Page 227 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“I trust it only to you.” Sabran pushed a sheet of parchment across the table. “Here is the Oath of Relinquishment pressed upon me by Crest. With my signature, this document would have yielded the throne to her family.”

Loth read it. His throat dried out as he took in the wax seal, impressed with the twin goblets.

“The fever and pain made me too weak to understand a great deal of what was happening to me. I was focused on surviving,” Sabran said. “Once, however, I heard Crest arguing with Roslain, saying that the Oath of Relinquishment would make her queen some day, and her daughter after that, and that she was an ingrate for resisting. And Ros— Ros said she would die before she took the throne from me.”

Loth smiled. He would have expected nothing less from Roslain.

“The night before you arrived,” Sabran continued, “I woke unable to breathe. Crest had a pillow over my face. She kept whispering that I was unworthy, like my mother before me. That the line was poisoned. That even Berethnets must answer to the call of justice.” Her hand ghosted to her mouth. “Ros broke her fingers prying her off me.”

So much suffering, all for naught.

“Crest must die,” Sabran concluded. “For their failure to act against her, I will have Eller and Withy confined to their castles to await my pleasure. I will strip them of their duchies in favor of their heirs.” Her face closed. “I tell you this. Holy blood or not, I will see Crest burn for what she has done.”

Once, Loth would have protested such a brutal punishment, but Crest deserved no pity.

“For a time, I almost believed Ishouldyield the throne. That Crest wanted the best for the realm.” Sabran lifted her chin. “But we must be united in the face of the Draconic threat. I will cleave to my throne, and we will see what comes of it.”

She sounded more a queen than ever.

“Loth,” she added, quieter, “you were with Ead in this . . . Priory of the Orange Tree. You have seen the truth of her.” She held his gaze. “Do you still trust her?”

Loth poured a little more ale for them both.

“The Priory made me question the foundations of our world,” he admitted, “but throughout it all, I trusted Ead. She saved my life, at great risk to her own.” He handed her a cup. “She wants to keep you alive, Sab. I believe she wants it more than anything.”

Something changed in her face.

“I must write to Ermuna. Your chambers await you,” she said, “but be sure not to be late for the feast.” When she looked up at him, he saw a glint of the old Sabran in her eyes. “Welcome back to court, Lord Arteloth.”

On the highest floor of the Dearn Tower, in the cell where Truyde utt Zeedeur had spent her final days, Igrain Crest was at prayer. Only an arrow-slit cast light into her prison. When Loth entered, she did not raise her lowered head, nor unclasp her hands.

“Lady Igrain,” Loth said.

She was still.

“If it please you, I have come to ask you some questions.”

“I will answer for what I have done,” Crest said, “only in Halgalant.”

“You will not see the heavenly court,” Loth said quietly. “So let us begin here.”

53

West

The Feast of High Winter began at six of the clock in the Banqueting House of Ascalon Palace. As always, it would be followed by music and dancing in the Presence Chamber.

As the bells chimed in the clock tower, Ead studied her reflection. Her gown was palest blue silk, snowed with seed-pearls, the ruff made of white cutwork lace.

For one more night, she would dress as a courtier. Her sisters would think her even more of a traitor when they discovered that she had accepted a title from the Queen of Inys. If she was to survive here, however, it seemed she had no other choice.

A knock at the door, and Margret let herself in. She wore ivory satin and a silver girdle, and her attifet was studded with moonstones.

“I just came from Sabran,” she said. “I am to be made a Lady of the Bedchamber.” She set down the candle. “I thought you might not want to go to the Banqueting House alone.”

“You thought correctly. As always.” Ead met her gaze in the glass. “Meg, what has Loth told you about me?”

“Everything.” Margret grasped her by the shoulders. “You know I take the Knight of Courage as my patron. There is courage, I think, in open-mindedness, and thinking for oneself. If you are a witch, then perhaps witches are not so wicked after all.” Her face turned serious. “Now, a question. Would you prefer me to call you Eadaz?”

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