Page 179 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Intuition tells me that it is a vital piece of history.

He felt the heat of the fire on his skin. He saw the stars, richly painted in their constellations, as real as if their love nest opened out on to the sky.

Something about the characters sits oddly with me. Some are larger, others smaller, and they are spaced in a strange manner.

His eyes snapped open.

“Jan,” he breathed. “Oh, Jan. Your golden fox still has his cunning.”

41

South

Ead lay in her eyrie, glossed with sweat. Her blood ran hot and swift.

This had happened before. The fever. A fog had been around her for eight years, dampening her senses, and now the sun had burned it away. Each breath of wind was like a broad stroke of a finger on her skin.

The sound of the waterfall was crystal-clear. She could hear the calls of honeyguides and sunbirds and mimics in the forest. She could smell ichneumons and white orchids and the perfume of the orange tree.

She missed Sabran. With her skin this tender, the memory of her was torture. She slid a hand between her legs and imagined a cool touch on her body, silken lips, the sweetness of wine. Her hips reared once before she sank into the bed.

After, she lay quiet, burning.

It must be close to dawn by now. Another day that Sabran was alone in Inys, circled by wolves. Margret would only be able to do so much to keep her safe. She was quick-witted, but no warrior.

There had to be a way to convince the Prioress to defend the Inysh throne.

The servants had left a platter of fruit and a knife on her nightstand. For a time, she would burn through enough food for three grown men. She took a pomegranate from the platter.

As she cut away the flower, her hand slipped, made clumsy by her fever. The blade sheared the other wrist, and blood brimmed from the wound. A droplet leaked down to her elbow.

Ead looked at it for a long time, thinking. Then she shrugged on a robe and lit an oil lamp with a snap of her fingers.

An idea was taking form.

The halls were quiet tonight. On her way to the dining chamber, she stopped suddenly next to one of the doors.

She remembered running through these passageways with Jondu, carrying a squeaking Aralaq. How she had feared this corridor, knowing it was where her birthmother had drawn her final breath.

Zala du Agriya uq-Nara, who had been themungunabefore Mita Yedanya. Behind this door was the room she had died in.

There were many legendary sisters in the Priory, but Zala had made a habit of being legendary. At nineteen, in the second month of her pregnancy, she had answered a call from the young Sahar Taumargam, the future Queen of Yscalin, who was then a princess of the Ersyr. A Nuram tribe had inadvertently woken a pair of wyverns in the Little Mountains. Zala had found not two, but six of the creatures harrowing the nomads and, against the odds, she had slain them single-handed. Then she had dusted herself off and ridden all the way to the market in Zirin to satisfy her craving for rose candy.

Ead had been born half a year later, too early.You were small enough to cradle in one hand, Chassar had once told her, chuckling,but your cry could have brought down mountains, beloved.Sisters were not supposed to involve themselves too deeply with their children, for the Priory was one family, but Zala had often slipped Ead honey pastries and cuddled her close when nobody was looking.

My Ead, she had whispered, and breathed in the baby scent of her head.My evening star. If the sun burned out tomorrow, your flame would light the world.

The memory made Ead ache to be held. She had been six when Zala had died in her bed.

She placed a hand on the door and walked on.May your flame ascend to light the tree.

The dining chamber was dark and silent. Only Sarsun was there, his head tucked against his chest. When she set foot on the floor, he woke sharply.

“Shh.”

Sarsun ruffled his feathers.

Ead placed the oil lamp beside his perch. As if he sensed her intention, he hopped down to scrutinize the riddlebox. Ead took hold of the knife. When she lifted the blade to her skin, Sarsun let out a small hoot. She sliced across her palm, deep enough for blood to flow generously, and placed her hand on the lid of the box.

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