Page 328 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Fýredel had not stayed to defend his Draconic territory. Instead, he had summoned his brother and sister to rout the combined armies of North and South and West. They had failed. As for Fýredel himself, he had taken wing as soon as the Nameless One had disappeared beneath the waves, and his followers had scattered once more.

The sun was rising over Yscalin. Its light fell on the blood and the char, the fire and the bones. A Seiikinese woman named Onren had brought Loth here on dragonback so he could find Margret. Standing on the wretched plain, he strained his gaze to Cárscaro.

Smoke rose from the once-great city. No one had been able to tell him whether the Donmata Marosa had survived the night. Whatwasknown was that King Sigoso, murderer of queens, was dead. His wasted corpse hung from the Gate of Niunda. Seeing it had caused his soldiers to desert.

Loth prayed the princess lived. With all his soul, he prayed she was up there, ready to be crowned.

The field hospital was a league from where the fight had begun. Several tents had been erected near a mountain stream, and the flags of all nations flew outside them.

The wounded were crying in agony. Some had burns that went deep into their flesh. Others were so covered in blood, they were unrecognizable. Loth spotted King Jantar of the Ersyr among those who were gravely hurt, lying with his warriors, tended to from all sides. One woman, whose leg had been shattered, was biting down on a leather strap while the barber-surgeons sawed it off below the knee. Healers brought in pails of water.

He found Margret in a tent for Inysh casualties. Its flaps were open to let out the reek of vinegar.

A bloodstained apron was tied over her skirts. She was kneeling beside Sir Tharian Lintley, who lay still and bruised on a pallet. A deep wound stretched from his jaw to his temple. It had been stitched with care, but he would be scarred for life.

Margret looked up at Loth. For a moment, she was blear-eyed, as if she had forgotten who he was.

“Loth.”

He crouched beside her. When she leaned into him, he enveloped her in his arms and rested his chin on the top of her head.

“I think he’ll be all right.” She smelled of smoke. “It was a soldier. Not a wyrm.”

His sister curled against his chest.

“He is dead.” Loth kissed her brow. “It’s over, Meg.”

Her face was smeared with ash. Tears washed into her eyes, and she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.

Outside, a finger of light broached the horizon, pink as a wild rose. As a new spring dawn crested the Spindles, they held each other close and watched it gild the sky.

73

West

Brygstad, capital of the Free State of Mentendon, crown jewel of learning in the West. Years he had dreamed of returning to its streets.

There were the tall and narrow houses, each with a bell gable. There were the sugared roofs. There was the crocketed spire of the Sanctuary of the Saint, towering from the heart of the city.

Niclays Roos sat in a heated coach, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak. During his convalescence at Ascalon Palace, High Princess Ermuna had written to request his presence at court. His knowledge of the East, she had told him in her letter, would help enrich the relationship between Mentendon and Seiiki. He might even be called upon to help open negotiations for a new trade deal with the Empire of the Twelve Lakes.

He wanted none of it. That court was haunted. If he walked there, all he would see were the ghosts of his past.

Still, he had to show his face. One did not refuse a royal invitation, especially if one was intending not to be banished again.

The coach trundled over the Sun Bridge. Through the window, he looked out at the frozen River Bugen and the snow-capped spires of the city he had lost. He had crossed this bridge on foot when he had first come to court, having traveled from Rozentun on a haywain. In those days, he had not been able to afford coaches. His mother had withheld his inheritance, pointing out, not erroneously, that it amounted to the cost of his degree. All he had possessed was a sharp tongue and the shirt on his back.

It had been enough for Jannart.

His left arm now ended just below the elbow. Though it ached at times, the pain was easy to ignore.

Death had kissed his cheek on theDancing Pearl. The Inysh physicians had assured him that now he was through the worst, what was left of the limb would heal. He had never trusted Inysh physicians—pious quacks, the lot of them—but he supposed he had no choice but to believe them.

It was Eadaz uq-Nara who had mortally wounded the Nameless One with the True Sword. Andthen, as if that were not sufficient heroism for one night, she and Tané Miduchi had finished him off with the jewels. It was the stuff of legend, a tale destined to be enshrined in song—and Niclays had slept through the whole damned thing. The thought made a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. Jannart would have laughed his guts out.

Somewhere in the city, bells were ringing. Someone had been wed today.

The coach passed the Free State Theatre. On some nights, Edvart had disguised himself as a minor lord and slipped out with Jannart and Niclays to watch an opera or concert or play. They had always gone drinking in the Old Quarter after so Edvart could let go of his cares for a while. Niclays closed his eyes, remembering the laughs of friends long dead.

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