Page 61 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

And of course, to Aleidine.

Niclays shivered. A chill rumbled through his belly when he remembered the look in her eyes at the entombment. She had known all along. She had known and said nothing.

It is not her fault my heart belongs to you, Jannart had told him once, and he had spoken true. Like many unions among those of noble blood, theirs had been arranged by their families. The betrothal had been sealed the day Jannart turned twenty, a year before Niclays had met him.

He had not been able to face going to the wedding. The knot in the strings of their fates had tortured him. If only he had arrived at court sooner, they might have been companions.

He snorted. As if the Marquess of Zeedeur would have been allowed to wed a penniless nobody from Rozentun. Aleidine had been a commoner, but her hand in marriage had come with jewels on it. Niclays, fresh out of university, would have brought the family nothing but debt.

Aleidine must be past sixty by now. Her auburn hair would be laced with silver, her mouth framed by lines. Oscarde was at least forty. Saint, how the years flew.

The breeze did nothing to cool him down. Defeated, he closed the screen and lay back on the bedding.

The warmth basted his skin. He willed himself to sleep, but his mind refused to quiet, and a low fire burned in his ankle.

By morning, there was no sign of the storm ending. He watched it water the grounds of the mansion. The servants brought him bean curd, grilled loach, and barley tea to break his fast.

At noon, a servant informed him that the Governor had granted his request. He was to visit Triam Sulyard in the jailhouse and mine what information he could from the boy. The servants also provided him with a new walking cane, made of a stronger, lighter wood. He begged a little water of them. They brought it to him in a gourd.

A closed palanquin took him to the jailhouse at dusk. Safe inside his box, Niclays peered through the blinds.

In seven years, he had never taken a step into Cape Hisan. He had heard its music and its chatter, glimpsed its lights—like fallen stars—and longed to walk its streets, but it had remained a mystery to him. His world had been closed in a fist of high walls.

The lanternlight revealed a bustling city. In Orisima, he had been surrounded by reminders of Mentendon. Now he remembered just how far from home he was. No Western settlement smelled of cedarwood or sinking incense. No Western settlement sold squid ink or iridescent floats for fishing.

And of course, no Western city paid tribute to dragons. Signs of their presence were everywhere. Merchants touted amulets on every corner, promising luck and succor from the lords of sea and rain. Almost every street housed a driftwood shrine and a basin of salt water.

The palanquin stopped outside the jailhouse. Once it was unlocked, Niclays climbed out and slapped a gnat away from his face. A pair of prison sentinels hurried him through the gate.

The first thing that hit him was the eye-watering odor of shit and piss. He gathered one sleeve to his nose and mouth. When they passed the execution ground, the strength deserted his legs. Rotting heads were displayed on a stand, tongues swollen like curl grubs.

Sulyard had been hidden in an underground room. He lay prone in his cell, a cloth around his waist. The sentinels were good enough to hand Niclays a lantern before they left.

Their footsteps receded into the black. Niclays knelt and gripped one of the wooden bars.

“Sulyard.” He rapped his cane on the floor. “Look lively.”

Nothing. Niclays slotted his cane through the bars and gave Sulyard a firm prod. He stirred.

“Truyde,” he murmured.

“Sorry to disappoint. It’s Roos.”

There was a pause. “Doctor Roos.” Sulyard unfolded himself. “I thought I was dreaming.”

“Would that you were.”

Sulyard was in bad shape. His face had bloated like dough in the oven, and his brow had been inked with the characters fortrespasser. Dried blood laddered his back and thighs.

Sulyard had no protection from a prince across the sea. Niclays might have been shocked by the brutality once, but the nations of Virtudom used crueler means to mangle the truth from prisoners.

“Sulyard,” Niclays said, “tell me what you told the questioners.”

“Only the truth.” Sulyard coughed. “That I came ashore to beg the Warlord for help.”

“Not about that. About how you reached Orisima.” Niclays pressed closer. “The other woman—the first woman you saw, the one on the beach. Did you tell them about her?”

“No.”

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