Page 194 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“Eadaz,” she said, “I wanted to give you my condolences. For Jondu. We had our differences, but I respected her very much.”

“Thank you,” Ead said softly. She shook her head to clear the sadness. “Come, then, Nairuj. Tell me everything that has happened these past eight years.”

“I will,” Nairuj said, tapping the comb against her palm, “if you promise to me all the secrets of the Inysh court.” She reached for a bowl of oil. “I hear life there is like walking on coals. That the courtiers climb over one another to get close to the queen. That there is more intrigue in the court of Sabran the Ninth than there is skystone in Rumelabar.”

Ead looked toward the window. The stars were coming out.

“Truly,” she said, “you have no idea.”

As Nairuj worked on Ead, she told her about the steady waking of wyrms in the South, and how the Red Damsels were working harder by the day to deal with the threat. King Jantar and High Ruler Kagudo—the only sovereigns who knew of the Priory—had asked for more sisters to be posted in their cities and courts. Meanwhile, the menfolk of the Priory, who dealt with domestic matters, might soon have to be trained as slayers.

In return, Ead told her the more preposterous facets of Inys. The petty enmities between courtiers and lovers and poets. Her time as a maid of honor under Oliva Marchyn. The quacks who gave out dung for a fever and leeches for a headache. The eighteen dishes presented to Sabran every morning, of which she ate one.

“And Sabran. Is she as capricious as they say?” Nairuj asked. “I hear that in one morning, she can be as jubilant as a parade, as sad as a lament, and as angry as a wildcat.”

Ead did not reply for a long time.

“That is true,” she finally said.

A rose behind a pillow. Hands on the virginals. Her laugh as they had raced after the hunt.

“I suppose a little caprice is to be expected of a woman born to sit on such a throne, at such a price.” Nairuj patted her belly. “This is heavy enough without the fate of nations perched on top of it.”

The hour of the ceremony drew near. Ead let Nairuj and three other sisters help her into her vestures. Once her hair was arranged, they adorned it with a circlet of orange blossoms. They slid bracelets of glass and gold up her arms. Finally, Nairuj took her by the shoulders.

“Ready?”

Ead nodded. She had been ready all her life.

“I envy you,” Nairuj said. “The task the Prioress will give you next sounds—”

“Task.” Ead looked at her. “What task?”

Nairuj fluttered a hand. “I must not say any more. You will know soon enough.” She took Ead by the arm. “Come.”

They led her to the tomb of the Mother. The burial chamber had been lit with one hundred and twenty candles, the number of people who had been sacrificed by lottery to the Nameless One before Cleolind had ended the rule of blood at last.

The Prioress was waiting in front of the statue. Every sister not posted elsewhere was here to see the daughter of Zala take her place as a Red Damsel.

Ceremonies were succinct affairs in the Priory. Cleolind had not wanted the pomp and circumstance of courts for her handmaidens. Intimacy was what mattered. The coming together of sisters in support and praise of one another. In the womb-like darkness of the chamber, with the Mother gazing down at them all, Ead felt closer to her than she ever had.

Chassar stood to the left of the Prioress. He looked as proud as if he were her birthfather.

Ead knelt.

“Eadaz du Zala uq-Nara,” the Prioress said. Her voice echoed. “You have served the Mother faithfully and without question. We welcome you, as our sister and friend, to the ranks of the Red Damsels.”

“I am Eadaz du Zala uq-Nara,” Ead said. “I pledge myself anew to the Mother, as I did once as a child.”

“May she keep your blade sharp and your cloak red with blood,” the sisters said together, “and may the Nameless One fear your light.”

It was traditional for the birthmother to present a sister with her cloak. In the absence of Zala, it was Chassar who hung it around her shoulders. He fastened it with a brooch at the hollow of her throat, and when he cupped her cheek, Ead returned his smile.

She held out her right hand. The Prioress slid on her silver ring, topped with the five-petalled flower of sunstone. The ring she had imagined herself wearing all her life.

“May you go forth into the world,” the Prioress said, “and stand against the ruthless fire. Now and always.”

Ead drew the brocade close to her skin. The richness of the red was impossible to fabricate. Only Draconic blood could stain it so.

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