Page 106 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Its eyes were round and amber, wolflike, ringed by black skin. White markings striped the end of its tail. At present, its face was covered in bloody tufts of feather. It stalked toward Loth, impossibly light-footed for its bulk, and sniffed at his cloak.

Tentatively, Loth held out a hand. Once it had nosed his glove, the ichneumon growled. It must smell the plague in him, the scent of its age-old foe. Loth held still as hot breath dampened his cheek. After some time, the ichneumon bent its front legs and let out a bark.

“What is it, friend?” Loth asked. “What do you want me to do?”

He could have sworn it sighed. It pushed its head under his arm.

“No. I have the plague.” His voice was weak with exhaustion. “Don’t come near.”

It occurred to him that he had never heard of an animal catching the Draconic plague. Warmth exuded from its fur—a gentle, animal warmth, not the red-hot scorch of wyrmfire.

His strength reborn, Loth shouldered his pack. He knotted his fingers into thick fur and climbed on to the ichneumon.

“I would go to Rauca,” he said, “if you will show me the way.”

The ichneumon barked again and sprang down the mountainside. As it ran, its paws swift as the winds, Loth whispered a prayer of gratitude to the Damsel and the Saint. He knew now that they had put him on this path, and he meant to follow it to the bitter end.

At dawn, the ichneumon prowled to a stop on a crag of rock. Loth smelled sunbaked earth and the spice of flowers. Before them lay the dusty foothills of the Spindles—and beyond those, a desert sprawled as far as the eye could see, powdered gold beneath the sun. It could almost be a mirage in the heat, but he knew that it was real.

Against all odds, he looked upon the Desert of the Unquiet Dream.

24

West

Early autumn was bittersweet. Ead awaited word from Chassar as to whether the Prioress would permit her to stay in Inys for a little longer, but no messages came.

As the winds blew colder and the fashions of summer were exchanged for fur-trimmed reds and browns, the court fell in love with the prince consort. To the surprise of all and sundry, he and Sabran began to watch masques and plays in the Presence Chamber together. Such entertainment had always occurred, but the queen had not attended in several years, except for the betrothal celebrations. She would call for her fools and laugh at their capers. She would bid the maids of honor dance for her. Sometimes she would take her companion by the hand, and they would smile at each other as if there were nobody else in the world.

Ead stood close throughout it all. Nowadays, she was seldom far from the queen.

Not long after the marriage, Sabran woke to find blood on her sheets. It sent her into a rage that left Roslain wringing her hands and the rest of the Upper Household cowering. Even Prince Aubrecht retreated for the day to hunt in Chesten Forest.

Ead supposed it was to be expected. Sabran was a queen, born with the expectation that the world had a duty to provide what she wanted,whenshe wanted it—but she could not command her own womb to bear fruit.

“I woke today with a great craving for cherries,” Sabran remarked to Ead one morning. “What do you suppose it means?”

“Cherries are no longer in season, madam,” Ead had answered. “Perhaps you miss the bounty of summer.”

The queen had bridled, but said nothing more. Ead had continued brushing her cloak.

She would not indulge Sabran in this. Katryen and Roslain told Sabran what she wished to hear, but Ead was resolved to tell her what she needed to know.

Sabran had never been a patient woman. She soon became reluctant to join her companion at night, staying with her ladies to play cards into the small hours. By day, she was tired and captious. Katryen fretted to Roslain that this frame of mind could make a womb less welcoming, which made Ead want to dash her head until her teeth fell out.

It was not just the dearth of a child that must trouble the queen. Defending Mentendon from the wyrms in the Spindles was already proving to be a greater financial burden than anticipated. Lievelyn had brought a dowry, but it would soon run dry.

Ead was privy to this sort of knowledge now. Intimate, secret knowledge. She knew Sabran would sometimes lie in bed for hours, held there by a sorrow that ran in her bloodline. She knew she had a scar on her left thigh, gained when she had fallen from a tree when she was twelve. And she knew how she both hoped for a pregnancy and feared it more than anything.

Sabran might call Briar House her nest, but at present it was more of a cage. Rumors haunted its corridors and cloisters. The very walls seemed to hold their breath.

Ead herself was no stranger to rumors. Nobody could stop speculating on what a baseborn convert had done to become a Lady of the Bedchamber. Even she had no notion of why Sabran had chosen her over the many noble women in the Upper Household. Linora flung her many a sour look, but Ead paid her little mind. She had stomached these beef-witted courtiers for eight years.

One morning, she dressed in one of her autumn gowns and left to take the air before Sabran woke. Nowadays she had to be up with the lark if she meant to have any time alone with her thoughts. She spent most of each day with Sabran, her access to the queen almost unbounded.

The dawn was fresh and crisp, the cloisters mercifully silent. The only sound was the coo of a wood pigeon. Ead burrowed into the fur collar of her cloak as she passed the statue of Glorian the Third, the queen who had led Inys through the Grief of Ages. It depicted her riding in armor, full to bursting with child, sword raised in defiance.

Glorian had come to power on the day Fýredel slew her parents. The war had been unexpected, but Glorian Shieldheart had not balked. She had married the elderly Duke of Córvugar and betrothed their unborn child to Haynrick Vatten of Mentendon, all while leading the defense of Inys. On the day her daughter was born, she had taken the babe onto the battlefield to show her armies that there was hope. Ead could not decide if that was madness or mettle.

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