Page 54 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

She was a child again, shaded from the sun by the branches of the tree. The fruit hung above her head, too high for her to reach, and Jondu was callingCome here, Eadaz, come and see.

Then the Prioress was lifting a cup to her lips, saying it was the blood of the Mother. It tasted like sunlight and laughter and prayer. She had burned like this in the days that followed, burned until the fire melted away her ignorance. That day she had been born anew.

When she woke, a familiar woman was at her bedside, pouring water from a ewer to a bowl.

“Meg.”

Margret turned to her so quickly she almost knocked the ewer over.

“Ead!” With a laugh of relief, she leaned in to kiss her brow. “Oh, thank the Saint. You’ve been insensible for days. The physicians said you had an ague, then the sweat, then the pestilence—”

“Sabran,” Ead rasped. “Meg, is she well?”

“We must first establish ifyouare well.” Margret felt her cheeks, her neck. “Does anything hurt? Should I fetch a physician?”

“No physicians. I am perfectly all right.” Ead wet her lips. “Have you anything to drink?”

“Of course.”

Margret filled a cup and held it up to her mouth. Ead swallowed a little of the ale inside.

“You were in the belfry,” Margret said. “What were you doing up there?”

Ead pieced a lie together. “I took a wrong turn in the library. I found the door to the clock tower open and thought I would explore, and there I was when the beast came. I suppose its . . . dreadful fumes gave me this fever.” Before Margret could question this, she added, “Now, tell me if Sabran is all right.”

“Sabran is as well as I have ever seen her, and all Inys knows that Fýredel himself could not touch her with his fire.”

“Where is the wyrm now?”

Margret returned the cup to the nightstand and soaked a cloth in the bowl.

“Gone.” Her brow pinched. “There were no deaths, but he did set fire to a few storehouses. Captain Lintley says the city is on edge. Sabran sent out heralds to reassure the people of her protection, but no one can believe that a High Western has woken.”

“It was bound to happen,” Ead said. “Smaller things have been stirring for some time.”

“Aye, but never one of the overlords. Fortunately, most of the city has no idea that what they saw was the right wing of the Nameless One. All the tapestries depicting him are hidden away in here.” Margret wrung out the cloth. “Him and his infernal kin.”

“He said Orsul had already woken.” Ead took another sip of ale. “And Valeysa soon.”

“At least the others are long dead. And of course, the Nameless One himself cannot return. Not while the House of Berethnet endures.”

When Ead tried to sit up, her arms shook, and she slumped back into the pillows. Margret went to the door to speak to a servant before returning.

“Meg,” Ead said, while Margret dabbed her brow, “I know what happened to Loth.”

Margret stilled. “He wrote to you?”

“No.” Ead glanced toward the door. “I overheard the Dukes Spiritual speaking with Sabran. Combe claims Loth has gone to Cárscaro as a spy—to find out what is happening there, and to look for Wilstan Fynch. He said Loth went without permission . . . but I think we both know the truth of it.”

Slowly, Margret sat back. Her hand came to her middle.

“Saint save my brother,” she murmured. “He is no spy. Combe has sentenced him to death.”

Silence fell, broken only by the birds outside.

“I told him, Ead,” Margret finally said. “I told him a friendship with a queen was not the same as any other, that he needed to be careful. But Loth never listens.” She raised a sad, wry smile. “My brother thinks that everyone is just as good as he is.”

Ead tried to find some words of comfort, but had none. Loth was in too much danger.

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