Page 151 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Something was changing in her. A feeling, small as a rosebud, was opening its petals.

She had never been meant to harbor anything more than indifference toward this woman. Yet she knew now that when Chassar returned, it would be hard to go. Sabran would need a friend more than ever. Roslain and Katryen would be preoccupied with the newborn, and would talk of nothing but blankets and cradles and milk nurses for months. Sabran would not weather that time well. She would go from being the sun of her court to the shadow behind a child.

Ead fell asleep with her cheek against a wash of black hair. When she woke, Sabran was quiet beside her.

A drumbeat pounded at her temple. Her siden lay dormant, but her instincts had woken.

Something was wrong.

The fire was low, the candles almost burned out. Ead rose to trim the wicks.

“No,” Sabran breathed. “The blood.”

From the tortured look on her face, she was dreaming. Dreaming, so it seemed, of the Lady of the Woods.

Kalyba was no ordinary mage. From what little Ead remembered about her, she had possessed gifts unknown to the Priory, including immortality. Perhaps dream-giving was another. But why should Kalyba be concerned with tormenting the Queen of Inys?

Ead went back to Sabran and laid a hand on her brow. She was sodden. Her nightgown was stuck fast, and strands of hair clung to her face. Chest tight, Ead felt her brow for the heat of a fever, but her skin was icy cold. Incoherent words escaped her.

“Hush.” Ead reached for the goblet and tipped it to her lips. “Drink, Sabran.”

Sabran took a swallow of milk and sank back into the pillows, twisting like a kitten caught by the scruff of its neck. As if she were trying to escape from her nightmare. Ead sat beside her and stroked her lank hair.

Perhaps it was because Sabran was so cold that Ead noticed at once when her own skin heated.

A Draconic thing was near.

Ead strove to remain calm. When Sabran was still, she sponged the sweat from her and arranged the bedclothes so only her face was exposed to the night. She could alert no one, for it would betray her gifts.

All she could do was wait.

The first warning was the shouts from the palace walls. At once, Ead was on her feet.

“Sabran, quickly.” She scooped an arm around the queen. “You must come with me now.”

Her eyes flickered open. “Ead,” she said, “what is it?”

Ead helped her into her slippers and bedgown. “You must get to the wine cellars at once.”

The key turned in the door. Captain Lintley appeared, armed with his crossbow.

“Majesty,” he said, with a rigid bow, “there is a flock of Draconic creatures approaching, led by a High Western. Our forces are ready, but you must come with us now, before they breach the walls.”

“A flock,” Sabran repeated.

“Yes.”

Ead watched her waver. This was the woman who had gone out to meet Fýredel.

It was not in her nature to hide.

“Your Majesty,” Lintley urged. “Please. Your safety is paramount.”

Sabran nodded. “Very well.”

Ead wrapped the heaviest coverlet around her shoulders. Roslain appeared at the doors, her face lit stark by the taper in her hand.

“Sabran,” she said, “hurry, you must hurry—”

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