Page 229 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

The court fell silent as it rose. When Sabran came into the candlelight, with the silver-clad Knights of the Body behind her, there was a shared intake of breath.

Ead had never seen her look so splendidly alone. Usually she came to the Banqueting Hall with her ladies, or with Seyton Combe or some other person of importance.

She wore no powder on her face. No jewelry but her coronation ring. Her gown was black velvet, its sleeves and forepart mourning gray. It was clear to anyone with sense that she was not with child.

Murmurs of confusion rang through the hall. It was traditional for a queen to be holding her swaddled daughter, the first time she appeared in public after her confinement.

Loth stood to let Sabran take the throne. She lowered herself into it, watched by her court.

“Mistress Lidden,” she said, her voice stentorian, “will you not sing for us?”

The Knights of the Body took their places behind the high table. Lintley never removed his hand from his sword. The court musicians began to play, and Jillet Lidden sang.

Silver platters of food were brought out from the Great Kitchen and laid on the tables, displaying all Inys had to offer in the high winter. Swan pie, woodcock, and roasted goose, baked venison in a rich clove sauce, burbot sprinkled with almond snowflakes and silver leaf, white cabbage and honey-glazed parsnip, mussels seethed in butter and red wine vinegar. Conversation stole back into the hall, but nobody seemed able to tear their eyes from the queen.

A page filled their goblets with ice wine from Hróth. Ead accepted a few mussels and a cut of goose. As she ate, she gave Sabran a sidelong glance.

She recognized the look on her face. Fragility with a front of strength. As Sabran lifted her goblet to her lips, only Ead noticed the tremor in her hand.

Jumbles, sugar plums, spiced pear and cranberry pie, pastry horns stuffed with snow cream, and blanched apple tarts, among other delicacies, followed the main course. When Sabran rose, and the steward announced her, a deathly silence fell again.

Sabran did not speak for some time. She stood tall, with her hands clasped at her midriff.

“Good people,” she said at last, “we know that things at court have been disquieting in recent days, and that our absence must have troubled you.” Somehow, despite the low pitch of her voice, she managed to make herself heard. “Certain people at this court have conspired, of late, to break the spirit of fellowship that has always united the people of Virtudom.”

Her face was a locked door. The court waited for revelation.

“It will be a great shock to you that during our recent illness, we were confined in the Queen Tower by one of our own councillors, who was attempting to usurp our Saint-given authority.” Murmurs flickered across the hall. “This councillor took advantage of our absence to pursue her own ambition to steal our throne. A person of holy blood.”

Ead felt the words in her core, and she knew that everyone else did, too. They struck like a wave. Left no one untouched.

“Because of her actions, we must bring you most grievous news.” Sabran placed a hand on her belly. “That during our ordeal . . . we lost the beloved daughter we carried.”

The silence went on. And on.

And on.

Then one of the maids of honor let out a sob, and it was like a thunderclap. The Banqueting House erupted around her.

Sabran remained still and expressionless. The hall resounded with calls for the perpetrators to pay. The steward banged his staff, shouting to no avail for order, until Sabran raised a hand.

At once, the turmoil ceased.

“These are uncertain times,” Sabran said, “and we cannot afford to give way to grief. A shadow has fallen over our realm. More Draconic creatures are waking, and their wings have brought a wind of fear. We see that fear in all your faces. We have seen it even in our own.”

Ead watched the crowd. The words were reaching them. By offering them a glimpse of vulnerability—a fine crack in her armor—Sabran showed that she stood among them.

“But it is in such times that we must look more than ever to the Saint to guide us,” Sabran said. “He opens his arms to the fearful. He shelters us with his own shield. And his love, like a sword in the hand, makes us strong. While we stand together in the great Chainmail of Virtudom, we cannot be defeated.

“We mean to reforge with love what greed has broken. On this, the Feast of High Winter, we pardon all those who were so quick to serve their mistress that they neglected, in their haste and fear, to serve their queen. They will not be executed. They will know the balm of mercy.

“But the woman who used them cannot be forgiven. It was her hunger for power, and her wanton abuse of the power she had already been given, that swayed others to her will.” The hall flickered with nods. “She has dishonored her holy blood. She has scorned her patron virtue—for Igrain Crest knew no justice in her hypocrisy and malice.”

That name sent a ripple of unrest along the tables.

“By her actions, Crest has shamed not only the Knight of Justice, but the blessed Saint and his descendants. Therefore, we expect her to be found guilty of high treason.” Sabran made the sign of the sword, and the court mirrored her. “All of the Dukes Spiritual are presently being questioned. It is our fervent hope that the rest are proven innocent, but we shall bow to the evidence.”

Each of her words was the skip of a stone across a lake, forming ripples of emotion. The Queen of Inys could not cast illusions, but her voice and bearing on this night had turned her into an enchantress.

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