Page 175 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Mita Yedanya was a blunt woman, brisk in everything. She delivered Ead her dream as if it were a piece of fruit on a platter. Her years in Inys had only ever been meant to bring her closer to that cloak.

Yet the timing of this was purposeful, and it stuck in her craw. The Prioress was using this to conciliate her. As though she were a child to be distracted by a bauble.

“Thank you,” Ead said. “I am honored.”

Ead and Chassar ate in silence for a time, and Ead sipped the cloudy wine.

“Prioress,” she said at last, “I must ask what became of Jondu. Did she ever return to Lasia?”

When the Prioress looked away, her mouth a grim line, Chassar shook his head. “No, beloved.” He placed a hand over hers. “Jondu is with the Mother now.”

Something died inside Ead. She had been certain,certain, that Jondu would find her way back to the Priory. Sure-footed, fierce, dauntless Jondu. Mentor, sister, constant friend.

“Are you sure?” she asked quietly.

“Yes.”

Pain flowered sharply in her midriff. She closed her eyes, imagined that pain as a candle, and snuffed it.

Later. She would let the grief burn when there was room for it to breathe.

“She did not die in vain,” Chassar continued. “She set out to find the sword of Galian the Deceiver. She did not find Ascalon in Inys—but she did find something else.”

Sarsun tapped a talon on his perch. Numbed by the news, Ead looked dully at the object beside him.

A box.

“We do not know how to open it,” Chassar admitted as Ead stood. “A riddle stands between us and its secret.”

Slowly, Ead approached the box and ran a finger over the grooves on its surface. What the untaught eye would see as mere decoration, she knew to be Selinyi, that ancient language of the South, the letters wound and intertwined to make them hard to read.

a key without a lock or seam

to raise the sea in times of strife

it closed in clouds of salt and steam

it opens with a golden knife

“I assume you have tried all the knives in the Priory,” Ead said.

“Of course.”

“Perhaps it refers to Ascalon, then.”

“Ascalon was said to have a silver blade.” Chasser sighed. “The Sons of Siyati are searching the archives for an answer.”

“We must pray they find it,” the Prioress said. “If Jondu was willing to die to put this box into our possession, she must have felt that we could open it. Devoted to the end.” She looked to Ead again. “For now, Eadaz, you must go forth and eat of the tree. After eight years, I know your fire is spent.” She paused. “Would you like one of your sisters to go with you?”

“No,” Ead said. “I will go alone.”

Evening turned to night. When the stars were burning over the Vale of Blood, Ead began the descent.

One thousand steps took her to the very foot of the valley. Her bare feet sank into grass and loam. She paused for a moment, to breathe in the night, before she let her robe fall.

White blossom strewed the valley. The orange tree loomed, its branches spread like open hands. Every step she took toward it seared her throat. She had crossed half the world to return here, to the wellspring of her power.

The night seemed to embrace her as she descended to her knees. As her fingers sank into the earth, the tears of relief overran, and each breath came like the drag of a knife up her throat. She forgot about everyone she had ever known. There was only the tree. The giver of fire. It was her one purpose, her reason to live. And it was calling to her, after eight years, promising the sacred flame.

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