Page 147 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Roslain and Katryen exchanged a worried glance. “Sabran,” Roslain said, “it is not traditional. I do not think your people would take well to it.”

“And am I not their queen?”

“Superstition knows no rulers.”

Sabran looked coldly toward the window. “Kate?”

“I agree, Your Majesty. Let the child not have the shadow of death over her head.”

“And you, Ead?”

Ead wanted to support her. She should have the right to name her own child as she pleased, but the Inysh did not take kindly to change.

“I agree.” She pulled her needle through the cloth. “Sylvan is a beautiful name, Majesty, but it may serve to make your daughter melancholy. Better to name her after one of your royal ancestors.”

At this, Sabran looked exhausted. She turned on to her side and pressed her cheek into the cushion.

“Glorian, then.”

A grand name indeed. Since the death of Glorian Shieldheart, it had never been bestowed on any princess.

Katryen and Roslain both made approving sounds. “Her Royal Highness, Princess Glorian,” Katryen said, with the air of a steward announcing her entrance. “It already suits her. What hope and heart it will give to your subjects.”

Roslain nodded sagely. “It is high time such a magnificent name was resurrected.”

Sabran stared at the ceiling as if it were a bottomless chasm.

Within a day, the news had seeped into the capital. Celebrations were planned for the day the princess was born, and the Order of Sanctarians prophesied the might of Glorian the Fourth, who would lead Inys into a Golden Age.

Ead watched it all with weary detachment. Soon the Prioress would call her home. Part of her longed to be among her sisters, united with them in praise of the Mother. Another part wanted nothing but to remain.

She had to crush it.

There was something Ead had to do before she left. One evening, when the other ladies were occupied and Sabran was resting, she made her way to the Dearn Tower, where Truyde utt Zeedeur remained imprisoned.

The guards were on high alert, but she needed no siden to get into forbidden places. As the clock tower struck eleven, she reached the highest floor.

Dressed in naught but a soiled petticoat, the Marchioness of Zeedeur was a shadow of the beauty she had been. Her curls were twisted and heavy with grease, and her cheekbones strained against her skin. A chain snaked between her ankle and the wall.

“Mistress Duryan.” Her gaze was as intense as ever. “Have you come to crow over me?”

She had wept when she saw her prince lying dead. It seemed her grief had cooled.

“That would not be courteous,” Ead said. “And only the Knight of Justice can judge you.”

“You know no Saint, heretic.”

“Rich words, traitor.” Ead took in the piss-soaked straw. “You do not look afraid.”

“Why should I be afraid?”

“You are responsible for the death of the prince consort. That is high treason.”

“You will find I am protected here, as a Mentish citizen,” Truyde said. “The High Princess will try me in Brygstad, but I am confident I will not be executed. I amsoyoung, after all.”

Her lips were split. Ead took a wineskin from her bodice, and Truyde, after a moment, drank.

“I came to ask,” Ead said, “what you thought you would achieve.”

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