Page 91 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“I hope you slept well, Father,” the Donmata said in Inysh.

“I dreamed of a clock tower and a woman with a fire within her. I dreamed she was my enemy.” King Sigoso stared at Loth, flexing his arms in their chains. “Who is this?”

“This is Lord Arteloth Beck of Goldenbirch. He is our new ambassador from Inys.” The Donmata forced a smile. “I wondered if you would care to tell him how Queen Rosarian died.”

Sigoso breathed like a bellows. His gaze darted between them, a hunter sizing up two morsels.

“I ended Rosarian.”

The way he spoke that name, rolling it about on his tongue like a comfit, gave Loth a chill.

“Why?” the Donmata said.

“That venereal slut refused my hand. The hand ofroyalty,” Sigoso spat out. The cords in his neck strained. “She would rather whore herself for pirates and lordlings than unite with the blood of the House of Vetalda—” Spittle ran from his mouth. “Daughter, I am burning.”

With a glance at Loth, the Donmata went to his nightstand, where a cloth lay beside a bowl of water. She soaked the cloth and set it on his brow.

“I had her a gown made,” Sigoso continued. “A gown of such beauty that a vain harlot like Rosarian could never resist it. I had it laced with basilisk venom I bought from a merchant prince, and I sent it to Inys to be hid among her garments.”

Loth was shivering. “Who hid it?” he whispered. “Who hid the gown?”

“He will not speak to anyone but me,” the Donmata murmured. “Father, who hid the gown?”

“A friend in the palace.”

“In the palace,” Loth echoed. “By the Saint. Who?”

The Donmata repeated his question. Sigoso chuckled, but it splintered into a cough.

“The cupbearer,” he said.

Loth stared. The position of cupbearer had been defunct for centuries.

The gown would have been planted in the Privy Wardrobe. The Mistress of the Robes at the time had been Lady Arbella Glenn, and she would never have hurt her queen.

“I hope,” Sigoso said, “that there was some of the strumpet left to bury. Basilisk venom is so strong.” He hacked up a laugh. “Even bone yields before its bite.”

At this, Loth drew his baselard.

“Forgive my lord father.” The Donmata gazed soullessly at the Flesh King. “I would say that he is not himself, but I think he is as much himself as he has ever been.”

Disgusted, Loth took a step toward the bed. “The Knight of Courage turns his back to you, Sigoso Vetalda,” he said, voice quaking. “Her hand was hers to give to whomever she desired. Damn you to the Womb of Fire.”

Sigoso smiled. “I am there,” he said, “and it is paradise.”

The gray in his eyes flickered. Red flecks ignited inside them, like embers.

“Fýredel.” The Donmata snatched a cup from the nightstand. “Father, drink this. It will ease the pain.”

She pressed it to his lips. Never taking his gaze from Loth, Sigoso drank what was inside. Overcome by what he had heard, Loth let the Donmata usher him out.

His mother, Lady Annes Beck, had been with the Queen Mother when she died. Now he understood why neither she nor Sabran had ever been able to utter a word to him about the day Rosarian had been laced into that lovely gown. Why Lady Arbella Glenn, who had loved her like her own child, had never uttered a word again.

Loth sank onto the steps. As he shook, he became aware of the Donmata behind him.

“Why have me listen to him?” he asked. “Why not just tell me?”

“So that you could see and hear the truth,” she said, “and deliver it to Sabran. And so that you would believe it, and not leave thinking that a mystery still lies in Yscalin.”

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