a sword just as golden and twice as sharp. The lines etched into her brown skin spoke of many years spent under the sun.

  She was flanked by six pirates, including a moustachioed giant of a Sepuli fellow, whose bare chest was so smothered in tattoos that there was no virgin skin left on him. Giant tigers ripped dragons apart across his torso, and the blood swirled amid sea foam to his shoulders. A pearl sat right over his heart.

  The leader—for leader she unquestionably was—wore a long coat of black watersilk. Her missing right arm had been replaced by an articulated wooden substitute, complete with an elbow, fingers, and a thumb, fitted with a cage over her shoulder and secured with a leather strap across her chest. Niclays doubted it was much use to her in the heat of battle, but it was a remarkable innovation, quite unlike anything he had seen in the West.

  The woman regarded Niclays, then marched back into the crowd of pirates, who parted to let her through. The giant unraveled the ropes and bundled Niclays into her cabin, which was decorated with swords and bloody flags.

  Two people stood in the corner. A thickset woman with freckled brown skin and lines around her mouth, and a bone-thin man, tall and pale, who frankly looked ancient. A tunic of tattered red silk came past his knees.

  The pirate sprawled on a throne, accepted a wood-and-bronze pipe from the man, and inhaled whatever vapors were within. She considered Niclays through a blue-tinged haze before addressing him in Lacustrine. Her voice was deep and measured.

  “My pirates do not usually take hostages,” the freckled woman translated into Seiikinese, “except when we are short of seafarers.” She arched an eyebrow at Niclays. “You are special.”

  He knew better than to speak without permission, but inclined his head. The interpreter waited while the captain spoke again.

  “You were found on the beach in Ginura, carrying certain documents,” the interpreter continued. “One of them is part of an ancient manuscript. How did you come into possession of this item?”

  Niclays bowed low. “Honored captain,” he said, addressing the Lacustrine woman, “it was bequeathed to me by a dear friend after his death. I brought it with me when I came to Seiiki from the Free State of Mentendon, hoping to find some meaning behind it.”

  His words were passed back to the woman in Lacustrine.

  “And did you?” came the reply.

  “Not yet.”

  Her eyes were shards of volcanic glass.

  “You have had this item for a decade and carry it on your person like a talism
an, but you say you know nothing about it. A fascinating claim,” the interpreter said, once the captain had spoken. “Perhaps a beating will inspire you to tell the truth. When a person vomits blood, secrets often spill out with it.”

  Sweat soaked his back.

  “Please,” he said, “it is the truth. Have mercy.”

  She laughed softly as she answered.

  “I did not become the lord of all pirates by showing mercy to thieving liars.”

  Lord of all pirates.

  This was not just any pirate captain. This was the dread sovereign of the Sundance Sea, the conqueror of myriad ships, a mistress of chaos with forty thousand pirates under her command. This was the Golden Empress, the enemy of order, who had clawed herself from poverty to construct her own nation on the waves—a nation beyond the dominion of dragons.

  “All-honored Golden Empress.” Niclays prostrated himself. “Forgive me for not showing you the appropriate respect. I did not know who you were.” His knees screamed, but he kept his brow against the floor. “Let me sail with you. I will give you my skills as an anatomist, my knowledge, my loyalty. I will do anything you ask. Only spare my life.”

  The Golden Empress took up her pipe again. “I would have asked your name, had you proven the existence of your backbone,” was her answer, “but you shall be called Sea-Moon now.”

  The pirates at the door roared with laughter. Niclays winced. Sea-moon—the Seiikinese term for a quarl. A spineless jelly in the clutches of the current.

  “You say you are an anatomist,” the interpreter said to Niclays, pausing every few moments to listen to the captain. “It so happens that I need a surgeon on this ship. My last one thought herself a cunning poisoner. She wanted vengeance for the ruin of her shit-heap of a village, so she dropped the gold silkworm into my wine.” The Golden Empress sipped from the pipe again, then breathed out a curl of smoke. “She learned that salt water is just as deadly.”

  Niclays swallowed.

  “I do not like to waste what I can use. Prove your skill,” the Golden Empress told him, “and we may talk again.”

  “Thank you.” His voice split. “Thank you, all-honored captain. For your mercy.”

  “This is not mercy, Sea-Moon. This is business.” She reclined in her seat and spoke again. “Be sure to be loyal to me,” the interpreter continued. “There are no second chances in the Fleet of the Tiger Eye.”

  “I understand.” Niclays mustered his courage. “All-honored Golden Empress, I have one more question to ask, if I may.” She glanced at him. “Where is the dragon you took from the beach?”

  “Below decks,” came the translation. “Drunk on firecloud. But not for long.” She raked her gaze over him. “We will speak again soon, Sea-Moon. For now, you have your first surgery to perform.”

  34

  West

  When it was formally proclaimed that Queen Sabran was with child, the people of Inys ceased their mourning and celebrated in the streets. Prince Aubrecht was dead, but by gifting them the next ruler of Virtudom, he had bought them another generation of safety from the Nameless One.

  Though she would traditionally stay in Briar House for half the year, no one grumbled when Sabran decreed that the court would return to Ascalon Palace for the remainder of her pregnancy. Every corridor in the winter residence was choked with memories of the prince consort, and it was commonly agreed that it was best for Queen Sabran to have a fresh outlook.

  New gowns were made to accommodate her condition. The lying-in chamber was aired for the first time in decades. The palace was a butterfly house of chatter, and with every meal, courtiers raised their cups to the queen. Laughter rang bright and loud as a bell.

  They did not see what the Ladies of the Bedchamber saw. The sickness that racked her at all hours. The relentless exhaustion. The way she lay awake at night, ill at ease with the change in her body.

  Now, Roslain had told the ladies-in-waiting in private, was the most dangerous time in the pregnancy. Sabran was not to exert herself. She was not to hunt, or to go on vigorous walks, or to harbor unhappy thoughts. They would all have to work together to keep her calm and in good spirits.

  The life of the child took precedence over that of the mother, since there was no evidence that the women of the House of Berethnet could conceive more than once. Little wonder Sabran had been withdrawn of late. The childbed was the one place where her divine authority would not protect her, and every day now brought her closer to it.

  If she needed further confirmation of the dangers that surrounded her, the Dukes Spiritual saw fit to remind her daily.

  “It is vital that we decide on our course. Yscalin could mount an invasion any day now,” Igrain Crest said to her one morning. “Our coastal defenses have been strengthened since Fýredel came, in accordance with your orders, but more is necessary. We have received word that the Flesh King has been constructing a new fleet in Quarl Bay. Some fifty ships are already built.”

  It was a moment before Sabran spoke. “An invasion fleet.”

  There were horseshoes of shadow under her eyes.

  “I fear so, Majesty,” Crest said, gentler. “As does your cousin, the Lord Admiral.”

  The Duchess of Justice had arrived while Sabran was breaking her fast. She stood in a bar of sunlight, which glinted off her patron brooch.

  “We will open negotiations with Hróth immediately,” she said. “The wolfcoats will strike fear into Sigoso. To strengthen the chances of aid, we will, of course, take word that Your Majesty has at last accepted the long-standing offer from the Chieftain of Askrdal. Once King Raunus hears—”

  “There will be no acceptance of Askrdal,” Sabran cut in. “King Raunus is a sovereign of Virtudom, and my distant relative. Let us see how many troops he offers us before we make any offers to him.”

  Katryen pulled in a slow breath. It was unlike Sabran to interrupt Crest.

  Crest, too, looked as if she had been caught off-guard. Nonetheless, she smiled.

  “Majesty,” she said, “I do understand that this must be difficult, given the recent death of Prince Aubrecht. But I trust you will remember what I told you the day before your coronation. As a sword must be oiled, so a fellowship must be renewed. Best that you are not a distant relative to Raunus, but a near and dear one. You must wed again.”

  Sabran gazed at the window. “I do not see the need for it now.”

  Crest let her smile fall this time. Her attention darted first to Katryen, then to Ead.

  “Majesty,” she said, in a reasonable tone, “perhaps we could continue this conversation in private.”

  “Why, Igrain?” Sabran asked evenly.

  “Because this is a sensitive diplomatic issue.” After a delicate pause, she said, “If you will forgive us, Lady Katryen, Mistress Duryan. I would like to speak to Queen Sabran alone.”

  Ead curtsied and made to leave, as did Katryen, but Sabran said, “No. Ead, Kate, stay where you are.”

  After a moment, they both stepped back into place. Sabran drew herself up in her chair and laid her hands on its arms.

  “Your Grace,” she said to Crest, “whatever you wish to say of this matter, you may say in front of my ladies. They would not be standing in this chamber if I did not trust them absolutely.”

  Ead exchanged a glance with Katryen.

  Crest forced another smile. “Regarding King Raunus,” she continued, “we must have confirmation that His Majesty will commit to the defense of Inys. I will send Ambassador Sterbein to Elding at once, but it would strengthen his hand if he carried an acceptance of this suit.”

  At this, Sabran laid a hand on her belly.

  “Igrain,” she said, her voice quiet, “you have long stressed to me the need for an heir. My bounden duty. To honor that, I will not take another companion, or even consider it, while I am still with child, lest the strain of the matter harm my daughter.” Her gaze was piercing. “Offer Raunus anything else. And we will see what he offers us in return.”

  The
evasion was clever. Crest could not dispute it without appearing to dismiss the well-being of the heir.

  “Majesty,” she said, disappointment etched on her face, “I can only advise. The choice, and its consequences, are yours.”

  She curtsied and left the Privy Chamber. Sabran looked after her, expressionless.

  “She pushes too hard,” she said softly, once the doors were shut. “I never saw, when I was younger. I revered her too much to see how much she hates to be denied.”

  “It is only that Her Grace believes she knows best,” Katryen said. “And she has a will to rival yours.”

  “My will was not always what it is now. Once I was as molten glass, yet to be spun into shape. I sense I have taken a shape she mislikes.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Katryen sat on the arm of her throne. “Let Her Grace drink her sour wine for a few days. She will come around, just as she did after you chose Prince Aubrecht.” She gave Sabran the gentlest pat on the belly. “You must think only of this now.”

  Two days later, a signal beacon was fired in Perchling, warning of danger to the coast. Sabran received Lord Lemand Fynch, her cousin, while she was still in her bedgown.

  “Majesty, I regret to inform you that the Anbaura was sighted in the Swan Strait this morning,” he said. “Though it did not attack, the House of Vetalda is clearly taking the measure of our coastal defenses. As Lord Admiral, I have commanded your navy to keep any further scouts at bay—but I beg you, coz, to ask King Raunus for support. His ships would be of great use in guarding our eastern coast.”

  “Ambassador Sterbein is already on his way to Elding. I have also requested hellburners from High Princess Ermuna in exchange for Inysh support on her border with Yscalin,” Sabran said. “Should the Flesh King flick his tongue at our coast again, I bid you remind him why the Inysh navy is known as the greatest in the world.”