Page 230 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“We stand here in love. In hope. And in defiance. Defiance of those would have tried to turn us from our values. Defiance of Draconic hate. We rise to face the winds of fear and, by the Saint, we will turn them back upon our enemies.” She walked across the dais, and every eye followed her. “We do not yet have an heir, for our daughter is in the arms of the Saint—but your queen is very much alive. And we will ride into any battle for you, as Glorian Shieldheart rode for her people. Come what may.”

Now there were rumbles of agreement. Nods and shouts ofSabran Queen.

“We will prove to the entire world,” she continued, “that no wyrm will cow the people of Virtudom!”

“Virtudom,” voices echoed. “Virtudom!”

They were all on their feet now. Eyes bright in the frenzy of veneration. Cups held up in taut-knuckled fists.

She had led them from the depths of terror to the height of adoration.

Sabran was golden-tongued.

“Now, in the same defiance this realm has professed for a thousand years,” she called out, “we celebrate the Feast of High Winter—and prepare for spring, the season of change. The season of sweetness. The season of generosity. And what it gives, we will not hoard, but give in turn to you.” She snatched her goblet from the table and thrust it high. “To Virtudom!”

“VIRTUDOM,” the court roared back. “VIRTUDOM! VIRTUDOM!”

Their voices filled the hall like song, rising to its very rafters.

The festivities went on late into the night. Though there were balefires outside, the courtiers seemed grateful to be in the Presence Chamber, where Sabran sat on her marble throne, and flames roared in the cavernous hearth. Ead stood with Margret in the corner.

As she sipped her mulled wine, a blaze of red caught her eye. Her hand flicked to the knife on her girdle.

“Ead.” Margret touched her elbow. “What is it?”

Red hair. The red hair of the Mentish ambassador, not a cloak—yet Ead did not relax. Her sisters must be biding their time, but they would come.

“Nothing. Forgive me,” Ead said. “What were you saying?”

“Tell me what the matter is.”

“It is nothing you want to meddle in, Meg.”

“I wasn’t meddling. Well, perhaps,” Margret admitted. “One must be a trifle meddlesome at court, or one has nothing to talk about.”

Ead smiled. “Are you ready for our journey to Goldenbirch tomorrow?”

“Aye. Our ship leaves at dawn.” Margret paused before adding, “Ead, I don’t suppose you were able to bring Valour home.”

There was hope in her eyes. “He is with an Ersyri family I trust, on an estate in the Harmur Pass,” Ead said. “I could not take him into the desert. You shall have him back, I promise.”

“Thank you.”

Someone stopped beside Margret and touched her on the shoulder. Katryen Withy, wearing a gown of cloud silk. Pearls inlaid in silver nestled in her wreath of hair.

“Kate.” Margret embraced her. “Kate, how do you do?”

“I have been worse.” Katryen kissed her on the cheek before turning to Ead. “Oh, Ead. I am very glad you’re back.”

“Katryen.” Ead looked her over. A bruise was fading under her eye, and her jaw was swollen. “What happened to you?”

“I tried to get to Sabran.” She touched the mark gingerly. “Crest had me locked in my quarters. Her guard did this when I resisted.”

Margret shook her head. “If that tyrant had ever sat the throne . . .”

“Thank the Damsel she will not.”

Sabran, who had been deep in conversation with Loth, now rose, and the room was quiet. It was time for her to reward those who had proved most faithful to their queen.

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