The Priory of the Orange Tree

by Samantha Shannon

  “Kalyba gave it to me. It was sh-she who left me in the boat. She told me I was to reach the ship to get close to you, Lady Nurtha,” Niclays said. “To d-drive this into your heart.”

  “A sterren blade,” Ead said, eyeing it. “Like Ascalon. Not large enough to use against the Nameless One, but it would have pierced my skin well enough.” Her gaze flicked up. “I can only assume she fears me more than she did before. Perhaps she has heard the jewels calling.”

  “Jewels.” Niclays raised his eyebrows. “You have them both?”

  With a nod, Ead sat beside Sabran.

  “The Witch of Inysca is persuasive,” she said to him. “She must have promised you all the riches you desired. Why confess?”

  “Oh, she offered me something far greater than riches, Lady Nurtha. Something for which I would gladly sacrifice what little wealth remains to me,” Niclays said, with a bitter smile. “She showed me the face of my only love. And she promised to return him to me.”

  “And yet you do not do her bidding.”

  “Once,” he said, “I would have. If she had not worn his face—if she had only promised that I would see him again—I might well have become her little homunculus. But seeing him . . . I was repulsed. Because Jannart—” The name snared in his throat. “Jannart is dead. He chose the manner of his death, and by resurrecting him like that, Kalyba dishonored his memory.”

  Ead watched him.

  “I am an alchemist. All my life, I believed that the end goal of alchemy was the glorious transformation of imperfection into purity. Lead into gold, disease into wellness, decay to eternal life. But now I understand. I see. Those were false destinations.”

  His professor had been right, as always. She had often said that the true alchemy was the work, not its completion. Niclays had thought it was her way of comforting those who never made any progress.

  “Sounds foolish, I know,” he continued. “Like the ravings of a madman . . . but it was just what Jannart always knew, and what I failed to see. For him, the pursuit of the mulberry tree in the East was his great work. He had the final piece, but not the rest.”

  “Jannart utt Zeedeur,” Ead said softly.

  He looked at her through burning eyes. “Jannart was my midnight sun,” he rasped. “The light I have followed. My grief drove me to Inys, and that step took me to the East. There, I tried to finish his work in the hope that it would bring me closer to him. By doing all this, I completed, unbeknownst to me, the first stage of alchemy, of my work. The putrefaction of my soul. With his death, my work began. I faced the shadows in myself.”

  Nobody moved or spoke. Ead was looking at him with a strange expression. Something like pity, but not quite. Niclays pressed on, trying not to notice the burning in his brow. He was on fire, body and mind.

  “So you see,” he said, “the work lies in myself. I fell into shadow, and now I must rise, so I might be a better man.”

  “That would take a long time,” the dragonrider said.

  “Oh, it will,” Niclays agreed, fevered as much by excitement as the wound, “but that is the point. Don’t you see?”

  “I see that you are raving mad.”

  “No, no. I am approaching the next stage of transmutation. The white sun. The cleansing of impurities, the illumination of the mind! Any fool could tell that nothing can bring Jannart back,” Niclays ploughed on, “so I will resist Kalyba. She represents my past impurities, the one who comes to undo my progress and return me to my old instincts. To earn the white sun, I will give you the key to destroying all darkness.”

  “Which is?” Ead said.

  “Knowledge,” he finished, triumphant. “The Nameless One has a weakness. The twentieth scale of his chest armor is the one that Cleolind Onjenyu damaged all those years ago. She failed to hit the mark, but perhaps she opened the door. A door into his armor.”

  Ead studied his face, her eyes narrowed a little.

  “You can’t trust him,” Miduchi said. “He would sell his soul for a handful of silver.”

  “I have no soul to sell, honored Miduchi. But I may yet earn one,” Niclays said. Saint, he was hot. “You see, Jan did leave someone behind, someone who I still care for. Truyde utt Zeedeur, his granddaughter. I want to be what he was to her, and to do that, I must be better. I must be good. And this is the way.”

  He finished, staring around in wall-eyed excitement, but all was still. Sabran lowered her gaze, and Ead closed her eyes for a moment.

  “She is still in Inys. A maid of honor.” As Niclays looked between them, his smile faded. “Isn’t she?”

  “Leave us,” Sabran said to her Knights of the Body. “Please.”

  They obeyed their queen.

  “No,” Niclays whispered, trembling. “No.” His voice cracked. “What did you do to her?”

  “It was Igrain Crest.” It was Ead who spoke. “Truyde plotted with her companion, Triam Sulyard, to bring about a reunion between East and West. She staged an assault on Queen Sabran, which Crest infiltrated to cause the death of Aubrecht Lievelyn.”

  Niclays tried to take it in. Truyde had never expressed strong political views, but when he had last seen her, she had been no more than ten years old.

  As he listened, numbness enveloped him. His ears rang. Everything turned dark at the corners, and a chain twisted around him and cut away his breath. By the time Ead had finished speaking, he could no longer feel anything but the dull throb at the end of his arm.

  The fires within him had suddenly died. The shadows had returned.

  “You left her in the Dearn Tower.” He forced it out. “She should have been sent to Brygstad and tried fairly. But no. You drew it out, just as you did to me.” A tear seeped into the corner of his mouth. “Her bones lie on one side of the world, and Triam Sulyard’s on the other. How much suffering might have been avoided if they had felt safe enough to broach their ideas with you, Sabran, rather than take matters into their own hands.”

  Sabran did not look away.

  “It is not only you who seeks a white sun,” she said.

  Slowly, Niclays rose. Cold sweat dotted his brow. The pain in his arm was now so great, he could hardly see.

  “Is Crest dead?”

  “Yes,” Sabran said. “Her reign in the shadow of the throne is at an end.”

  It should comfort him. Perhaps one day it would. But it would not bring her back.

  He pictured Truyde, the granddaughter he had never and would never have. Her eyes and freckles had come from her mother, but her red hair, that had been a gift from her grandsire. All gone. He remembered how her face had lit up when he had visited the Silk Hall, and how she had run to him with her arms full of books and begged him to help her learn from them. Everything, she had said. I want to know everything. Above all things, it was her bright mind, ever-curious, that had made her most like Jannart.

  “High Princess Ermuna has extended you an invitation to return home,” Sabran said quietly. “She seeks no permission from Inys, and even if she had, I have no further quarrel with it.”

  It was all he had wanted to hear for seven years. Victory had never tasted so much like ashes.

  “Home. Yes.” A hollow laugh escaped him. “Take my gift of knowledge. Destroy the Nameless One, so there might be other children who strive to change the world. And then, I pray you, Your Majesty, leave me to my shadows. I’m afraid they are all I have left.”

  70

  Abyss

  The Reconciliation was a ghost ship in the distance. Loth watched other vessels emerge behind it from the fog.

  It was the end of the second day of spring, and they were above the Bonehouse Trench, the deepest part of the Abyss. In Cárscaro, a group of mercenaries would be making their way through the mountain pass to kill King Sigoso and secure the Donmata Marosa.

  If she was still alive. If the Flesh King had already died, his daughter might be a puppet now.

  The ensigns of every country, save one, rippled among the ships. The Unceasing Emperor was gazi
ng at them, hands behind his back. He wore a scaled cuirass over a dark robe, a heavy surcoat on top, and an ornate iron helmet, inlaid with silver moons and stars.

  “So,” he said, “it begins.” He glanced at Loth. “I thank you, Lord Arteloth. For the pleasure of your company.”

  “The pleasure was mine, Majesty.”

  It took time for the ships to be tied to each other. Finally, Sabran came to the Dancing Pearl with Lady Nelda Stillwater and Lord Lemand Fynch on either side of her, followed by most of her Knights of the Body and a throng of Inysh naval officers and soldiers.

  Befitting the situation, her attire struck a delicate balance between splendor and practicality. A gown that was more like a coat, lacking a framework and cutting off above the ankle, with riding boots beneath. A crown of twelve stars, interspersed with dancing pearls, sat atop her braided hair. And though she was no warrior, she wore the Sword of Virtudom, the stand-in for Ascalon, at her side.

  When Loth saw Ead in the party, wrapped in a cloak with a fur collar, he breathed without strain for the first time in days. She was alive. Tané had kept her word.

  Tané herself was also among those who came across, though her dragon was nowhere to be seen. When their gazes met, she inclined her head. Loth returned the gesture.

  The Unceasing Emperor stopped a short distance from Sabran. He bowed, while Sabran curtsied.

  “Your Majesty,” the Unceasing Emperor said.

  Her face was cast in marble. “Your Imperial Majesty.”

  There was a moment in which they regarded one another, these two rulers who governed with irreconcilable mandates, who had lived out their lives in the shadow of giants.

  “Forgive our ignorance of your language,” Sabran said at last. “We understand you speak ours.”

  “Indeed,” the Unceasing Emperor said, “though I assure you that I am ignorant of Inysh matters on most other fronts. Language was one of my passions as a boy.” He offered a gracious smile. “I see you have a passion from my side of the world, too. Dancing pearls.”

  “We are very fond of them. This crown was made before the Grief of Ages, when Inys still traded with Seiiki.”

  “They are exquisite. We have fine pearls in the Empire of the Twelve Lakes, too. Freshwater pearls.”

  “We should like to see them,” Sabran said. “We must thank Your Imperial Majesty, and the all-honored Warlord, for your swift acquiescence to our request for aid.”

  “My brother-in-arms and I could hardly have refused, Your Majesty, given the urgency of our situation. And how passionately Lord Arteloth argued for this alliance.”

  “We expected no less.” Loth caught her eye, and she gave him the faintest smile. “May we ask if the dragons of the East are close?” she added. “We rather expected to be able to see them. Or perhaps they are smaller than we have always assumed.”

  A few nervous chuckles rose.

  “Well,” the Unceasing Emperor said, “the legends say they could once make themselves smaller than a plum. For now, however, they are as large as you have imagined.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “They are beneath the waves, Your Majesty. Immersing themselves in water, gathering their strength. I hope very much that you will be able to meet the Imperial Dragon, my guiding star, after this battle.”

  Sabran maintained a neutral expression. “We are sure it would be an honor,” she said. “Does Your Imperial Majesty”—her voice strained a little—“ride on this . . . being?”

  “When I am on progress. And perhaps tonight.” He leaned toward her, just slightly. “I must confess, however, to a trifling fear of heights. My virtuous grandmother tells me I am unlike all my predecessors in the House of Lakseng in this respect.”

  “Perhaps that is a favorable sign. After all,” Sabran said, “this is a day for new traditions.”

  At this, he smiled. “It is.”

  Another fanfare, and the Warlord of Seiiki joined the meeting. Silver-haired, with a thin moustache, Pitosu Nadama had the build and bearing of a man who had once been a warrior, but had not had occasion to take up arms in many years. A sleeveless coat of gold covered his armor. With him were thirty of the dragonriders of Seiiki, who bowed to the foreign rulers.

  The rider Loth had seen in the water was among them. She had removed her helm and mask, revealing a sun-beaten face and hair in a topknot. She was looking at Tané, who looked straight back at her.

  Nadama hailed the Unceasing Emperor in his own language before turning to Sabran.

  “Your Majesty.” Even his voice was military, clipped and clear. “My fellow riders will fight alongside you this day. Despite our differences.” He glanced at the Unceasing Emperor. “This time, we will ensure the Nameless One does not return to plague us.”

  “Be assured that Inys stands with you, all-honored Warlord,” Sabran answered. White breath fluttered from her mouth. “This day, and for the rest of time.”

  Nadama nodded.

  Trumpets sounded then, announcing King Raunus of the House of Hraustr. A pale giant of a man with golden hair, eyes like iron, and great knotted muscles. He greeted Sabran with a bone-crushing embrace before introducing himself brusquely to the Eastern rulers. His hand stayed close to the gold-plated rapier at his side.

  Despite the friendly opening, the tension between the four of them was a low-burning fire. One errant breath of wind could fan it. After centuries of estrangement, Loth supposed it was of little wonder that each side should be wary of the other.

  When they had conferred in low voices for a time, the rulers withdrew to their own ships. The dragonriders marched after the Warlord. The moment they began to leave, Tané turned on her heel and strode in the other direction.

  Ead followed Sabran into her cabin, but motioned to Loth to join them. Loth waited for most of the guests to clear the deck. As soon as he was past the Knights of the Body and through the door, he scooped Ead right off her feet.

  “Being your friend is quite a strenuous affair, you know,” he said, feeling her smile against his own cheek. He gathered Sabran close with the other arm. “That applies to both of you.”

  “Rich words from the man who sailed into the East with pirates,” Sabran said into his shoulder.

  He chuckled. When he set Ead down, he saw that the stain was gone from her lips, though she looked tired. “I’m all right,” she told him. “Thanks to Tané. And to you.”

  He cupped one of her hands between his. “You still feel cold.”

  “It will pass.”

  Loth turned to Sabran and straightened her crown of pearls, which had gone awry in the embrace. “I remember your mother wearing this. She would be proud of this alliance, Sab.”

  She raised a smile. “I hope so.”

  “We have an hour before the third day of spring begins. I had better see Meg.”

  “Meg is not here,” Ead said.

  Loth stilled. “What?”

  She told him everything that had happened since she had woken from her sleep of death. How Tané had eaten the fruit, and how the rulers of the South had come to broker an alliance. When she revealed exactly where his sister was, Loth took a deep breath.

  “You let her go to Cárscaro.” He said it to them both. “To a siege.”

  “Loth,” Ead said, “Meg made her own choice.”

  “She was determined to play her part, and I saw no reason to take that from her,” Sabran explained. “Captain Lintley is with her.”

  He imagined his sister on the barren plain, hunkered in a field hospital among the filth and blood of battle. He thought of Margret with the bloodblaze and felt sick.

  “I must address the Inysh seafarers,” Sabran murmured. “I pray we see the dawn.”

  Loth swallowed the cork of dread in his throat. “May Cleolind watch over us all,” he said.

  On the deck of the Dancing Pearl, Tané stood among the soldiers and archers who had gathered to await the hour.

  The Unceasing Emperor was on the upper deck. Behind him, like an immense shadow, the
Imperial Dragon loomed. Her scales were darkest gold, eyes blue as glaciers. Long tendrils matched the white of her horns. At the stern were three of the Seiikinese dragon elders. Even after all the time Tané had spent in the company of dragons, these ones were the most colossal she had ever seen.

  Close to the elders, the Warlord of Seiiki kept watch beside the Sea General. Tané knew her former commander was more than aware of her presence. Every time she looked away from him, she sensed his attention snap to her face.

  Onren and Kanperu were among the dragonriders. The latter had gained a scar across one eye since Tané had last seen him. Their dragons waited behind the Defiance.

  A touch on her arm made her look back. A figure emerged from the shadows behind her, wearing a hooded cloak.

  Ead.

  “Where is Roos?” Tané asked her softly.

  “The fever has set in. His fight today will be for his life.” Ead never took her gaze from Sabran. “Has your dragon arrived?” Tané shook her head. “Could you ride another?”

  “I am no longer a rider.”

  “But surely today—”

  “You do not seem to understand,” Tané said shortly. “I am disgraced. They will not even speak to me.”

  Finally, Ead nodded. “Keep the jewel close,” was all she said before she returned to the shadows.

  Tané tried to concentrate. A breath of wind caressed her spine, unsettled her hair, and rose to fill the sails of the Dancing Pearl.

  Deep in the Abyss, there was movement. No more than the flicker of butterfly wings, or the quickening of a child in the womb.

  “He comes,” the Imperial Dragon said. Her voice quaked through the ships.

  Tané reached for her case. The jewel was so cold that she could feel it through the wood and lacquer.

  The wind howled against the sails. This was it. Clouds gathered above the ships. The Imperial Dragon called out to her brethren in the language of her kind. The Seiikinese dragons joined their voices to hers. Water bubbled on their scales. The mist grew thick as they brought the storm, and with it, their strength. As they took off from the sea, water streamed off them, soaking the humans below. Tané shook it from her eyes.