Page 27 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Roslain offered a faint smile. “I believe it would behoove us to give this new Red Prince a chance.”

“I agree.” Katryen lay on a settle, leafing through a book of poesy. “You have the Virtues Council to caution you, but your ladies to embolden you in matters such as these.”

Beside Ead, Linora was drinking in the conversation in ravening silence.

“Mistress Duryan,” Sabran said suddenly, “what is your opinion of Prince Aubrecht’s countenance?”

All eyes turned to Ead. Slowly, she set down her knife. “You ask formyjudgment, Majesty?”

“Unless there is another Mistress Duryan present.”

Nobody laughed. The room was silent as Roslain delivered the miniature into her hands.

Ead considered the Red Prince. High cheekbones. Sleek copper hair. Strong brows arched over dark eyes, a hard contrast to his pallor. The set of his mouth was somewhat grave, but his face was pleasant.

Still, miniatures could lie, and often did. The artist would have flattered him.

“He is comely enough,” she concluded.

“Faint praise indeed.” Sabran sipped from her goblet. “You are a harder judge than my other ladies, Mistress Duryan. Are the men of the Ersyr more attractive than the prince?”

“They are different, Your Majesty.” Ead paused, then added, “Less like dormice.”

The queen gazed at her, expressionless. For a moment, Ead wondered if she had been too bold. A stricken look from Katryen only served to feed her misgiving.

“You have a quick tongue as well as light feet.” The Queen of Inys reclined in her chair. “We have not spoken often since your coming to court. A long time has passed—six years, I think.”

“Eight, Your Majesty.”

Roslain shot her a warning glance. One did not correct the descendant of the Saint.

“Of course. Eight,” was all Sabran said. “Tell me, does Ambassador uq-Ispad ever write to you?”

“Not often, madam. His Excellency is busy with other matters.”

“Such as heresy.”

Ead dropped her gaze. “The ambassador is a devout follower of the Dawnsinger, Majesty.”

“But you, of course, no longer are,” Sabran said, and Ead inclined her head. “Lady Arbella tells me you pray often at sanctuary.”

How Arbella Glenn conveyed these things to Sabran was a mystery, since she never seemed to speak.

“The Six Virtues is a beautiful faith, Majesty,” Ead said, “and impossible not to believe in, when the true descendant of the Saint walks among us.”

It was a lie, of course. Her true faith—the faith of the Mother—blazed as strong as ever.

“They must tell tales of my ancestors in the Ersyr,” Sabran said. “Of the Damsel, especially.”

“Yes, madam. She is remembered in the South as the most rightwise and selfless woman of her time.”

Cleolind Onjenyu was also remembered in the South as the greatest warrior of her time, but the Inysh would never believe that. They believed that she had needed to be saved.

To Ead, Cleolind was not the Damsel.

She was the Mother.

“Lady Oliva tells me that Mistress Duryan is a born storyteller,” Roslain said, giving her a cool look. “Will you not tell us the tale of the Saint and the Damsel as you were taught it in the South, mistress?”

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