Page 152 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Throwing a final, unreadable look at Ead, Sabran was escorted away by Lintley and Sir Gules Heath, who kept a reassuring hand at the small of her back. Ead waited for them to vacate the Great Bedchamber before she ran.

In her own rooms, she changed and threw on a hooded cloak before grabbing her longbow. She would have to aim true. Only certain parts of a High Western could be pierced.

The arrows were vast things. She took them and sheathed her arm in a leather bracer. It had been twelve years since she had fought a wyrm without her siden, but she, of all the people in this city, had the greatest chance of driving off the High Western.

She needed a vantage point. Carnelian House, where many of the courtiers lodged, would give her a clear view.

She took the Florell Stair, which connected on the third floor to the main stair of the Queen Tower. She could hear the Knights of the Body coming down it.

She quickened her pace. The stairs spiraled in a rush beneath her. Soon she emerged into the biting chill of the night. Fleet-footed, unseen by the guards, she skirted the edge of the Sundial Garden and, with a great leap, caught hold of a blind arch on the north-facing side of Carnelian House. Each adornment on the walls gave her a handhold.

A bitter wind pulled at her hair as she climbed. Her body was no longer as strong as it had been in Lasia, and she had not tested her limbs like this in months. She ached all over by the time she hitched herself on to the roof.

The Knights of the Body and the ladies-in-waiting emerged from the Queen Tower and gathered into a protective knot around Sabran and Heath. The party struck out from the vestibule and across the Sundial Garden.

When they were halfway across, Ead beheld a sight that would have been unthinkable a year ago.

Wyverns coming toward Ascalon Palace, screaming like crows surrounding a carcass.

She had seen nothing like this in all her years. These were no blear-eyed creatures jarred from their sleep, scavenging for livestock. This was a declaration of war. Not only were these wyverns bold enough to show themselves in the capital, but they wereflocking.As dread threatened to freeze her, she thought back to her lessons in the Priory.

Wyverns would only fly in these numbers if they were united by a High Western. If she killed the master, they would scatter.

Her breath clouded before her. The High Western had not yet shown itself, but she caught its foul stench on the wind, like the fumes from a fire mountain. She slid an arrow from her quiver.

The Mother had designed these arrows. Long enough to pierce the thickest Draconic armor, made of metal from the Dreadmount, they froze at the lightest touch of ice or snow.

Her fingers prickled. The reek of brimstone blew through the courtyard, and the snow thawed around her boots.

She knew the cadence of wings when she heard it. Thunderous as the footsteps of a giant.

With everywhump, the ground quaked. A drumbeat of impending grief.

The High Western tore through the night. Almost as large as Fýredel, its scales were pale as bone. It crashed down next to the clock tower and, with a bone-shattering lash of its tail, threw a group of palace guards across the courtyard. More charged at it with swords and partizans. With this monstrosity blocking the way, Lintley and the Knights of the Body could no longer reach the entrance to the cellars.

In the days after Fýredel had come, several weapons on the walls of Ascalon Palace had been set on rounds of wood, allowing them to be revolved. Cannons flung gunstones at the intruder. Two hit it in the flank, another in the thigh—hard enough to break bone on a wyvern—but they only served to incense the High Western. It scoured the walls with its spiked tail, sweeping away the guards who had been trying to load a harpoon. Their screams died as quickly as they began.

Ead dragged the arrow through the snow, freezing it, and fitted it to her bow. She had seen Jondu fell a wyvern with one well-placed shot, but this was a High Western, and her arm was no longer strong enough to make a full draw. Years of needlework had milked her strength. Without that, and without her siden, her chances of a hit were slim.

A breath left her. She released the bow and, with athrwang, the arrow skirred toward the wyrm. It moved at the last, and the arrow just missed its flank. Ead glimpsed Lintley at the northwest corner of the Sundial Garden, hurrying his charges into the cover of the Marble Gallery.

Retreating to the Queen Tower would now take Sabran into full view of the wyrm. They were trapped. If Ead could distract the beast, and if they were quick, they might be able to slip past unnoticed and make a break for the cellars.

Another arrow was in her hand a moment later, nocked and drawn. This time, she angled it toward a softer part of the face before she let go. It clanked off a scaled eyelid.

The slit of the pupil constricted, and the High Western turned its head to face her. Now its attention was all hers.

She iced a third arrow.

Hurry, Lintley.

“Wyrm,” she called in Selinyi. “I am Eadaz du Zala uq-Nara, a handmaiden of Cleolind. I carry the sacred flame. Leave this city untouched, or I will see you brought down.”

The Knights of the Body had reached the end of the Marble Gallery. The wyrm gazed at her with eyes as green as willow. She had never seen that eye color in a Draconic thing.

“Mage,” it said in the same tongue, “your fire is spent. The God of the Mountain comes.”

Its voice churned like a millstone through the palace. Ead did not flinch.

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