Page 40 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Harlowe had emerged from his cabin. He watched the High Western leave them behind.

“You had better start praying for salvation, my lords,” he said softly. “Fýredel, the right wing of the Nameless One, appears to have woken from his sleep.”

8

East

Sulyard snored. Yet another reason Truyde had been a fool to pledge herself to him. Not that Niclays would have been able to sleep even if his guesthadshut up, for a typhoon had blown in.

Thunder rumbled, making a horse whinny outside. Drunk on a single cup of wine, Sulyard slept through it all.

Niclays lay on his bedding, slightly drunk himself. He and Sulyard had spent the evening playing cards and exchanging stories. Sulyard had told the gloomy tale of the Never Queen, while Niclays chose the more uplifting charms of Carbuncle and Scald.

He still had no liking for Sulyard, but he owed it to Truyde to protect her secret companion. He owed it to Jannart.

Jan.

The vise of grief snapped closed around his heart. He shut his eyes, and he was back to that autumn morning when they had met for the first time in the rose garden of Brygstad Palace, when the court of the newly crowned Edvart the Second was ripe with opportunity.

In his early twenties, when he was still Marquess of Zeedeur, Jannart had been tall and striking, with magnificent red hair that rippled to the small of his back. In those days, Niclays had been one of the few Ments to have a mane of fairest auburn, more gold than copper.

That was what had drawn Jannart to him that day.Rose gold, he had dubbed it. He had asked Niclays if he might paint his portrait, thus capturing the shade for posterity, and Niclays, like any vain young courtier, had been only too pleased to oblige.

Red hair and a rose garden. That was how it had begun.

They had spent the whole season together, with the easel and music and laughter for company. Even after the portrait was finished, they had stayed joined at the hip.

Niclays had never been in love before. It was Jannart who had been intrigued enough to paint him, but soon, Niclays had longed for the ability to paint him in return, so that he might capture the darkness of those lashes, and how the sun glowed in his hair, and the elegance of his hands on the harpsichord. He had gazed at his silken lips and the place where his neck met his jaw; he had watched his blood throbbing there, in that cradle of life. He had imagined, in exhilarating detail, how his eyes would look in the morning light, when sleep made their lids heavy. That exquisite dark amber, like the honey made by black bees.

He had lived to hear that voice, deep and mellow. Oh, he could sing ballads of its tenor, and the way it climbed to the height of passion when the conversation leaned toward art or history. Those subjects had set a fire in Jannart, drawing people to its warmth. With words alone, he could beautify the dullest object or bring civilizations rising from the dust. For Niclays, he had been a sunray, illuminating every facet of his world.

He had known there was no hope. After all, Jannart was a marquess, heir to a duchy, the dearest friend of Prince Edvart, while Niclays was an upstart from Rozentun.

And yet Jannart had seen him. He had seen him, and he had not looked away.

Outside the house, the waves crashed on the fence again. Niclays turned on to his side, aching all over.

“Jan,” he said softly, “when did we get so old?”

The Mentish shipment was due any day now, and when it turned homeward, Sulyard would be with them. A few more days, and Niclays would be rid of this living reminder of Truyde and Jannart and the Saint-forsaken Inysh court. He would go back to tinkering with potions in his jailhouse at the edge of the world, exiled and unknown.

At last he dozed off, cradling the pillow to his chest. When he stirred awake, it was still dark, but the hairs on his neck stood to attention.

He sat up, peering into the black.

“Sulyard.”

No reply. Something moved in the darkness.

“Sulyard, is that you?”

When the lightning cast the silhouette into relief, he stared at the face in front of him.

“Honored Chief Officer,” he croaked, but he was already being towed out of bed.

Two sentinels bundled him toward the door. In the chokehold of terror, he somehow snatched his cane from the floor and swung with all his might. It cracked like a whip into one of their cheeks. He only had a moment to relish his accuracy before he was struck back with an iron truncheon.

He had never felt so much pain at once. His bottom lip split like fruit. Every tooth trembled in its socket. His stomach heaved at the coppery tang on his tongue.

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