Page 332 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“Everything.”

He felt her watching him as he closed the notebook. It was full of the household expenses.

“You would sooner be at the palace,” Margret said gently.

She knew him too well. Loth only drank the wine, letting it warm the hollow in his belly.

“I have always loved Serinhall. And you have always loved court. And yet I was born the second child, and you the first, so you must be Earl of Goldenbirch.” Margret sighed. “I suppose Mama thought you deserved a childhood away from Goldenbirch, since you would be rooted to it when you were older. In fact, she made us both fall in love with the wrong place.”

“Aye.” He had to smile at the absurdity of it. “Well. Nothing to be done about it.”

“I don’t know. Inys is changing,” Margret said, a sparkle in her eye. “These next few years will be difficult, but they will give this country a new face. We should allow ourselves to broaden our horizons.”

Loth looked up at her with a knitted brow. “You do say the strangest things, sister.”

“The wisest are seldom appreciated in their time.” She squeezed his shoulder before placing a letter in front of him. “This arrived this morning. Try to get some sleep, brother.”

She left. Loth turned the letter over and saw the wax seal. Impressed with the pear of the House of Vetalda.

His heart clenched like a fist. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter inside, swirled with an elegant hand.

As he read, a breeze rushed through the open window. It smelled of fresh-cut grass and hay and the life he had craved when he had been far from home. The scents of Goldenbirch.

Now something had changed. Other scents rushed like surf into his dreams. Salt and tar and cold sea wind. Mulled wine, spiced with ginger and nutmeg. And lavender. The flower that had perfumed his dream of Yscalin.

He picked up his quill and began to write.

The fire burned low in the Privy Chamber at Briar House. Frost trimmed every window as if with lace. In the gloom, Sabran lay on her back on a settle, wine-softened, looking as if she could fall asleep. Beside the hearth, long past the cusp of exhaustion, Ead drank her in.

Sometimes, when she looked at Sabran, she almost believed she was the Melancholy King, chasing a mirage across the dunes. Then Sabran would touch her lips to hers, or come to her bedside by moonlight, and she would know that it was real.

“I have something to tell you.”

Sabran looked at her.

“Sarsun came to me a few days ago,” Ead murmured. “With a letter from Chassar.”

The sand eagle had swept into Ascalon Palace and onto her arm, carrying a note. It had taken Ead a long time to work up the courage to read it, and still longer to unravel her feelings when she did.

Beloved—

I have no words to express my pride in what we have heard of your deeds on the Abyss, nor my relief that your heart beats as strong as it always has. When the Prioress sent your sister to silence you, I could do nothing. Craven as I am, I failed you, as I promised Zala I never would.

And yet I am reminded—as I so often am—that you never needed my protection. You are your own shield.

I write to you with long-awaited tidings. The Red Damsels wish you to return to Lasia to take up the mantle of the Prioress. If you accept, I will meet you in Kumenga on the first day of winter. They could use your steady hand and level head. Most of all, they could use your heart.

I hope you can forgive me. Either way, the orange tree awaits.

“Word that I was the slayer has spread,” she said. “It is the greatest honor they could bestow.”

Slowly, Sabran sat up.

“I am happy for you.” She took Ead by the hand. “You slew the Nameless One. And this was your dream.” Their gazes met. “Will you accept?”

“If I go,” Ead said, “I would be able to shape the future of the Priory.” She interlocked their fingers. “Four of the High Westerns are dead. That means their wyverns, and any progeny they sired, have lost their fire—but even without it, they pose a danger to the world. They must be hunted and slain wherever they hide. And of course . . . a great enemy remains at large.”

“Fýredel.”

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