Page 219 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

He sounded like a man reborn.

“I urge you, in fellowship and faith, to rise for Her Majesty,” he shouted. “Help us reach the Queen Tower and assure her safety!”

Cries of outrage ascended from the windows.

“You. What are you doing in here?”

Ead turned. Twelve more retainers had appeared.

“It’s her,” one of them barked, and they ran toward her. “Ead Duryan, yield your weapons!”

She could not candle all of them.

Blood it would have to be.

Two swords were already in her hands. She leaped high and landed, catlike, in their midst, slicing fingers and tendons, spilling guts like a cutpurse spilling gold. Death came for them like a desert wind.

Her blades were as red as the cloak she had forsworn. And when the dead lay at her feet, she looked up, tasting iron, hands gloved in wetness.

Lady Igrain Crest stood at the end of the corridor, flanked by two knights-errant.

“Enough, Your Grace.” Ead sheathed her blades. “Enough.”

Crest appeared unruffled by the carnage.

“Mistress Duryan,” she said, eyebrows raised. “Blood, my dear, is never the way forward.”

“Rich words,” Ead replied, “from one whose hands are soaked in it.”

Crest did not flinch.

“How long have you seen yourself as the judge of queens?” Ead took a step toward her. “How long have you been punishing them for straying from whichever path you deemed virtuous?”

“You are raving, Mistress Duryan.”

“Murder is against the teachings of your ancestor. And yet . . . you judged the Berethnets and found them wanting. Queen Rosarian took a lover outside the marriage bed and, in your eyes, she was stained.” Ead paused. “Rosarian is dead because of you.”

It was an arrow loosed into the dark, aimed on little more than instinct. And yet Crest smiled.

And Ead knew.

“Queen Rosarian,” the Duchess of Justice said, “was removed by Sigoso Vetalda.”

“With your approval. Your help from inside. He was scapegoat and weapon, but you were the instigator,” Ead said. “I suppose when it all went smoothly, you understood your power. You hoped to mold the daughter into a more obedient queen than the mother. Tried to make Sabran dependent on your counsel, and to make her love you as a second mother.” She mirrored that little smile. “But of course, Sabran developed a will of her own.”

“I am the heir of Dame Lorain Crest, the Knight of Justice.” Crest spoke in a measured tone. “She who ensured that the great duel of life was conducted fairly, who weighed the cups of guilt and innocence, who punished the unworthy, and who saw to it that the righteous would triumph always over the sinners. She who was most beloved of the Saint, whose legacy I have lived to defend.”

Her eyes were now afire with fervor.

“Sabran Berethnet,” she said softly, “has destroyed the house. She is barren stock. Bastard-born. No true heir of Galian Berethnet. A Crest must wear the crown, to glorify the Saint.”

“The Saint would brook no tyrants on the throne of Inys,” a voice behind Ead said.

Sir Tharian Lintley appeared at her shoulder with nine of the Knights of the Body. They surrounded Crest and her protectors.

“Igrain Crest,” Lintley said, “you are arrested on suspicion of high treason. You will come with us to the Dearn Tower.”

“You cannot make an arrest without a warrant from Her Majesty,” Crest said, “or from myself.” She looked straight ahead, as if all of them were beneath her. “Who are you to draw your swords upon holy blood?”

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