Page 73 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“Perhaps we could have some—” Kit began, but the man had already vanished behind a tapestry. “Food.”

“We can eat tomorrow,” Loth said. Every word echoed in this corridor. “Who else do you think is here?”

“I am no expert on the subject of foreign ambassadors, but we must assume there are some Ments about.” Kit rubbed his grumbling stomach. “They have their fingers in every pie.”

That was true. It was said there was no place in the world the Ments refused to go.

“Meet me here at noonday,” Loth said. “We ought to discuss what to do.”

Kit clapped him on the back and went into one of the chambers. Loth slotted his key into the other door.

It took his eyes a moment to attune to the shadows in his bedchamber. The Yscals might have declared their allegiance to the Nameless One, but they clearly spared no expense in the upkeep of their ambassadors-in-residence. Nine windows lined the west-facing wall, one smaller than the others. On closer inspection, this turned out to be a door to an enclosed balcony.

A canopy bed dominated the north end of the room. An iron candle holder stood beside it. The candles were formed of a pearlescent wax, and their flameswerered. True red. His chest had been set down nearby. On the south end, he swept aside a velvet curtain to discover a stone bath, full to the brim with steaming water.

The windows made him feel as if all Yscalin could see in. He closed the drapes and snuffed all but a handful of the candles. They released a puff of black smoke when extinguished.

He sank into the water and lay there for a long while. When his aches had dulled, he found a cake of olive soap and set about getting the ash from his hair.

Wilstan Fynch might have slept in this very chamber while he investigated the murder of Queen Rosarian, the woman he had loved. He might have been here when the lavender fields burned, and when the birds flew out with news that the Chainmail of Virtudom had lost a link.

Loth poured water over his head. If someone in Cárscaro had arranged for Queen Rosarian to die, that same person might be trying to kill Sabran. To remove her before she gave Virtudom an heir. To resurrect the Nameless One.

With a shiver, Loth rose from the bath and reached for the folded linen beside it. He used his knife to shave, leaving a patch of hair on his chin and a little on his upper lip. As he worked, his mind lingered on Ead.

He was sure Sabran was safe with her. From the moment he had first seen her in the Banqueting House—a woman with acorn skin and watchful eyes, whose posture had been almost regal—he had sensed an inner warmth. Not the heat of wyrmfire, but something soft and golden, like the first light of a summer morning.

Margret had been telling him for a year that he should marry Ead. She was beautiful, she made him laugh, and they could talk for hours. He had brushed his sister off—not only because the future Earl of Goldenbirch could not take a commoner as a bride, as she knew full well, but because he loved Ead as he loved Margret, as he loved Sabran. As a sister.

He had not yet experienced the all-consuming love reserved for a companion. At thirty, he was more than old enough to be wed, and he longed to honor the Knight of Fellowship by partaking in that most sacred institution.

Now he might never have a chance.

A silk nightshirt was laid out on the bed, but he donned his own, crumpled from travel, before stepping on to the balcony.

The air was cooling. Loth rested his arms on the balustrade. Below him, Cárscaro sprawled toward the sheer drop to the plateau. The glow from the lava stained every street. Loth watched a silhouette plummet from above and drink from the river of fire.

At midnight, he gingerly climbed into the bed and drew the coverlet to his chest.

When he slept, he dreamed his sheets were poisoned.

Close to noonday, Kit found him sitting by his table in the shade of the balcony, gazing down at the plateau.

“Well met, sirrah,” Loth said.

“Ah, sirrah, ’tis a beautiful day in the land of death and evil.” Kit was carrying a trencher. “These people might worship the Nameless One, but what fine beds! I never slept better.”

Kit could never be serious, and Loth could never help but smile at his outlook, even here. “Where did you find food?”

“The first place I look for in any new building is the kitchen. I hand-signed at the servants until they understood that I was famished. Here.” He set the trencher on the table. “They will bring us something more filling later.”

The board was piled with fruit and toasted nuts, a jug of straw wine and two goblets. “You ought not to have wandered off alone, Kit,” Loth said.

“My belly waits for no man.” When he saw his expression, Kit sighed. “All right.”

The sun was an open wound, the sky a thousand variations on pink. A pale mist hung over the plain. Loth had never seen a view quite like it. They were shielded from the brunt of the heat, but their collarbones were jeweled with sweat.

It must have been unspeakably beautiful when the lavender still grew. Loth tried to imagine walking through the open-air corridors in the summer, warmed by a perfumed breeze.

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