Page 95 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“How do you know?”

“He is a rider.”

“Turosa will be a rider tomorrow, yet he has spent years picking on those of us who came from peasant stock. I heard he beat a servant once for not bowing low enough. Either of us would have been exiled from the Houses of Learning for behaving that way . . . but blood still holds power.”

“You do not know that he will be a rider just because of that.”

“I wager you all I own that he will.”

Silence fell. Tané picked at the bean curd.

“I was scolded once, when I was sixteen, for gambling in the city,” Onren said. “Because it was disreputable, I was barred from lessons and told I would have to earn back my place in the East House. I was scrubbing the outhouses for the rest of the season. Meanwhile, Turosa can almost murder a servant and have a sword in his hand a few days later.”

“Our learnèd teachers had their reasons. They understand the true meaning of justice.”

“Their reason was that he is the grandson of a rider, and I am not. And that will be their reason tomorrow if I am cast off in favor of him.”

“That will not be the reason,” Tané bit out.

It had leaped from her tongue before she could catch it, like a slippery fish eluding her grasp.

Onren raised her eyebrows. The silence hung, an unstruck bell, as Tané wrestled with herself.

“Come, Tané. Speak your mind.” Onren raised a cautious smile. “We are friends, after all.”

It was too late now to take it back. The trials, the outsider, her exhaustion and guilt—all of it came together violently, like bubbles in boiling water, and Tané could no longer hold it in.

“You seem to think that if you are not made a rider tomorrow, it will not be through any fault of yours,” she heard herself say. “I have worked every day and night during our time here. You, in the meantime, have shown no respect. You arrivelateto your trials, in front of the Miduchi. You spend your nights in taverns when you ought to be practicing, then wonder why you fight poorly against your opponent. Perhapsthatwill be the reason that you do not become a rider.”

Onren was no longer smiling.

“So,” she said curtly, “you think I don’t deserve it. Because . . . I went to the tavern.” She paused. “Or is it because I went to the tavern and still outperformed you in the knife trial?”

Tané stiffened.

“Your eyes were bloodshot that morning. They still are. You stayed up all night practicing.”

“Of course I did.”

“And you resent me because I didn’t.” Onren shook her head. “Balance is necessary in all things, Tané—it does not equate to disrespect. This position is the chance of a lifetime, and not to be squandered.”

“I know that,” Tané said, her tone clipped. “I only hope that you do, too.”

At this, Onren smiled thinly, but Tané glimpsed the hurt in her eyes.

“Well,” she said, rising, “in that case, I had better leave you. I have no wish to drag you down with me.”

As quickly as the anger had brimmed inside Tané, it cooled. She sat very still, her hands pressed on the bedding, trying to swallow the tang of shame. Finally, she rose and bowed.

“I apologize, honorable Onren,” she murmured. “I should not have said any of that. It was inexcusable.”

After a pause, Onren softened. “Forgiven. Truly.” She sighed. “I have been worried about you.” Tané kept her gaze down. “You have always worked hard, but throughout these trials, it seems to me as if you have been punishing yourself, Tané. Why?”

When she spoke like that, it was like having Susa again. A kind face and an open mind. Just for a moment, Tané was tempted to tell Onren everything. Perhaps she would understand.

“No,” she said at last. “I have only been afraid. And tired.” She sank back onto the bedding. “I will be better tomorrow. When I know my fate.”

Onren laughed at that. “Oh, Tané. You make it sound as if the jailhouse is the alternative.”

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