Page 25 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Sulyard flushed. “We . . . did not ask Her Majesty for permission. No one knows of it.”

He was braver than he looked. Sabran dealt harsh punishments to those who married in secret. It was where she differed from the late Queen Mother, who had been fond of a good love story.

“Your lady must be of a low station ifyouhad to marry her in secret,” Niclays mused.

“No! My lady is noble-born. She is as sweet as the richest honey, as beautiful as an autumn fore—”

“Saint, enough. You’re giving me a headache.” One had to wonder how Sabran had kept him around without having his tongue ripped out. “How old are you, exactly, Sulyard?”

“Eighteen.”

“A grown man, then. Old enough to know that not all dreams should be pursued, especially not dreams conceived on the feather-bed of love. If the Chief Officer had found you, you would have been taken to the Governor of Cape Hisan. Not to the Warlord.” Niclays sipped his tea. “I will humor you again, Sulyard. If you know Sabran to be in danger—so much danger that she needs assistance from Seiiki, which I doubt—then why not tell her?”

Sulyard hesitated.

“Her Majesty mistrusts the East, to her own detriment,” he finally said, “and they are the only ones who can help us. Even when she is made aware of the danger she faces, which will no doubt be soon, her pride would never allow her to ask for Eastern aid. If I couldonlytalk to the Warlord on her behalf, Truyde said she might realize the—”

“Truyde.”

The cup shook in his hands.

“Truyde,” he whispered. “Not—not Truyde utt Zeedeur. Daughter of Lord Oscarde.”

Sulyard was frozen.

“Doctor Roos,” he began, after an agony of stammering, “it must be a secret.”

Before he could stop it, Niclays laughed again. This time it had an edge of madness.

“My, my,” he cried, “but you arequitethe companion, Master Sulyard! First you marry the Marchioness of Zeedeur without permission, an act that could destroy her reputation. Then you abandon her, and finally, you let slip her name to a man who knew her grandsire well.” He dabbed his eyes on his sleeve. Sulyard looked as if he might faint. “Ah, how worthy you are of her love. What will you tell me next—that you left her great with child, too?”

“No, no—” Sulyard crawled toward him. “I beseech you, Doctor Roos, do not expose our transgression. Iamunworthy of her love, but . . . love her I do. It hurts my soul.”

Niclays kicked him away, disgusted. It hurthissoul that Truyde had chosen such a pail of Inysh milk for a companion.

“I won’t be exposingher, I assure you,” he sneered, making Sulyard weep harder. “She is the heir to the Duchy of Zeedeur, blood of the Vatten. Let us pray that, one day, she weds someone with a backbone.” He sat back. “Besides, even if I were to write to Prince Leovart to inform him that Lady Truyde has secretly wed beneath her station, it would take weeks for the ship to cross the Abyss. By that time, she will have forgotten you existed.”

Sniffing, Sulyard managed to say, “Prince Leovart is dead.”

The High Prince of Mentendon. The only person who had tried to help Niclays in Orisima.

“That would certainly explain why he ignores my letters.” Niclays raised his cup to his lips. “When?”

“Less than a year ago, Doctor Roos. A wyvern burned his hunting lodge to ashes.”

Niclays felt a pang of loss for Leovart. No doubt the Viceroy of Orisima had known the news, but chosen not to pass it on.

“I see,” he said. “Who now rules Mentendon?”

“Prince Aubrecht.”

Aubrecht. Niclays remembered him as a reserved young man who cared little for anything but prayer books. Though he had been of age when the sweat took his uncle, Edvart, it had been decided that Leovart—Edvart’s own uncle—would rule first, to show tender-hearted Aubrecht the way. Of course, once Leovart was on the throne, he had found excuses not to vacate it.

Now Aubrecht had taken his rightful place. He would need a will of iron if he meant to control Mentendon.

Niclays pulled his thoughts away from home before he could fall into them for good. Sulyard was still looking at him, face blotched with pink.

“Sulyard,” Niclays said, “go home. When the Mentish shipment arrives, stow away. Go back to Truyde and run away to the Milk Lagoon, or . . . wherever lovers go these days.” When Sulyard opened his mouth, he said, “Trust me. You can do nothing here but die.”

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