Page 112 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“A household.” Ead raised an eyebrow. “Does a child need its own household?”

“Oh, yes. A queen has not the time to rear a child. Well,” Katryen added, “Carnelian the Third insisted on nursing her daughter herself, come to think of it, but it is not often done. The princess will need milk nurses, a governess, tutors, and so on.”

“How many people will be in this household?”

“Two hundred or so.”

A household that large seemed excessive. Then again, everything in Inys was excessive.

“Tell me,” Ead said, still curious, “what would happen if Her Majesty had a son?”

Katryen tilted her head at that. “I suppose it would not matter,” she mused, “but it has never happened, not in all Berethnet history. Clearly the Saint meant for this isle to be a queendom.”

When the dishes were finally cleared and chatter had begun, the steward tapped his staff on the floor.

“Her Majesty,” he called, “Queen Sabran.”

Lievelyn stood and extended a hand to his companion. She took it and rose, and the court rose with her.

“People of the court,” she said, “we bid you welcome to the Feast of Early Autumn. The time of the harvest, loved above all by the Knight of Generosity. From this day forth, winter begins its slow approach toward Inys. It is a time that wyrms despise, for it is heat that sustains the fire within them.”

Applause.

“Today,” she continued, “we announce another reason to celebrate. This year, to mark the Feast of Generosity, we will be making a progress into Ascalon.”

Murmurs rang up to the roof. Seyton Combe choked on his mulled wine.

“During this visit,” Sabran said, her gaze taut with resolve, “we will pray at the Sanctuary of Our Lady, give alms to the poor, and comfort those whose homes and livelihoods were damaged by Fýredel. In showing ourselves to the people, we will remind them that we stand united under the True Sword, and that no High Western will break our spirits.”

Ead looked to Lievelyn. He avoided her eyes.

Her counsel had not been strong enough. She should have done more to hammer the danger into that copper saucepan of a head.

He was a fool, and so was Sabran. Fools in crowns.

“That is all.” The queen returned to her seat. “Now, I believe there is one more course.”

Cheers erupted across the Banqueting House. At once, the servants came with yet more platters, and all concern was lost to feasting.

Ead touched nothing else. She was no diviner, but anyone with half a wit could see that this would end in blood.

25

East

Following his inglorious arrival in Ginura, Niclays Roos was an honored guest in the Moyaka household. Until the Warlord deigned to see him, he was free to do as he pleased, so long as he had his Seiikinese chaperons. Happily, Eizaru and Purumé were pleased to fulfill that role.

The three of them joined a great throng in the streets for the festival of Summerfall, which celebrated the beginning of autumn. Many Seiikinese citizens traveled to Ginura for what was commonly agreed to be the most spectacular of the four tree festivals. Peddlers grilled bladefish over their stoves, simmered bites of sweet pumpkin in broth, and handed out hot wine and tea to keep the chill at bay. People took their meals outside, crowned with the golden leaves that whiffled like maple seeds from the branches, and when the final leaf had fallen, they watched new ones bud and spring forth, red as dawn, throughout the night.

For Niclays, every day was a new lease of life. His friends took him for strolls across the beach. They pointed out the Grieving Orphan, the largest volcanic stack in the East, which formed a sole tooth in the mouth of the bay. They used a spyglass to watch mereswine in the sea.

And slowly,perilously, Niclays allowed himself to dream of a future in this city. Perhaps the Seiikinese authorities would forget he existed. Perhaps, since he had been so well behaved, they would decide to let him live out the rest of his exile beyond Orisima. It was a sliver of hope, and he clung to it like a drowning sailor to flotsam.

Panaya sent his books from Orisima with a note from Muste, who told him that his friends at the trading post gave him their warmest regards and hoped he would return soon. Niclays might have been touched had he considered any of them friends, or been interested in their regards, warm or otherwise. Now he had tasted freedom, the thought of returning to Orisima, to the same twenty faces and the same grid of streets, was intolerable.

The Mentish shipGadelthadocked at the landing gate, bringing with it a stack of letters from home. Niclays had received two.

The first letter was closed with the seal of the House of Lievelyn. He fumbled it open and read the lines of neat handwriting.

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