The Priory of the Orange Tree

by Samantha Shannon

  Murmurs of confusion rang through the hall. It was traditional for a queen to be holding her swaddled daughter, the first time she appeared in public after her confinement.

  Loth stood to let Sabran take the throne. She lowered herself into it, watched by her court.

  “Mistress Lidden,” she said, her voice stentorian, “will you not sing for us?”

  The Knights of the Body took their places behind the high table. Lintley never removed his hand from his sword. The court musicians began to play, and Jillet Lidden sang.

  Silver platters of food were brought out from the Great Kitchen and laid on the tables, displaying all Inys had to offer in the high winter. Swan pie, woodcock, and roasted goose, baked venison in a rich clove sauce, burbot sprinkled with almond snowflakes and silver leaf, white cabbage and honey-glazed parsnip, mussels seethed in butter and red wine vinegar. Conversation stole back into the hall, but nobody seemed able to tear their eyes from the queen.

  A page filled their goblets with ice wine from Hróth. Ead accepted a few mussels and a cut of goose. As she ate, she gave Sabran a sidelong glance.

  She recognized the look on her face. Fragility with a front of strength. As Sabran lifted her goblet to her lips, only Ead noticed the tremor in her hand.

  Jumbles, sugar plums, spiced pear and cranberry pie, pastry horns stuffed with snow cream, and blanched apple tarts, among other delicacies, followed the main course. When Sabran rose, and the steward announced her, a deathly silence fell again.

  Sabran did not speak for some time. She stood tall, with her hands clasped at her midriff.

  “Good people,” she said at last, “we know that things at court have been disquieting in recent days, and that our absence must have troubled you.” Somehow, despite the low pitch of her voice, she managed to make herself heard. “Certain people at this court have conspired, of late, to break the spirit of fellowship that has always united the people of Virtudom.”

  Her face was a locked door. The court waited for revelation.

  “It will be a great shock to you that during our recent illness, we were confined in the Queen Tower by one of our own councillors, who was attempting to usurp our Saint-given authority.” Murmurs flickered across the hall. “This councillor took advantage of our absence to pursue her own ambition to steal our throne. A person of holy blood.”

  Ead felt the words in her core, and she knew that everyone else did, too. They struck like a wave. Left no one untouched.

  “Because of her actions, we must bring you most grievous news.” Sabran placed a hand on her belly. “That during our ordeal . . . we lost the beloved daughter we carried.”

  The silence went on. And on.

  And on.

  Then one of the maids of honor let out a sob, and it was like a thunderclap. The Banqueting House erupted around her.

  Sabran remained still and expressionless. The hall resounded with calls for the perpetrators to pay. The steward banged his staff, shouting to no avail for order, until Sabran raised a hand.

  At once, the turmoil ceased.

  “These are uncertain times,” Sabran said, “and we cannot afford to give way to grief. A shadow has fallen over our realm. More Draconic creatures are waking, and their wings have brought a wind of fear. We see that fear in all your faces. We have seen it even in our own.”

  Ead watched the crowd. The words were reaching them. By offering them a glimpse of vulnerability—a fine crack in her armor—Sabran showed that she stood among them.

  “But it is in such times that we must look more than ever to the Saint to guide us,” Sabran said. “He opens his arms to the fearful. He shelters us with his own shield. And his love, like a sword in the hand, makes us strong. While we stand together in the great Chainmail of Virtudom, we cannot be defeated.

  “We mean to reforge with love what greed has broken. On this, the Feast of High Winter, we pardon all those who were so quick to serve their mistress that they neglected, in their haste and fear, to serve their queen. They will not be executed. They will know the balm of mercy.

  “But the woman who used them cannot be forgiven. It was her hunger for power, and her wanton abuse of the power she had already been given, that swayed others to her will.” The hall flickered with nods. “She has dishonored her holy blood. She has scorned her patron virtue—for Igrain Crest knew no justice in her hypocrisy and malice.”

  That name sent a ripple of unrest along the tables.

  “By her actions, Crest has shamed not only the Knight of Justice, but the blessed Saint and his descendants. Therefore, we expect her to be found guilty of high treason.” Sabran made the sign of the sword, and the court mirrored her. “All of the Dukes Spiritual are presently being questioned. It is our fervent hope that the rest are proven innocent, but we shall bow to the evidence.”

  Each of her words was the skip of a stone across a lake, forming ripples of emotion. The Queen of Inys could not cast illusions, but her voice and bearing on this night had turned her into an enchantress.

  “We stand here in love. In hope. And in defiance. Defiance of those would have tried to turn us from our values. Defiance of Draconic hate. We rise to face the winds of fear and, by the Saint, we will turn them back upon our enemies.” She walked across the dais, and every eye followed her. “We do not yet have an heir, for our daughter is in the arms of the Saint—but your queen is very much alive. And we will ride into any battle for you, as Glorian Shieldheart rode for her people. Come what may.”

  Now there were rumbles of agreement. Nods and shouts of Sabran Queen.

  “We will prove to the entire world,” she continued, “that no wyrm will cow the people of Virtudom!”

  “Virtudom,” voices echoed. “Virtudom!”

  They were all on their feet now. Eyes bright in the frenzy of veneration. Cups held up in taut-knuckled fists.

  She had led them from the depths of terror to the height of adoration.

  Sabran was golden-tongued.

  “Now, in the same defiance this realm has professed for a thousand years,” she called out, “we celebrate the Feast of High Winter—and prepare for spring, the season of change. The season of sweetness. The season of generosity. And what it gives, we will not hoard, but give in turn to you.” She snatched her goblet from the table and thrust it high. “To Virtudom!”

  “VIRTUDOM,” the court roared back. “VIRTUDOM! VIRTUDOM!”

  Their voices filled the hall like song, rising to its very rafters.

  The festivities went on late into the night. Though there were balefires outside, the courtiers seemed grateful to be in the Presence Chamber, where Sabran sat on her marble throne, and flames roared in the cavernous hearth. Ead stood with Margret in the corner.

  As she sipped her mulled wine, a blaze of red caught her eye. Her hand flicked to the knife on her girdle.

  “Ead.” Margret touched her elbow. “What is it?”

  Red hair. The red hair of the Mentish ambassador, not a cloak—yet Ead did not relax. Her sisters must be biding their time, but they would come.

  “Nothing. Forgive me,” Ead said. “What were you saying?”

  “Tell me what the matter is.”

  “It is nothing you want to meddle in, Meg.”

  “I wasn’t meddling. Well, perhaps,” Margret admitted. “One must be a trifle meddlesome at court, or one has nothing to talk about.”

  Ead smiled. “Are you ready for our journey to Goldenbirch tomorrow?”

  “Aye. Our ship leaves at dawn.” Margret paused before adding, “Ead, I don’t suppose you were able to bring Valour home.”

  There was hope in her eyes. “He is with an Ersyri family I trust, on an estate in the Harmur Pass,” Ead said. “I could not take him into the desert. You shall have him back, I promise.”

  “Thank you.”

  Someone stopped beside Margret and touched her on the shoulder. Katryen Withy, wearing a gown of cloud silk. Pearls inlaid in silver nestled in her wreath of hair.

 
“Kate.” Margret embraced her. “Kate, how do you do?”

  “I have been worse.” Katryen kissed her on the cheek before turning to Ead. “Oh, Ead. I am very glad you’re back.”

  “Katryen.” Ead looked her over. A bruise was fading under her eye, and her jaw was swollen. “What happened to you?”

  “I tried to get to Sabran.” She touched the mark gingerly. “Crest had me locked in my quarters. Her guard did this when I resisted.”

  Margret shook her head. “If that tyrant had ever sat the throne . . .”

  “Thank the Damsel she will not.”

  Sabran, who had been deep in conversation with Loth, now rose, and the room was quiet. It was time for her to reward those who had proved most faithful to their queen.

  The ceremony was no less impressive for its brevity. First, Margret was formally named a Lady of the Bedchamber, while the Knights of the Body were commended for their ceaseless loyalty to the crown. Others who had joined them were given lands and jewels, and then:

  “Mistress Ead Duryan.”

  Ead stepped from the crowd. Whispers and looks dogged her footsteps.

  “By the grace of the Six Virtues,” the steward read, “it has pleased Her Majesty to name you Dame Eadaz uq-Nāra, Viscountess Nurtha. A member of the Virtues Council.”

  The Presence Chamber rang with murmurs. Viscountess was an honorary title in Inys, used to raise a woman who was not of noble or holy blood. Never had it been bestowed upon one who was not an Inysh subject.

  Sabran took the ceremonial sword from Loth. Ead held still as the flat of the blade touched each of her shoulders. This second title would only serve to deepen her treachery in the eyes of her sisters—but she could wear it if it shielded her for long enough to find Ascalon.

  “Rise,” Sabran said. “My lady.”

  Ead stood and looked her in the eye.

  “Thank you.” Her curtsy was brief. “Your Majesty.”

  She took her letters patent from the steward. People whispered my lady as she returned to Margret.

  She was Mistress Duryan no more.

  There was one last honor to be given. For his courage, Sir Tharian Lintley, who was as much a commoner by blood as Ead, also received a new title. He was made Viscount Morwe.

  “Now, Lord Morwe,” Sabran said in an arch tone, once Lintley had received his accolade, “we believe you are of appropriate rank to marry a daughter of the Earls Provincial. Pray, do you . . . have anyone in mind?”

  An outbreak of much-needed laughter followed.

  Lintley swallowed. He looked like a man who had just been granted all the wishes of his life.

  “Yes.” He looked across the room. “Yes, Your Majesty, I do. But I would prefer first to speak to the lady in private. To be certain of her heart.”

  Margret, who had been watching with pursed lips, raised an eyebrow.

  “You have spoken for long enough, Sir Tharian,” she called. “Now is the time for action.”

  More laughter. Lintley chuckled, as did she. Candlelight danced in her eyes. She crossed the room and took his outstretched hand.

  “Your Majesty,” Lintley said, “I ask your permission, and that of the Knight of Fellowship, to take this woman as my companion in the coming days.” The way he gazed at her, she might have been a sunrise after years of night. “So that I might love her as she has always deserved.”

  Margret looked to the throne. Her throat bobbed, but Sabran had already inclined her head.

  “You have our permission,” she said. “We give it gladly.”

  Cheers filled the Presence Chamber. Loth, Ead was pleased to see, clapped as hard as anyone else.

  “Now,” Sabran said, “we think a dance is in order.” She motioned to the consort. “Come, play the Pavane of the Merrow King.”

  This time, the applause was thunderous. Lintley murmured something to Margret, who smiled and placed a kiss on his cheek. As the dancers took their places, Loth stepped down from his seat and bowed to Ead.

  “Viscountess,” he said, mock somber. “Would you do me the honor of a dance?”

  “I shall, my lord.” Ead placed a hand over his, and he led her to the middle of the room. “How do you like the match?” she asked him, seeing him glance toward Margret.

  “Very well. Lintley is a good man.”

  The Pavane of the Merrow King was sedate at first. It began like the ocean on a tranquil day, becoming tumultuous as the music swelled. It was an intricate affair, but Ead and Loth were old hands at it.

  “My parents will have heard the news by the time you reach Goldenbirch,” Loth said as they skipped with the other couples. “Mama will be even more vexed that I am not betrothed myself.”

  “I think she will be too relieved that you are alive to care,” Ead said. “Besides, you may prefer never to wed.”

  “As Earl of Goldenbirch, it would be expected of me. And I have always longed for companionship.” Loth looked down at her. “But what of you?”

  “Me.” Ead glided to the right, and he followed. “Would I ever take a companion, you mean?”

  “You cannot go home. Perhaps you could . . . make a life here. With someone.” His gaze was soft. “Unless you already have.”

  Her chest tightened.

  The dance separated them for a moment while they formed a whirlpool with the other pairs. When they reached each other again, Loth said, “Crest told me. I suppose she heard it from the Night Hawk.”

  Saying it out loud would be dangerous. He knew that.

  “I hope you did not keep it from me because you thought I would judge you,” Loth murmured. They both turned on the spot. “You are my dearest friend. I want you to be happy.”

  “Even though it shames the Knight of Fellowship.” Ead raised her eyebrows. “We are not wed.”

  “I would have believed that before,” he admitted. “Now I see that there are more important things.”

  Ead smiled. “You really have changed.” They joined hands again as the pavane grew faster. “I did not want to burden you with worry for us both. You care too much.”

  “It is my way,” he said, “but it would be a greater burden to know that my friend felt she could not open her heart to me.” He squeezed her hand. “I am here for you. Always.”

  “And I for you,” Ead said. She hoped it could be true.

  As the pavane came to its end, she wondered if they would ever lie carefree under the apple tree again, sharing wine and talking until dawn, after everything they had been through. Loth bowed to her, a smile creasing his eyes, and she curtsied back. Then she turned, intending to slip away to her chamber—only to find Sabran waiting.

  Ead watched her as the floor cleared. So did the rest of the court.

  “Play a candle dance,” Sabran said.

  This time, there were gasps of delight from the courtiers. The queen had not danced in public once while Ead had lived at court. Loth had confided to her, long ago, that Sabran had stopped dancing the day her mother died.

  Many courtiers would never have witnessed this dance, but some of the older servants, who must have seen Queen Rosarian partake, set about plucking candles from the chamber sticks. Soon the other servants followed suit. One candle was given to Sabran, another to Ead. Loth, who was close enough to be caught up in the affair, offered a hand to Katryen.

  The consort of instruments struck up an aching tune, and Jillet Lidden began to sing. Three men joined their voices to hers.

  Ead curtsied low to Sabran, who mirrored her. Even that small action made her candle flicker.

  The circling began. They held the candles in their right hands, and their left hands were held back to back, not quite touching. Six rotations around each other, gazes locked, before they were summoned by the music to opposite sides of the line. Ead circled around Katryen before she returned to Sabran.

  Her partner was a magnificent dancer. Every step was precise, yet sleek as velvet. All those years she never danced for her court, she must have trained herself alone. She
sailed around Ead like the hand of a clock, drawn closer by the heartbeat, no step faster than the last. When Ead turned her head, their foreheads met, and their shoulders brushed, before they parted again. Ead lost her breath somewhere along the way.

  Never had they been this close in public. The scent of her, the short-lived warmth, was a torture no one else could see. Ead circled around Loth before she reunited with Sabran, and her blood was as loud as the music, louder.

  It went on for what felt like an eternity. She was lost in a dream of haunting voices, in the lilt of flute and harp and shawm, and in Sabran, half concealed by shadow.

  She hardly noticed when the music ended. All she could hear was the drum in her chest. There was an enraptured silence before the court burst into applause. Sabran cupped a hand around her candle and blew it out.

  “We will retire for the night.” A maid of honor took her candle. “I bid the rest of you to stay and enjoy the festivities. Good evening.”

  “Good evening, Your Majesty,” the court answered, bowing and curtsying as their queen walked away. At the door to the Privy Chamber, Sabran looked over her shoulder at Ead.

  That look was a call. Ead snuffed her candle and handed it to a servant.

  Her corset felt tighter. A sweet ache blossomed in her belly. She stayed for a little while in the crowd, watching Loth and Margret dance a galliard, before she left the Presence Chamber. The Knights of the Body stood aside for her.

  The Privy Chamber was dark and cold. Ead walked through it, remembering the music of the virginals, and opened the doors to the Great Bedchamber.

  Sabran waited beside the fire. She wore nothing now but her stiff corset and shift.

  “Make no mistake,” she said, “I am wroth with you.”

  Ead stood on the threshold.

  “I shared all my secrets with you, Ead.” Her voice was hardly there. “You saw me as the night does. As my truest self.” She paused. “It was you who drove away Fýredel.”

  “Yes.”

  Sabran closed her eyes.