Page 172 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“Aralaq?”

“Eadaz.” His voice was low and stony. “You were a pup when I last saw you.”

She could not believe the size of him. Once he had been tiny enough to fit in her lap. Now he was massive and deep-chested, standing a head taller than she was. “So were you.” Her face softened into a smile. “Have you been guarding me all day?”

“Three days.”

The smile faded. “Three,” she murmured. “I must have been more exhausted than I thought.”

“You have dwelt for too long without the orange tree.”

Aralaq padded to her side and nosed her hand. Ead chuckled as he rasped his tongue over her face. She remembered him as a squeaking bundle of fur, all eyes and snuffles, tripping over his long tail.

One of the sisters had found him orphaned in the Ersyr and brought him to the Priory, where she and Jondu had been charged with his care. They had fed him on milk and scraps of snake meat.

“You should bathe.” Aralaq licked her fingers. “You smell like camel.”

Ead tutted. “Thank you. You have a certain pungent aroma of your own, you know.”

She took the oil lamp from her bedside and followed him.

He led her through the tunnels and up flights of steps. They passed two Lasian men—Sons of Siyati, who attended on the sisters. Both dipped their heads as Ead passed.

When they reached the bathhouse, Aralaq nudged her hip.

“Go. A servant will take you to the Prioress after.” Golden eyes looked solemnly at her. “Tread lightly around her, daughter of Zala.”

His tail swept in his wake as he left. She watched him go before stepping through the doorway, into a candlelit interior.

This bathhouse, like the sunrooms, was on the open side of the Priory. A breeze swirled the steam on the surface of the water, like spindrift on the sea. Ead set the oil lamp down and shrugged off her robe before descending into the pool. With each step, it carried away the sand and dirt and sweat, leaving her sleek and new.

She used ash soap to lave her skin. Once she had got the sand from her hair, she let the heat soothe her travel-weary bones.

Tread lightly.

Ichneumons did not give careless warnings. The Prioress would want to know why she had been so insistent upon staying in Inys.

You must always stay with me, Ead Duryan.

“Sister.”

She turned her head. One of the Sons of Siyati was in the doorway.

“The Prioress bids you join her for the evening meal,” he said. “Your garments await you.”

“Thank you.”

In her chamber, she took her time dressing. The garments that had been left for her were not formal, but they befitted her new rank as a postulant. An initiate when she had left for Inys, she had now completed an assignment of consequence for the Priory, making her eligible to be named a Red Damsel. Only the Prioress could decide if she was worthy of this honor.

First was a mantelet of sea silk, which shone like spun gold and covered her to the navel. Next came an embroidered white skirt. A glass band encircled one wrist—the wrist of her sword hand—and strings of wooden beads hung about her neck. She left her hair loose and damp.

This new Prioress had not seen her since she was seventeen. As she poured some wine to nerve herself, she caught sight of her reflection in the flat of her eating knife.

Full lips. Eyes like oak honey, brows set low and straight above them. Her nose was slim at the bridge, broad toward the end. All this she recognized. Yet now she saw, for the first time, how womanhood had changed her. It had tempted out her cheekbones and pared away the rounds of youth. There was a gauntness about her, too, from the kind of starvation only warriors of the Priory understood.

She looked like the women she had longed to be when she was growing up. Like she was made of stone.

“Are you ready, sister?”

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