Page 242 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“Papa,” she said, “Mama says you have been calling for me.”

Lord Clarent blinked. “Calling for you—” Slowly, he nodded. “Yes. I have something important to tell you, Margret.”

“I am here now.”

“Then you must take the secret. Loth is dead,” he said, tremulous, “so now you are heir. Only the heir to Goldenbirch may know.” The creases in his brow deepened. “Lothisdead.”

He must keep forgetting that Loth had returned. Margret glanced at Ead before she looked back at him, her thumbs circling his cheekbones.

They needed him to believe Loth was dead. It was the only way they would learn where the sword was hidden.

“He is . . . presumed dead, Papa,” Margret said quietly. “I am heir.”

His face crumpled between her hands. Ead knew how much it must be hurting Margret to tell him such a painful lie, but summoning Loth from Ascalon would take days they might not have.

“If Loth is dead, then— then you must take it, Margret,” Clarent said, eyes wet. “Hildistérron.”

The word caught Ead in the gut. “Hildistérron,” Margret murmured. “Ascalon.”

“When I became Earl of Goldenbirch, your lady grandmother told me.” Clarent kept hold of her hand. “It must be passed down to my children, and to yours. In casesheshould ever return for it.”

“She,” Ead cut in. “Lord Clarent, who?”

“She. The Lady of the Woods.”

Kalyba.

I searched for Ascalon for centuries, but Galian hid it well.

Clarent seemed agitated now. He looked at them both with fear.

“I don’t know you,” he whispered. “Who are you?”

“Papa,” Margret said at once, “it’s Margret.” When confusion washed into his eyes, her voice quaked: “Papa, I pray you, stay with me. If you do not tell me now, it will be lost to the fog in your mind.” She squeezed his hands. “Please. Tell me where Ascalon is hidden.”

He clung to her as if she were the embodiment of his memory. Margret held still as he leaned toward her, and his cracked lips came against her ear. Ead watched with a pounding heart as they moved.

At that moment, the door opened, and Lady Annes came into the room.

“Time for your sleepwater, Clarent,” she said. “Margret, he must rest now.”

Clarent cradled his head in his hands. “My son.” His shoulders heaved with sobs. “My son is dead.”

Lady Annes took a step forward, her brow furrowing. “No, Clarent, it is good news. Loth is back—”

“My son is dead.”

Sobs racked him. Margret pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes brimming. Ead took her by the elbow and ushered her out, leaving Lady Annes to tend to her companion.

“What a thing to tell him,” Margret said thickly.

“You had to.”

Margret nodded. Dabbing the wet from her eyes, she pulled Ead straight into her own bedchamber, where she fumbled for a quill and parchment and scratched out the message.

“Before I forget what Papa said,” she murmured.

You know me from song. My truth is unsung.

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