The Priory of the Orange Tree

by Samantha Shannon

  Inside, the darkness yawned sinister. The flame untethered itself from her hand to float like a ghostlight and, by its pallid flicker, Ead made out a figure at the foot of the bed.

  “Sabran.”

  The figure stirred. “Leave me,” it rasped. “I am at prayer.”

  Ead was already beside Sabran, lifting her head. Shivering limbs recoiled from her.

  “Sabran.” Her voice quaked. “Sabran, look at me.”

  When Sabran raised her gaze, Ead drew in a breath. Gaunt and listless, wound in the shroud of her own hair, Sabran Berethnet looked more of a carcass than a queen. Her eyes, once limpid, took little in, and the smell of days unwashed clung to her nightgown.

  “Ead.” Fingers came to her face. Ead pressed the icy hand to her cheek. “No. You are another dream. You come here to torment me.” Sabran turned away. “Leave me in peace.”

  Ead stared at her. Then she laughed for the first time in weeks, a laugh that stemmed from deep in her belly.

  “Damn you, intransigent fool.” She almost choked on her laughter. “I have crossed the South and the West to get back to you, Sabran Berethnet, and you reward me thus?”

  Sabran looked at her a moment longer, her face clearing, and suddenly began to weep. “Ead,” she said, her voice splintering, and Ead crushed her close, wrapping her arms around as much of her as she could. Sabran curled like a kitten against her.

  There was nothing of her. Ead pulled the coverlet from the bed and enfolded her in it. Explanations could come later. So could vengeance. For now, all she wanted was for her to be safe and warm.

  “She killed Truyde utt Zeedeur.” Sabran was shivering so badly, she could hardly speak. “She imprisoned my Knights of the Body. Igrain. I tried— I tried—”

  “Hush.” Ead pressed a kiss to her brow. “I am here. Loth is here. Everything will be well.”

  51

  East

  It was just past dawn, and in the courtyard of Vane Hall, Elder Vara was oiling his iron leg. Tané approached him. The cold had turned her knuckles pink.

  “Good morning, Elder Vara.” She set down a tray. “I thought you might wish to break your fast.”

  “Tané.” His smile was weary. “How kind of you. My old bones would be grateful for the warmth.”

  She sat beside him. “Does it often need oiling?” she asked.

  “Once a day in damp conditions, or rust begins to set in.” Elder Vara patted the limb. “Since the metalsmith who made it for me is now dead, I would sooner not chance losing it.”

  Tané had grown used to reading his expressions. Since the attack, fear had taken up permanent residence in the halls of Feather Island, but the worry etched on his face was fresh.

  “Is something amiss?”

  Elder Vara glanced at her. “The learnèd Doctor Moyaka wrote to me upon her arrival in Seiiki,” he said. “The High Sea Guard suspects the Fleet of the Tiger Eye is holding a dragon hostage. It seems they intend to keep it alive . . . to guarantee them safe passage through any waters they desire. A sinister new tactic, to hold our gods as leverage.”

  Tané made herself pour the tea. Hatred closed her throat.

  “There is a rumor that the Golden Empress seeks the fabled mulberry tree,” Elder Vara continued. “On the lost isle of Komoridu.”

  “Do you know anything else about the dragon?” Tané pressed. “Do you know its name?”

  “Tané, it grieves me to tell you, but—” Elder Vara sighed. “It is the great Nayimathun.”

  Tané swallowed, throat aching. “She is still alive?”

  “If these rumors are true.” Elder Vara gently took charge of the kettle. “Dragons do not do well out of water, Tané, as you know. Even if she is alive, the great Nayimathun is not long for this world.”

  Tané had mourned her dragon. Now there was a possibility, however small, that she lived.

  This news changed everything

  “We must hope that the High Sea Guard can find a way to free her. I am quite sure they will.” Elder Vara passed her a cup. “Please, allow me to change the subject. Did you come out here to ask me something?”

  With difficulty, Tané pushed Nayimathun to the back of her mind, but her world was spinning.

  “I was wondering,” she made herself say, “if I might request your permission to look in the repository. I would like to read about the celestial jewels.”

  Elder Vara frowned. “That is secret knowledge indeed. I thought only the elders knew of it.”

  “The great Nayimathun told me.”

  “Ah.” He considered. “Well, if you desire it, of course. There is scant record of the celestial jewels—which were sometimes called the tide jewels or wishing jewels—but you may examine what little there is.” He motioned to the north. “You will need documents from the reign of the long-honored Empress Mokwo, which are stored at Windward Hall. I will send you with a letter to grant you access.”

  “Thank you, Elder Vara.”

  Tané dressed warmly for the journey. A padded coat over her uniform, a wrap around her head and face, and the fur-lined boots she had been given for winter. Along with a scroll addressed to the High Scholar of Windward Hall, Elder Vara also gave her a satchel of food.

  It would be a long trek, especially in the cold. She would have to climb down to the Path of the Elder, scale the rocks on the other side, and walk the warmth of Windward Hall. Tufts of snow began to fall as she set off.

  The only way down from this side was to use the craggy rocks beside the Falls of Kwiriki. As she descended, her heart thumped so hard she felt sick. At this very moment, Nayimathun might be fighting for her life in the belly of a butcher-ship.

  And surely a celestial jewel—if that was what had been stitched into Tané, like a pattern into cloth . . .

  Surely that could set a dragon free.

  It was almost noon by the time she reached the foot of the ravine, where a driftwood gateway marked the entrance to the most sacred place in the East. Tané washed her hands in the salt water and stepped through, on to a stone-paved path.

  On the Path of the Elder, the fog was so thick that it blotted out the sky. Tané could not even see the tops of the cedars that towered into the gray.

  It was not quite silent. Every few moments, the leaves rustled, as if unsettled by breath.

  Lanterns guided her past the graves of scholars, elders, and leaders of the dragon-fearing East, who had asked for their remains to rest with those of the Great Elder. Some of the stone blocks were so old that the inscriptions had worn away, leaving their occupants unnamed.

  Elder Vara had told her not to think of the past. Walking here, however, she could not help but think of Susa. The bodies of the executed were left to rot, the bones discarded.

  A head in a ditch, a body uncorked. Darkness stained the edges of her vision.

  It took much of the day to cross the burial ground and climb the rock face at its end. By the time she glimpsed Cape Quill—the outstretched arm of the island—the sky had deepened to purple, and the only light was a gold seam on the horizon.

  Date-plums hung like tiny suns in the front courtyard of Windward Hall, which overlooked the cape. Tané was greeted at the threshold by a Lacustrine man with a shaven head, proclaiming his role as a bonesinger. These scholars would spend most of their days on the Path of the Elder, tending to the graves of the faithful and singing praise to the bones of the great Kwiriki.

  “Honorable scholar.” He bowed, and so did Tané. “Welcome to Windward Hall.”

  “Thank you, learnèd bonesinger.”

  She removed her boots and stowed them. The bonesinger ushered her into the dimly lit interior of the hermitage, where a charcoal stove kept the cold at bay.

  “Now,” he said, “what may we do for you?”

  “I have a message from the learnèd Elder Vara.” She held it out. “He asks that you permit me access to your repository.”

  With raised eyebrows, the young man took it. “We must respect the wishes of the le
arnèd Elder Vara,” he said, “but you must be tired after your journey. Would you like to visit the repository now, or wait in the guest quarters until morning?”

  “Now,” Tané said. “If you would be willing to take me.”

  “To our knowledge, Feather Island was the only place in the East to remain untouched during the Great Sorrow,” the bonesinger told her as they walked. “Many ancient documents have been sent here to protect them from misfortune. Unfortunately, since the fire-breathers have woken and discovered our whereabouts, those documents are now in danger.”

  “Were any lost in the attack?”

  “A handful,” he said. “We organize our archives by reigns. Do you know whose you seek?”

  “The long-honored Empress Mokwo.”

  “Ah, yes. A mysterious figure. It was said she had ambitions to bring the whole East under the rule of the Rainbow Throne. That her face was so lovely that every butterfly wept in envy.” His smile dimpled his cheeks. “When history fails to shed light on the truth, myth creates its own.”

  Tané followed him down a staircase, into a tunnel.

  The wheel repository stood like a sentinel in a cave behind the hermitage. Statues of past High Scholars filled alcoves in the walls, and countless teardrops of blue light hung, like wisps of spidersilk, from the ceiling.

  “We do not risk flame down here,” the bonesinger said. “Fortunately, the cave has its own lamps.”

  Tané was fascinated. “What are they?”

  “Moondrops. Eggs of the lightfly.” He turned the repository. “All of our documents are treated with oil of dragon manehair and left to dry out in the ice caves. Scholar Ishari was oil-treating some of our newest additions to the repository when the fire-breathers came.”

  “Scholar Ishari,” Tané echoed. Her stomach knotted. “Is she . . . in the hermitage?”

  “Sadly, the learnèd scholar was injured in the attack while trying to save the documents. She died of her pains.”

  He spoke of death the way only bonesingers could, with acceptance and quietude. Tané swallowed the ash of regret. Ishari had taken but nineteen years, and most of them had been spent preparing for a life she had never been given a chance to lead.

  The bonesinger opened a door in the repository. “The documents here pertain to the reign of the long-honored Empress Mokwo.” There were not many. “I would ask you to handle them as little as possible. Come back inside whenever you please.”

  “Thank you.”

  He bowed and left her. In the calm blue glow, Tané took stock of the scrolls. By the flicker of the moondrops, she unraveled the first scroll and began to read, trying hard not to think of Ishari.

  It was a letter from a diplomat in the City of the Thousand Flowers. Tané was fluent in Lacustrine, but this was an ancient clerical script. Translating it made her temples ache.

  We here address Neporo, self-declared Queen of Komoridu, whose name we hear for the first time, to thank you for sending an embassy with tribute. Though we welcome your deference, your unexpected claim to a land in the Unending Sea has caused some insult to our neighbor Seiiki, with whose people we are bound in praise of dragonkind. We regret that we cannot recognize you as Queen Regnant while the House of Noziken takes issue with the matter. We confer upon you instead the title Lady of Komoridu, Friend of the Lacustrine. We expect you to rule your people in peace and to endeavor to be devoted and obedient to both ourselves and to Seiiki.

  Komoridu. Tané had never heard of such a place. Neither had she heard of any ruler named Neporo.

  She opened another scroll. This letter was in archaic Seiikinese, the writing cramped and smeared, but she could just make it out. It seemed to be addressed to the long-honored Noziken Mokwo herself.

  Majesty, I address you once again. Neporo is in mourning, for her friend, the sorceress from across the sea, is dead. It was the two of them who, using the two objects I described in my last missive—the waning jewel and the rising jewel—caused the great chaos in the Abyss on the third day of spring. The body of the Lasian sorceress will now be returned to her country, and Neporo bids twelve of her subjects escort it, along with the white jewel the sorceress often wore at her breast. Since His Augustness, the great Kwiriki in his mercy has arranged us this opportunity, I will endeavor to do as you command.

  The other documents were all court records. Tané scoured them until the line between her eyebrows felt etched there with a knife.

  She almost fell asleep in the glow of the cave, going over every document again, searching for anything she might have missed, checking her translations. Heavy-eyed, she eventually stumbled to the guest quarters, where a meal and a sleep robe had been left for her. She lay on the bedding for a long while, staring into the dark.

  It was time to uncover what she had hidden. To unlock whatever power lay inside it.

  The great chaos in the Abyss.

  But what chaos, and why?

  52

  West

  “If one of you does not speak,” the Queen of Inys said, “we shall be here for a very long time.”

  Loth exchanged a glance with Ead. She was sitting on the other side of the table, wearing an ivory shirt and breeches, her hair half pulled back from her face.

  They were in the Council Chamber at the top of the Alabastrine Tower. Buttered light shone through the windows. With only a little help to bathe and dress, the queen had stitched herself back together with as much mettle as any warrior.

  Freeing Sabran had been the first victory of the night. The news that the Duchess of Justice had been arrested for high treason had caused most of her retainers to give up their arms. The Knights of the Body, with the help of the palace guards, had worked until the dawn to root out the last of the traitors, and to stop them fleeing the palace.

  Nelda Stillwater, Lemand Fynch, and the Night Hawk had arrived at court not long after, each with an affinity of retainers in tow. They had claimed to be coming to liberate the queen from Crest, but Sabran had ordered them all locked away until she could unravel the truth.

  Ead had pieced together what had happened. On the night she had been forced to leave Inys, Sabran had grown feverish. She had appeared to recover a few days later, only to collapse. Crest had ostensibly taken control of her care, but for weeks, behind the doors of the Great Bedchamber, she had pressed her queen to sign a document called the Oath of Relinquishment. Her signature on it would yield the throne of Inys to the Crest family from the drying of the ink until the end of time. Crest had threatened her with exposure of her barrenness, or death, if she refused.

  Sabran had remained defiant. Even while she was too weak to feed herself. Even when Crest had shut her up in darkness.

  “I see I will not need to bring anyone to pry out your tongues,” Sabran said. “You appear to have swallowed them.”

  Ead was nursing a cup of ale. This was the first time in hours that she had been more than a foot away from Sabran.

  “Where should we begin?” she said evenly.

  “You can begin, Mistress Duryan, by confessing who you are. They told me you were a witch,” Sabran said. “That you had abandoned my court to pledge to the Flesh King.”

  “And you believed this nonsense.”

  “I had no idea what to believe. Now, when you return to me, you are drenched in blood and have left a pile of bodies higher than a horse behind you. You are no lady-in-waiting.”

  Ead rubbed her temple with one finger. Finally, she looked Sabran full in the face.

  “My name,” she said, “is Eadaz du Zāla uq-Nāra.” Though her voice was steady, her eyes betrayed an inner conflict. “And I was brought to you by Chassar uq-Ispad as a bodyguard.”

  “And what made His Excellency believe that you were better placed to protect me than my Knights of the Body?”

  “I am a mage. A practitioner of a branch of magic called siden. Its source is the same orange tree in Lasia that protected Cleolind Onjenyu when she vanquished the Nameless One.”

  “An encha
nted orange tree.” Sabran let out a huff of laughter. “Next you will tell me pears can sing.”

  “Does the Queen of Inys mock what she does not understand?”

  Loth glanced from one to the other. Ead had seldom talked to Sabran at all when he had last been at court. Now, it seemed, she could goad the sovereign with impunity.

  “Lord Arteloth,” Sabran said, “perhaps you can enlighten me as to how you came to leave court. And how you met with Mistress Duryan on your journey. It seems she is all addle-brained.”

  Ead snorted into her cup. Loth reached across the table and poured from the jug of ale.

  “Lord Seyton Combe sent Kit and myself to Cárscaro. He believed I was an impediment to your marriage prospects,” he said. “In the Palace of Salvation, we met the Donmata Marosa, who had a task for us. And from there, I’m afraid, things only wax stranger.”

  He told her everything. The Flesh King’s confession that he had arranged to murder her mother. The mysterious Cupbearer, whose hands were also bloody in that deed. He told her of Kit’s death and the iron box he had taken across the desert, of his imprisonment in the Priory, and the daring escape back to Inys on the Bird of Truth.

  Ead chimed in here and there. She enriched and broadened the story, telling Sabran about her banishment and her visit to the ruined city of Gulthaga. About the Long-Haired Star and the Tablet of Rumelabar. She went into great depth about the foundation of the Priory of the Orange Tree and its beliefs, and the reason she had been sent to Inys. Sabran did not move once as she listened.

  Only the flicker of her gaze betrayed her thoughts about each revelation.

  “If Sabran the First was not born of Cleolind,” she said eventually, “and I am not saying I believe it, Ead—then who was her mother? Who was the first Queen of Inys?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sabran raised her eyebrows.

  “While I was in Lasia, I learned more about the Tablet of Rumelabar,” Ead continued. “To understand its mystery, I paid a visit to Kalyba, the Witch of Inysca.” She glanced at Loth. “She is known here as the Lady of the Woods. She created Ascalon for Galian Berethnet.”