Page 123 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“My Knights of the Body are also outside,” Sabran cut in, “but if we die, their labors to protect us will be in vain. They will have to think of us as well as themselves.”

Lievelyn framed her face in his hands.

“Sweeting,” he said, “I will be all right.”

For the first time, Ead saw how deeply in love with Sabran he was, and it shook her. “Damn you, you are my companion. You have shared my bed. My flesh. My—my heart,” Sabran snapped at him. Her face was taut, her voice ragged. “And you will not leave our daughter fatherless, Aubrecht Lievelyn. You will not leave us here to mourn you.”

His face twitched from one expression to another. Hope kindled a light in his eyes.

“Is it true?”

Holding his gaze, Sabran took his hand in hers and guided it to her belly.

“It is true,” she said very softly.

Lievelyn released a breath. A smile pulled at his mouth, and he stroked a thumb over her cheek.

“Then I am the most fortunate of all princes,” he whispered. “And I swear to you, our child will be the most beloved princess who ever lived.” Breathing out, he gathered Sabran to his chest. “My queen. My blessing. I will love you both until I am worthy of my good fortune.”

“You are already worthy.” Sabran kissed his jaw. “Do you not wear my love-knot ring?”

She set her chin on his shoulder. Her hands stroked up and down his back, and her eyes fluttered shut as he touched his lips to her temple. Whatever tension had been there was erased. A flame pressed into nonexistence as the rift between their bodies closed.

Fists hammered on the doors.

“Sabran,” a voice called. “Majesty, it’s Kate, with Margret! Please, let us in!”

“Kate, Meg—” Sabran pulled away from Lievelyn at once. “Let them in,” she barked at Lambren. “Make haste, Sir Grance.”

Too slow, Ead heard the trick. It was not Lady Katryen Withy behind that door. It was an imitation. The mockery of a mimic.

“No,” she said sharply. “Stop.”

“How dare you countermand my orders?” Sabran rounded on her. “Who gave you authority?”

She was flushed with anger, but Ead kept her nerve. “Majesty, it is not Katryen—”

“I think I should know her voice.” Sabran nodded to Lambren. “Let my ladies in. Now.”

He was a Knight of the Body, so he obeyed.

Ead wasted no time. One of her knives was already slicing through the air when Lambren unlocked the doors and someone crashed into the sanctuary. The intruder avoided whirling death with one deft turn, fired a pistol at Lambren, then pointed it at Ead.

Lambren collapsed with a peal of armor on stone. The bullet was buried between his eyes.

“Don’t move, Ersyri,” a voice said. The pistol smoked. “Put down that knife.”

“So you can kill the Queen of Inys?” Ead remained still. “I would sooner you kept that pistol onmyheart—but I suspect you only have one bullet, else all of us would be dead.”

The cutthroat gave no answer.

“Who sent you?” Sabran squared her shoulders. “Who conspires to end the bloodline of the Saint?”

“The Cupbearer wishes you no ill, Your Majesty, except when you do not listen to reason. Except when you lead Inys down paths it should not tread.”

Cupbearer.

“Paths,” the woman continued, her voice muffled by the plague mask, “that will lead Inys toward sin.”

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