Niclays pressed a hand to his tunic, where a vial of blood and the scale he had carved from the creature was concealed. Every night, he had taken out the scale to examine it, but all he could remember, when his fingers traced its surface, was the way the dragon had looked at him as he cleaved its armor from its flesh.
A rustle pulled his gaze up. The Pursuit was flying the crimson sails of a plague ship, purchased to aid its passage through the Sundance Sea. Nonetheless, it remained the most recognizable vessel in the East, and it had soon drawn the vengeful eye of Seiiki. When the High Sea Guard and its dragonriders had come to meet them, the Golden Empress had sent a rowing boat out with a warning. She would gut the great Nayimathun like a fish if so much as an inch of her ship was harmed, or if she caught any of them following. As evidence that she still had the dragon, she had sent one of its teeth.
Every dragon and ship had fallen back. They could hardly have done otherwise. Still, it was likely they were giving chase at a distance.
“There you are.”
Niclays turned. Laya Yidagé came to stand beside him.
“You looked pensive,” she said.
“Alchemists are supposed to look pensive, dear lady.”
At least they were moving. With every star they sailed under, they inched closer to the end.
“I paid a visit to the dragon.” Laya pulled her shawl closer. “I think it’s dying.”
“Has it not been fed?”
“Its scales are drying out. The crew throw buckets of seawater on it, but it needs to be immersed.”
Wind gusted across the ship. Niclays hardly noticed its bite. His cloak was heavy enough that he was as snug as a bear in its hide. The Golden Empress had gifted him these clothes after naming him Master of Recipes, a title given to court alchemists in the Empire of the Twelve Lakes.
“Niclays,” Laya said under her breath, “I think that you and I ought to make a plan.”
“Why?”
“Because if there is no mulberry tree at the end of this path, the Golden Empress will have your head.”
Niclays swallowed. “And if there is?”
“Well, then perhaps you won’t die. But I have had enough of this fleet now. I have lived as an old salt, but I have no intention of dying one.” She looked at him. “I want to go home. Do you?”
The word gave Niclays pause.
Home had been nowhere for so long. His name was Roos after Rozentun—a sleepy town overlooking Vatten Sound, where no one would remember him. Nobody but his mother was left, and she despised him.
Truyde might care whether he lived or died, he supposed. He wondered how she fared. Was she still agitating for an alliance with the East, or quietly mourning her lover?
For a long time, home had been at the Mentish court, where he had royal favor, where he had fallen in love—but Edvart was dead, his household dissolved, his memory confined to statues and portraits. Niclays had no place there now. As for his time in Inys, it had been nothing short of calamitous.
In the end, home had always been Jannart.
“Jan died for this.” He wet his lips. “For the tree. I cannot walk away without knowing its secret.”
“You are Master of Recipes. Doubtless you will be granted time to study the tree of life,” Laya muttered. “If we find the elixir, I suspect the Golden Empress will take us north to the City of the Thousand Flowers. She will try to sell it to the House of Lakseng in return for an end to the sea ban. We could escape into the city, and from there we can flee on foot to Kawontay. You can take a few samples of the elixir with you.”
“On foot.” Niclays huffed a quiet laugh. “In the unlikely event that we survive that journey, what would we do from there?”
“There are Ersyri smugglers in Kawontay who operate in the Sea of Carmentum. We should be able to persuade them to take us across the Abyss. My family would pay them.”
There was no one who would pay for his passage.
“They would pay your way, too,” Laya said, seeing his face. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“You’re very kind.” He hesitated. “What will we do if there is no mulberry tree at the end of the path?”
Laya gave him a look.
“If they find nothing,” she said quietly, “then take to the sea, Niclays. It will be kinder than her rage.”
He swallowed.
“Yes,” he conceded. “I suppose it would.”
“We will find something,” she said, gentler. “Jannart believed in the legend. I believe he is watching over you, Niclays. And that he will see you home.”
Home.
He could give the elixir to any ruler he desired, and they would grant him protection from Sabran. Brygstad was where he most desired to go. He could rent a garret in the Old Quarter and make ends meet teaching alchemy to novices. He could find a little pleasure in its libraries, and the lectures in its university halls. If not there, then Hróth.
And he would find Truyde. He would be a grandfather to her, and he would make Jannart proud.
As the Pursuit struck into deeper waters, Niclays stayed beside Laya, and they watched the stars come out. Whatever awaited them, one thing was certain. He or his ghost would be laid to rest.
55
West
The Flower of Ascalon, a passenger ship that served the eastern coast of Inys, docked in the ancient trade city of Caliburn-on-Sea at noon. Ead and Margret began their ride across the Leas, following the frozen River Lissom.
Snow had fallen overnight in the north, and it lay across the fields like cream smoothed with a knife. As they rode, the commons doffed their hats and called out greetings to Margret, who smiled and waved at them. She would have made a fine Countess of Goldenbirch, had she been the elder child.
They pared away from the river and through the knee-deep snow. There were no laborers in the fields in high winter, when the land was too cold to till, but Ead kept her hood up nonetheless.
The Beck family had their seat in a great prodigy house named Serinhall. It stood around a mile from Goldenbirch, where Galian Berethnet had been born. The village itself was in ruins, but remained a site of pilgrimage in Virtudom. It lay in the shadow of the haithwood, which separated the Leas from the Lakes.
After hours of riding that left their faces windburned, Margret slowed her horse at the brow of a hill. Ead gazed across a white stretch of parkland. Serinhall towered before them, bleak and magnificent, boasting grand bay windows and high domed rooftops.
“Well, here we are,” Margret announced. “Do you want to go straight to Goldenbirch?”
“Not yet,” Ead said. “If Galian did hide Ascalon in this province, I think he would have told its keepers. It was his most valuable possession. The symbol of the House of Berethnet.”
“And you think my family has kept it secret from their queens all these centuries?”
“Possibly.”
Frowning, Margret said, “The Saint did come to Serinhall once, in the year Princess Sabran was born. If there was any evidence that he did leave the sword, then Papa would know it. He has made it his life’s work to know all there is to know about this estate.”
Lord Clarent Beck had been unwell for some time. Once a hale rider, he had taken a fall from his horse, and the injury to his head had left him with what the Inysh called mind fog.
“Come, then. No time to lose,” Margret said. A wicked glint came into her eye. “Care for a race, Lady Nurtha?”
Ead snapped the reins in answer. As her steed galloped down the hill and across the park, scattering a herd of red deer, Margret shouted something patently discourteous after her. Ead laughed as the wind blew down her hood.
She just beat Margret to the gatehouse. Servants wearing the badge of the Beck family were shoveling the snow.
“Lady Margret!” A reed of a man with a pointed beard bowed to her. “Welcome home, my lady.”
“Good day to you, Master Brooke.” Margret dismounted. “This is Eadaz uq-Nāra, Viscountess Nurtha. Would you kindly t
ake us to the Countess?”
“Of course, of course.” Seeing Ead, the fellow bowed again. “Lady Nurtha. Welcome to Serinhall.”
Ead forced herself to nod, but this title would never sit easily on her.
She handed the reins of her horse to another servant. Margret walked with her through the open doors of the house.
In the entrance hall was a wall-length portrait. A man with ebon skin and grave eyes, wearing the tight doublet and hose that had been fashionable in Inys several centuries ago.
“Lord Rothurt Beck,” Margret said as they passed. “A figure in one of the tragedies of Inys. Carnelian the Third fell in love with Lord Rothurt, but he was already wed. And this”—Margret motioned to another portrait—“is Margret Ironside, my namesake. She led our forces during the Gorse Hill Rebellion.”
Ead raised her eyebrows. “Lord Morwe is marrying into a noble lineage indeed.”
“Aye. Pity the man,” Margret said wearily. “Mama will never let him forget it.”
Master Brooke led them through a veritable labyrinth of wood-paneled corridors and grand oak doors. All this space for two people and their servants.
Lady Annes Beck was reading in the great chamber when they entered. Already a tall woman, she wore an attifet that added several inches to her stature. Her brown skin was unlined, but threads of gray rippled through the spirals of her hair.
“What is it, Master Brooke?” She looked up and removed her eyeglasses. “Saint! Margret!”
Margret curtsied. “Not a saint just yet, Mama, but give me time.”
“Oh, my child.”
Lady Annes rushed open-armed to her daughter. Unlike her children, she had a southern accent. “I heard only this morning of your betrothal to Lord Morwe,” she said, embracing Margret. “I should shake you for accepting without asking our permission, but since Queen Sabran gave hers—” She beamed. “Oh, he has found a rare splendor in you, my darling.”
“Thank you, Mama—”
“Now, I’ve already ordered the finest satin for your gown. A nice rich blue would become you very well. My favorite mercer in Greensward is having the cloth shipped from Kantmarkt. You will wear an attifet, of course, with white pearls and sapphires, and you must marry in the Sanctuary of Caliburn-on-Sea, as I did. There is no place lovelier.”
“Well, Mama, it seems you have my wedding very much under control.” Margret kissed her on the cheek. “Mama, you remember Mistress Duryan. Now she is Dame Eadaz uq-Nāra, Viscountess Nurtha. And my dearest friend. Ead, may I present my mother, the Countess of Goldenbirch.”
Ead curtsied. She had met Lady Annes once or twice at court when the countess had come to see her children, but not for long enough for either of them to have left an impression.
“Dame Eadaz,” Lady Annes said a little stiffly. “Not four days ago, the heralds said you were wanted for heresy.”
“Those heralds were paid by traitors, my lady,” Ead said. “Her Majesty gives no credence to their words.”
“Hm.” Lady Annes looked her over. “Clarent always thought you would marry my son, you know. I do hope there was no improper conduct between you, though perhaps you are now a fit consort for the future Earl of Goldenbirch.” Before Ead could imagine an answer, the countess had clapped her hands. “Brooke! Ready the evening meal.”
“Yes, my lady,” came the distant reply.
“Mama,” Margret protested, “we can’t stay for supper. We need to talk to you about—”
“Don’t be silly, Margret. You’ll need a little padding if you want to give Lord Morwe an heir.”
Margret looked as if she might die of embarrassment. Lady Annes bustled away.
They were left alone in the great chamber. Ead walked to the bay window that looked over the deer park.
“This is a fine home,” she said.
“Yes. I miss it terribly.” Margret skirted her fingers over the virginals. “I’m sorry for Mama. She is . . . candid, but she means well.”
“Mothers mostly do.”
“Aye.” Margret smiled. “Come. We ought to change.”
She led Ead through yet more corridors and up a flight of stairs to a guest room in the east wing. Ead peeled off her riding clothes. As she washed her face in the basin, something caught her eye through the window. By the time she reached it, there was nothing there.
She was growing skittish. Her sisters would come for her sooner or later, whether to silence her or to force her back to Lasia.
Shaking herself, she checked that her blades were in reach and readied herself for supper. Margret met her outside, and they proceeded to the parlor, where Lady Annes was already seated. Her servants first filled their cups with perry—a speciality in this province—before they brought a rich game stew and bread with a thick crust.
“Now, tell me, both of you, how court is,” Lady Annes said. “I was so terribly sorry to hear that Queen Sabran lost her child.”
Her hand drifted to her own midriff. Ead knew that she had miscarried a girl before having Margret.
“Her Majesty is well now, Mama,” Margret said. “Now those who would have usurped her have been detained.”
“Usurp her,” the countess repeated. “Who was it?”
“Crest.”
Lady Annes stared. “Igrain.” Slowly, she laid down her eating knife. “Saint, I cannot believe it.”
“Mama,” Margret said gently, “she was also behind the death of Queen Rosarian. She conspired with Sigoso Vetalda.”
At this, Lady Annes drew in a breath. A gamut of emotion crossed her face.
“I knew Sigoso would hold a grudge against her. He was relentless in his pursuit.” Her voice was tinged with bitterness. “I also knew that Rosarian and Igrain did not get on, for reasons best left unsaid. But for Igrain to have her queen murdered, and in such a way—”
Ead wondered if Annes Beck, as a former Lady of the Bedchamber, had known about the affair between Rosarian and Harlowe. Known, perhaps, that the princess was a bastard.
“I am sorry, Mama.” Margret took her hand. “Crest will never hurt anyone again.”
Lady Annes managed a nod. “At least we can close the door on it now.” She dabbed her eyes. “I am only sorry that Arbella did not live to hear this. She always blamed herself.”
They ate in silence for a short while. “How is Lord Goldenbirch, my lady?” Ead enquired.
“I’m afraid Clarent is much the same. Sometimes he is in the present, sometimes in the past, and sometimes nowhere at all.”
“Is he still asking for me, Mama?” Margret said.
“Yes. Every day,” Lady Annes said, sounding tired. “Do go up and see him, won’t you?”
Margret looked at Ead across the table.
“Yes, Mama,” she said. “Of course I will.”
Lady Annes prided herself as a host. This meant that Ead and Margret found themselves still at the dinner table some two hours later.
An inglenook fireplace dried their clothes. Bone-warming food continued to pour from the kitchens. Conversation turned to the impending nuptials, and Lady Annes soon began to counsel her daughter about her wedding night (“You must expect to be disappointed, darling, for the act often falls woefully short of the promise”). Throughout, Margret wore the pained smile Ead had seen her wear many a time at court.
“Mama,” she said, when she could finally get a word in, “I was telling Ead the family legend. That the Saint visited Serinhall.”
Lady Annes washed down her mouthful. “A historian, are you, Dame Eadaz?”
“I have an interest, my lady.”
“Well,” the countess said, “according to records, Serinhall hosted the Saint for three days shortly after Queen Cleolind died in childbed. Our family were long-standing friends and allies to King Galian. Some say for a time he trusted only them, even above his Holy Retinue.”
While curd tart, baked apples and sweetmilk were seamlessly delivered, Ead exchanged a look with Margret.
When the meal was finally
over, Lady Annes released them from her presence. Margret led Ead up the stairs, a candle in her hand.
“Saint,” she said. “I’m sorry, Ead. She’s been waiting for one of us to get married for years so she can plan it all, and Loth has rather disappointed her on that front.”
“No matter. She cares about you very much.”
When they reached the elaborately carved doors to the north wing, Margret stopped. “What if—” She twisted a ring on her middle finger. “What if Papa does not remember me?”
Ead placed a hand on her back. “He asked for you.”
At this, Margret took a deep breath. She handed Ead the candle and opened the doors.
The room beyond was stifling. Lord Clarent Beck was dozing in a wing chair, a coverlet around his shoulders. Only the white of his hair and a line or two set him apart from Loth, such was his likeness to his son. His legs had withered since Ead had last seen him.
“Who is that?” He stirred. “Annes?”
Margret went to him and took his face in her hands. “Papa,” she said. “Papa, it’s Margret.”
His eyes peeled open.
“Meg.” His hand came to her arm. “Margret. Is that really you?”
“Yes.” A thick laugh escaped her. “Yes, Papa, I’m here. I’m sorry to have left you for so long.” She kissed his hand. “Forgive me.”
He lifted her chin with one finger.
“Margret,” he said, “you are my child. I forgave you all your sins on the first day of your life.”
Margret wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face to the crook of his neck. Lord Clarent stroked her hair with a steady hand, his expression one of the utmost serenity. Ead had never known who her birthfather was, but suddenly she wished she had.
“Papa,” Margret said, drawing back, “do you remember Ead?”
Dark, heavy-lidded eyes took Ead in. They were just as kind as she remembered them.
“Ead,” he said a little hoarsely. “My word. Ead Duryan.” He held out a hand, and Ead kissed his signet ring. “How good to see you, child. Have you married my son yet?”
She wondered if he knew Loth had been exiled. “No, my lord,” she said gently. “Loth and I do not love each other that way.”
The Priory of the Orange Tree Page 58
