Page 36 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“Majesty,” Ead finally said, “this may be too bold, but you seem not to be in high spirits today.”

“It is far too bold. You are here to see that my food is not poisoned, not to remark upon my spirits.”

“Forgive me.”

“I have been too forgiving.” Sabran snapped her book shut. “You clearly pay no heed to the Knight of Courtesy, Mistress Duryan. Perhaps you are no true convert. Perhaps you only pay empty service to my ancestor, while you secretly hold with a false religion.”

She had been here for only a minute, and already Ead was walking on quicksand.

“Madam,” she said carefully, “Queen Cleolind, your ancestor, was a crown princess of Lasia.”

“There is no need for you to remind me of that. Do you think me a halfwit?”

“I meant no such insult,” Ead said. Sabran set her prayer book to one side. “Queen Cleolind was noble and good of heart. It was through no fault of hers that she knew nothing of the Six Virtues when she was born. I may be naïve, but rather than punishing them, surely we should pity those in ignorance and lead them to the light.”

“Indeed,” Sabran said dryly. “The light of the pyre.”

“If you mean to put me to the stake, madam, then I am sorry for it. I hear we Ersyris make very poor kindling. We are like sand, too used to the sun to burn.”

The queen looked at her. Her gaze dipped to the brooch on her gown.

“You take the Knight of Generosity as your patron.”

Ead touched it.

“Yes,” she said. “As one of your ladies, I give you my loyalty, Majesty. To give, one must be generous.”

“Generosity. The same as Lievelyn.” Sabran said this almost to herself. “You may yet prove more giving than certain other ladies. First Ros insisted upon getting with child, so she was too tired to serve me, then Arbella could not walk with me, and now Kate feigns illness. I am reminded every day that none ofthemcalls Generosity their patron.”

Ead knew Sabran was angry, but it still took considerable restraint not to empty the wine over her head. The Ladies of the Bedchamber sacrificed a great deal to attend on the queen around the clock. They tasted her food and tried on her gowns, risking their own lives. Katryen, one of the most desirable women at court, would likely never take a companion. As for Arbella, she was seventy years old, had served both Sabran and her mother, and still would not retire.

Ead was spared from answering by the arrival of the meal. Truyde utt Zeedeur was among the maids of honor who would present it, but she refused to look at Ead.

Many Inysh customs had confounded her over the years, but royal meals were absurd. First, the queen was poured her choice of wine—then not one, not two, buteighteendishes were offered to her. Wafer-thin cuts of brown meat. Currants stirred into frumenty. Pancakes with black honey, apple butter, or quail eggs. Salted fish from the Limber. Woodland strawberries on a bed of snow cream.

As always, Sabran chose only a round of goldenbread. A nod toward it was the only indication.

Silence. Truyde was gazing toward the window. One of the other maids of honor, looking panicked, jabbed her with her elbow. Jolted back to the task at hand, Truyde scooped up the goldenbread with a coverpane and set it on the royal plate with a curtsy. Another maid of honor served a whorl of buttersweet.

Now for the tasting. With a sly little smile, Truyde handed Ead the bone-handled knife.

First, Ead sipped the wine. Then she sampled the buttersweet. Both were unmeddled. Next, she cut off a piece of the bun and touched it with the tip of her tongue. A drop of the dowager would make the roof of the mouth prickle, dipsas parched the lips, and eternity dust—the rarest of poisons—gave each bite of food a cloying aftertaste.

There was nothing but dense bread inside. She slid the dishes before the queen and handed the tasting knife back to Truyde, who wiped it once and enclosed it in linen.

“Leave us,” Sabran said.

Glances were exchanged. The queen usually desired amusement or gossip from the maids of honor at mealtimes. As one, they curtsied and quit the room. Ead rose last.

“Not you.”

She sat again.

The sun was brighter now, filling the Royal Solarium with light. It danced in the jug of sweetbriar wine.

“Lady Truyde seems distracted of late.” Sabran looked toward the door. “Unwell, perhaps, like Kate. I would expect such ailments to strike the court in winter.”

“No doubt it is the rose fever, madam, no more. But Lady Truyde, I think, is more likely to be homesick,” Ead said. “Or . . . she may be sick in love, as young maids often are.”

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