Page 120 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“Just one last touch,” she said, and slipped a necklace around Sabran’s throat. Graduated sapphires and pearls, and a pendant shaped like a seahorse. “You remember.”

“Of course.” Sabran traced the pendant, her expression distant. “My mother gave it to me.”

Roslain placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let her be with you now. She would be so proud.”

The Queen of Inys studied the glass a moment longer. Finally, she gathered her breath and turned.

“My ladies,” she said, with a faint smile, “how do I look?”

Katryen tucked a strand of hair into her crown and nodded. “Like the blood of the Saint, Your Majesty.”

By ten of the clock, the sky was blinding in its blueness. The ladies-in-waiting escorted Sabran to the gates of Briar House, where Aubrecht Lievelyn was waiting in a greatcloak with the six Dukes Spiritual. Seyton Combe, as usual, had a clement smile on his lips. Ead itched to swipe it away.

He might look pleased with himself, but he had clearly made no progress on the matter of the cutthroats. Neither, to her frustration, had Ead. Much as she wanted to investigate, her duties left her with so little time.

If the killers were to strike again, it would be today.

While Sabran was given a hand into the royal coach, Igrain Crest held out a hand to her granddaughter.

“Roslain,” she said, smiling. “How lovely you are today, child. The jewel of my world.”

“Oh, Grandmother, you are too generous.” Roslain curtsied and kissed her on the cheek. “Good day.”

“We can only hope itwillbe a good day, Lady Roslain,” Lord Ritshard Eller muttered. “I mislike the queen walking among the commons.”

“Everything will be fine,” Combe said. His livery collar reflected the sunlight. “Her Majesty and His Royal Highness are well protected. Are they not, Sir Tharian?”

“Never more so than they will be today, Your Grace,” Lintley said, with a smart bow.

“Hm.” Eller looked unconvinced. “Very good, Sir Tharian.”

Ead shared a coach with Roslain and Katryen. As they trundled away from the palace, into the thick of the city, she gazed out of the window.

Ascalon was the first and only capital of Inys. Its cobbled streets were home to thousands of people from all corners of Virtudom and beyond. Before Galian had returned to these isles, they had been a patchwork of ever-warring territories, ruled by a surfeit of overlords and princelings. Galian had united them all under one crown. His crown.

The capital he built, named after his sword, was said to have been a paradise once. Now it was as rife with knavery and filth as any other city.

Most of the buildings were stone. After the Grief of Ages, when fire had raged across Inys, a law had been passed to ban thatched roofs. Only a handful of wooden houses, designed by Rosarian the Second, had been allowed to remain, for their beauty. Dark timberwork, arranged in opulent designs, formed a striking contrast to the white of their filling.

The richer wards were rich indeed. Queenside boasted fifty goldsmiths and twice as many silversmiths. Hend Street was for workshops, where inventors devised new weapons to defend Inys. On the Isle of Knells, Pounce Lane was for poets and playwrights, Brazen Alley for booksellers. Goods from elsewhere in the world were sold at the great market in Werald Square. Bright Lasian copper and ceramic and gold jewelry. Mentish paintings and marquetry and salt-glazed pottery. Rare cranberry glass from the old Serene Republic of Carmentum. Perfume burners and skystone from the Ersyr.

In the poorer wards the royal party would visit today, like Kine End and the Setts, life was less beautiful. In these wards were the shambles, the brothels—disguised as inns to avoid the Order of Sanctarians—and alehouses where footpads counted stolen coin.

Tens of thousands of Inysh were out in force, waiting for a glimpse of their queen. The sight of them struck disquiet into Ead. There had been no cutthroats since the marriage, but she was certain the threat had not yet diminished.

The royal procession stopped outside the Sanctuary of Our Lady, which was believed to house the tomb of Cleolind. (Ead knew that it did not.) It was the highest building in Inys, taller even than the Alabastrine Tower, made of a pale stone that shone beneath the sun.

Ead stepped from the coach, into the light. It had been a long time since she had walked the streets of Ascalon, but she knew them well. Before Chassar had presented her to Sabran, she had spent a month learning every vein and sinew of the city so she would find her way if she ever had to flee from court.

A concourse had gathered at the steps of the sanctuary, hungry for attention from their sovereign. They had scattered queenflower and jewel lilies over the cobblestones. While the maids of honor and the Extraordinary Chamberers emerged from their coaches with Oliva Marchyn, Ead took stock of the crowd.

“I don’t see Lady Truyde,” she said to Katryen.

“She has a headache.” Katryen pursed her lips. “A fine day for it.”

Margret came to stand beside them. “I expected a great many people,” she said, breath clouding, “but by the Saint, I think the whole city has come.” She nodded to the royal coach. “Here we go.”

Ead braced herself.

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