The Priory of the Orange Tree Page 7

  With gritted teeth and a pounding headache, Niclays limped from his workshop. As he stepped onto the mats, he gaped.

  Triam Sulyard was sitting by the hearth. He was soaked to the skin.

  “By the Saint’s codpiece—” Niclays stared. “Sulyard!”

  The boy looked wounded. “You should not take the Saint’s intimate parts in vain.”

  “Hold your tongue,” Niclays snapped, heart pounding. “My word, but you are a lucky wretch. If you’ve found a way out of this place, say it now.”

  “I tried to leave,” Sulyard said. “I managed to evade the guards and slip out of the house, but more were by the gate. I got into the water and hid beneath the bridge until the Eastern knight left.”

  “The Chief Officer is no knight, you fool.” Niclays let out a growl of frustration. “Saint, why did you have to come back? What did I do to deserve you turning up to threaten what little I have left of an existence?” He paused. “Actually, don’t answer that.”

  Sulyard was silent. Niclays stormed past him and set about lighting a fire.

  “Doctor Roos,” Sulyard said, after a hesitation. “Why is Orisima so closely guarded?”

  “Because outsiders cannot set foot in Seiiki on pain of death. And the Seiikinese, in turn, cannot leave.” Niclays hooked the kettle over the hearth. “They let us stay here so they can trade with us and absorb odds and ends of Mentish knowledge, and so we can give the Warlord at least a hazy impression of the other side of the Abyss, but we cannot go beyond Orisima or speak heresy to the Seiikinese.”

  “Heresy like the Six Virtues?”

  “Precisely. They also, understandably, suspect outsiders of carrying the Draconic plague—the red sickness, as they call it. If you had taken the trouble to do your research before you came here—”

  “But they would surely listen if we asked for help,” Sulyard said, with conviction. “Indeed, while I was hiding, I had a thought that I might simply let them find me, so that they might take me to the capital.” He seemed not to see the appalled look Niclays dealt him. “I must speak with the Warlord, Doctor Roos. If you would only hear what I have come to—”

  “As I said,” Niclays said tartly, “I have no interest in your mission, Master Sulyard.”

  “But Virtudom is in peril. The world is in peril,” Sulyard pressed. “Queen Sabran needs our help.”

  “In terrible danger, is she?” He tried not to sound too hopeful. “Life-threatening?”

  “Yes, Doctor Roos. And I know a way to save her.”

  “The richest woman in the West, venerated by three countries, needs a squire to save her. Fascinating.” Niclays heaved a sigh. “All right, Sulyard. I will indulge you. Enlighten me as to how you plan to spare Queen Sabran from this unspecified peril.”

  “By interceding with the East.” Sulyard looked determined. “The Warlord of Seiiki must send his dragons to help Her Majesty. I mean to persuade him to do this. He must help Virtudom put down the Draconic beasts before they fully wake. Before—”

  “Wait,” Niclays cut in. “Do you mean to say that you want . . . an alliance between Inys and Seiiki?”

  “Not just between Inys and Seiiki, Doctor Roos. Between Virtudom and the East.”

  Niclays let the words crystallize. The corner of his mouth twitched. And when Sulyard continued to look grave as a sanctarian, Niclays threw back his head and laughed.

  “Oh, this is wonderful. Glorious,” he declared. Sulyard stared at him. “Oh, Sulyard. I have had precious little entertainment in this place. Thank you.”

  “It is no joke, Doctor Roos,” Sulyard said, indignant.

  “Oh, but it is, dear boy. You think that you alone can overturn the Great Edict, a law that has stood for five centuries, just by asking nicely. You really are young.” Niclays chuckled once more. “And who is your partner in this splendid endeavor?”

  Sulyard huffed. “I know you are mocking me, sir,” he said, “but you must not mock my lady. She is someone for whom I would die a thousand times, whose name I cannot tell. Someone who is the light in my life, the breath in my breast, the sun to my—”

  “Yes, all right, that’s quite sufficient. Did she not wish to come to Seiiki with you?”

  “We planned to go together. But when I visited my mother in Perchling in the winter, I met a seafarer by chance. She offered me a place on a ship bound for Seiiki.” His shoulders hunched inward. “I sent word to my love at court . . . I pray she understands. That she forgives me.”

  It had been a while since Niclays had indulged in a bit of court gossip. It spoke volumes for his boredom that he was all but salivating for it. He poured two cups of willow tea and sat on the mats, stretching his sore leg in front of him. “This lady is your betrothed, I take it.”

  “My companion.” A smile touched the cracked lips. “We took our vows.”

  “I assume Sabran gave her blessing to the match.”

  Sulyard flushed. “We . . . did not ask Her Majesty for permission. No one knows of it.”

  He was braver than he looked. Sabran dealt harsh punishments to those who married in secret. It was where she differed from the late Queen Mother, who had been fond of a good love story.

  “Your lady must be of a low station if you had to marry her in secret,” Niclays mused.

  “No! My lady is noble-born. She is as sweet as the richest honey, as beautiful as an autumn fore—”

  “Saint, enough. You’re giving me a headache.” One had to wonder how Sabran had kept him around without having his tongue ripped out. “How old are you, exactly, Sulyard?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “A grown man, then. Old enough to know that not all dreams should be pursued, especially not dreams conceived on the feather-bed of love. If the Chief Officer had found you, you would have been taken to the Governor of Cape Hisan. Not to the Warlord.” Niclays sipped his tea. “I will humor you again, Sulyard. If you know Sabran to be in danger—so much danger that she needs assistance from Seiiki, which I doubt—then why not tell her?”

  Sulyard hesitated.

  “Her Majesty mistrusts the East, to her own detriment,” he finally said, “and they are the only ones who can help us. Even when she is made aware of the danger she faces, which will no doubt be soon, her pride would never allow her to ask for Eastern aid. If I could only talk to the Warlord on her behalf, Truyde said she might realize the—”

  “Truyde.”

  The cup shook in his hands.

  “Truyde,” he whispered. “Not—not Truyde utt Zeedeur. Daughter of Lord Oscarde.”

  Sulyard was frozen.

  “Doctor Roos,” he began, after an agony of stammering, “it must be a secret.”

  Before he could stop it, Niclays laughed again. This time it had an edge of madness.

  “My, my,” he cried, “but you are quite the companion, Master Sulyard! First you marry the Marchioness of Zeedeur without permission, an act that could destroy her reputation. Then you abandon her, and finally, you let slip her name to a man who knew her grandsire well.” He dabbed his eyes on his sleeve. Sulyard looked as if he might faint. “Ah, how worthy you are of her love. What will you tell me next—that you left her great with child, too?”

  “No, no—” Sulyard crawled toward him. “I beseech you, Doctor Roos, do not expose our transgression. I am unworthy of her love, but . . . love her I do. It hurts my soul.”

  Niclays kicked him away, disgusted. It hurt his soul that Truyde had chosen such a pail of Inysh milk for a companion.

  “I won’t be exposing her, I assure you,” he sneered, making Sulyard weep harder. “She is the heir to the Duchy of Zeedeur, blood of the Vatten. Let us pray that, one day, she weds someone with a backbone.” He sat back. “Besides, even if I were to write to Prince Leovart to inform him that Lady Truyde has secretly wed beneath her station, it would take weeks for the ship to cross the Abyss. By that time, she will have forgotten you existed.”

  Sniffing, Sulyard managed to say, “Prince Leovart is dead.”


  The High Prince of Mentendon. The only person who had tried to help Niclays in Orisima.

  “That would certainly explain why he ignores my letters.” Niclays raised his cup to his lips. “When?”

  “Less than a year ago, Doctor Roos. A wyvern burned his hunting lodge to ashes.”

  Niclays felt a pang of loss for Leovart. No doubt the Viceroy of Orisima had known the news, but chosen not to pass it on.

  “I see,” he said. “Who now rules Mentendon?”

  “Prince Aubrecht.”

  Aubrecht. Niclays remembered him as a reserved young man who cared little for anything but prayer books. Though he had been of age when the sweat took his uncle, Edvart, it had been decided that Leovart—Edvart’s own uncle—would rule first, to show tender-hearted Aubrecht the way. Of course, once Leovart was on the throne, he had found excuses not to vacate it.

  Now Aubrecht had taken his rightful place. He would need a will of iron if he meant to control Mentendon.

  Niclays pulled his thoughts away from home before he could fall into them for good. Sulyard was still looking at him, face blotched with pink.

  “Sulyard,” Niclays said, “go home. When the Mentish shipment arrives, stow away. Go back to Truyde and run away to the Milk Lagoon, or . . . wherever lovers go these days.” When Sulyard opened his mouth, he said, “Trust me. You can do nothing here but die.”

  “But my task—”

  “Not all of us can finish our great works.”

  Sulyard fell silent. Niclays removed his eyeglasses and cleaned them on his sleeve.

  “I have no love for your queen. In fact, I roundly despise her,” he said, making Sulyard flinch, “but I doubt very much that Sabran would want an eighteen-year-old squire to die for her.” A quake stole into his voice. “I want you to leave, Triam. And I want you to tell Truyde, from me, to stop involving herself in matters that could undo her.”

  Sulyard dropped his gaze.

  “Forgive me, Doctor Roos, but I cannot,” he said. “I must stay.”

  Niclays looked at him wearily. “And do what?”

  “I will find a way to put my case before the Warlord . . . but I shall not involve you any further.”

  “Having you in my house is involvement enough for me to lose my head.”

  Though Sulyard said nothing, his jaw was set. Niclays pursed his lips.

  “You seem devout, Master Sulyard,” he said. “I suggest you pray. Pray that the sentinels stay away from my house until the Mentish shipment arrives, so you have time to come to your senses on this subject. If we survive the next few days, I might just pray again myself.”

  6

  West

  When she shunned the Banqueting House, which was often, the Queen of Inys supped in her Privy Chamber. Tonight, Ead and Linora had been invited to break bread with her, an honor customarily reserved for her three bedfellows.

  Margret had one of her headaches. Skull-crushers, she called them. Usually she refused to let them keep her from her obligations, but she must be sick with worry about Loth.

  Despite the summer heat, a fire crackled in the Privy Chamber. So far, nobody had spoken to Ead.

  Sometimes she felt as if they could smell her secrets. As if they sensed she had not come to this court to be a lady-in-waiting.

  As if they knew about the Priory.

  “What do you think of his eyes, Ros?”

  Sabran gazed at the miniature in her hand. It had already been passed between the women and scrutinized from every angle. Now Roslain Crest took it and studied it again.

  The Chief Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber, heir apparent to the Duchy of Justice, had been born only six days before Sabran. Her hair was thick and dark as treacle. Pale and smalt-eyed, always fashionably dressed, she had spent almost her whole life with her queen. Her mother had been Chief Gentlewoman to Queen Rosarian.

  “They are agreeable, Your Majesty,” Roslain concluded. “Kind.”

  “I find them to be a trifle too close together,” Sabran mused. “They put me in mind of a dormouse.”

  Linora tittered in her delicate way.

  “Better a mouse than some louder beast,” Roslain said to her queen. “Best he remembers his place if he weds you. He is not the one who is descended from the Saint.”

  Sabran patted her hand. “How are you always so wise?”

  “I listen to you, Your Majesty.”

  “But not your grandmother, in this instance.” Sabran looked up at her. “Lady Igrain thinks Mentendon will be a drain on Inys. And that Lievelyn should not trade with Seiiki. She has told me she will voice this at the next meeting of the Virtues Council.”

  “My lady grandmother worries about you. It makes her over-cautious.” Roslain sat beside her. “I know she prefers the Chieftain of Askrdal. He is rich and devout. A safer candidate. I can also understand her concerns about Lievelyn.”

  “But?”

  Roslain offered a faint smile. “I believe it would behoove us to give this new Red Prince a chance.”

  “I agree.” Katryen lay on a settle, leafing through a book of poesy. “You have the Virtues Council to caution you, but your ladies to embolden you in matters such as these.”

  Beside Ead, Linora was drinking in the conversation in ravening silence.

  “Mistress Duryan,” Sabran said suddenly, “what is your opinion of Prince Aubrecht’s countenance?”

  All eyes turned to Ead. Slowly, she set down her knife. “You ask for my judgment, Majesty?”

  “Unless there is another Mistress Duryan present.”

  Nobody laughed. The room was silent as Roslain delivered the miniature into her hands.

  Ead considered the Red Prince. High cheekbones. Sleek copper hair. Strong brows arched over dark eyes, a hard contrast to his pallor. The set of his mouth was somewhat grave, but his face was pleasant.

  Still, miniatures could lie, and often did. The artist would have flattered him.

  “He is comely enough,” she concluded.

  “Faint praise indeed.” Sabran sipped from her goblet. “You are a harder judge than my other ladies, Mistress Duryan. Are the men of the Ersyr more attractive than the prince?”

  “They are different, Your Majesty.” Ead paused, then added, “Less like dormice.”

  The queen gazed at her, expressionless. For a moment, Ead wondered if she had been too bold. A stricken look from Katryen only served to feed her misgiving.

  “You have a quick tongue as well as light feet.” The Queen of Inys reclined in her chair. “We have not spoken often since your coming to court. A long time has passed—six years, I think.”

  “Eight, Your Majesty.”

  Roslain shot her a warning glance. One did not correct the descendant of the Saint.

  “Of course. Eight,” was all Sabran said. “Tell me, does Ambassador uq-Ispad ever write to you?”

  “Not often, madam. His Excellency is busy with other matters.”

  “Such as heresy.”

  Ead dropped her gaze. “The ambassador is a devout follower of the Dawnsinger, Majesty.”

  “But you, of course, no longer are,” Sabran said, and Ead inclined her head. “Lady Arbella tells me you pray often at sanctuary.”

  How Arbella Glenn conveyed these things to Sabran was a mystery, since she never seemed to speak.

  “The Six Virtues is a beautiful faith, Majesty,” Ead said, “and impossible not to believe in, when the true descendant of the Saint walks among us.”

  It was a lie, of course. Her true faith—the faith of the Mother—blazed as strong as ever.

  “They must tell tales of my ancestors in the Ersyr,” Sabran said. “Of the Damsel, especially.”

  “Yes, madam. She is remembered in the South as the most rightwise and selfless woman of her time.”

  Cleolind Onjenyu was also remembered in the South as the greatest warrior of her time, but the Inysh would never believe that. They believed that she had needed to be saved.

  To Ead, Cleolind was no
t the Damsel.

  She was the Mother.

  “Lady Oliva tells me that Mistress Duryan is a born storyteller,” Roslain said, giving her a cool look. “Will you not tell us the tale of the Saint and the Damsel as you were taught it in the South, mistress?”

  Ead sensed a trap. The Inysh seldom enjoyed hearing anything from a new perspective, let alone their most sacred tale. Roslain was expecting her to put a foot wrong.

  “My lady,” Ead said, “it cannot be told better than it is by the Sanctarian. In any case, we will hear it tomor—”

  “We will hear it now,” Sabran said. “As more wyrms stir, the story will comfort my ladies.”

  The fire crackled. Looking at Sabran, Ead felt a strange tension, as if there were a thread between them. Finally, she rose to take the chair beside the hearth. The place of the storyteller.

  “As you wish.” She smoothed her skirts. “Where shall I begin?”

  “With the birth of the Nameless One,” Sabran said. “When the great fiend came from the Dreadmount.”

  Katryen took the queen by the hand. Ead breathed in, steadying the roil within her. If she told the true story, she would doubtless face the pyre.

  She would have to tell the tale she heard each day at sanctuary. The butchered tale.

  Half a tale.

  “There is a Womb of Fire that churns beneath this world,” she began. “Over a thousand years ago, the magma within it came suddenly together, forming a beast of unspeakable magnitude—as a sword takes shape within the forge. His milk was the fire within the Womb; his thirst for it was quenchless. He drank until even his heart was a furnace.”

  Katryen shivered.

  “Soon this creature, this wyrm, grew too large for the Womb. He longed to use the wings it had given him. Having torn his way upward, he broke through the peak of a mountain in Mentendon, which is called Dreadmount, and brought with him a flood of molten fire. Red lightning flashed at the summit of the mountain. Darkness fell upon the city of Gulthaga, and all who lived there died choking on pernicious smoke.