Page 235 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“I’m too warm.”

Her voice was armored. Faced with the back of her shoulder, Ead tried her best to sleep. She had no right to ask for truth.

It was not yet dawn when she woke. Sabran was asleep beside her, so still, she might have been dead.

Careful not to disturb her, Ead rose. Sabran stirred as she kissed the top of her head. She ought to let her know she was leaving, but even sleeping she looked tired. At least now she was safe, surrounded by people who loved her.

Ead left the Great Bedchamber and returned to her own rooms, where she washed and dressed. Margret was already in the stables in a riding habit and a hat festooned with an ostrich feather, saddling a sleepy-eyed palfrey. When she smiled, Ead embraced her.

“I am so happy for you, Meg Beck.” She kissed her cheek. “The soon-to-be Viscountess Morwe.”

“I wish he had not needed to be Viscount Morwe to be deemed worthy of me, but things are as they are.” Margret withdrew and grasped her hands. “Ead, will you be my giver?”

“It would be an honor. And now you can give your parents the good news.”

Margret sighed. Her father sometimes did not know his children. “Aye. Mama will be overjoyed.” She smoothed the front of her cream jacket. “Do you think I look all right?”

“I think you look like Lady Margret Beck. A paragon of fashion.”

Margret blew out a breath. “Good. I thought I might look like the village fool in this hat.”

They rode into the waking streets and crossed the Limber at the Bridge of Supplications, which was carved with the likenesses of every queen of the House of Berethnet. If they made good time, they could be in Summerport, which served the northern counties of Inys, by ten of the clock.

“Your dance with Sab last night set tongues wagging.” Margret glanced at her. “Rumor is that the two of you are lovers.”

“What would you say if that were true?”

“I would say you and she can do as you please.”

She could trust Margret. Mother knew, it would be good to have someone to talk to about her feelings for Sabran—yet something made her want to keep it secret, to keep their hours stolen.

“Rumors are nothing new at court,” was all she said. “Come, tell me your plans for the wedding. I think you would look very fine in yellow. What say you?”

The grounds of Ascalon Palace were draped in morning fog. A drench of rain had blown in and frozen overnight, turning the paths to frosted glass and dressing every windowsill with icicles.

Loth stood before the ruins of the Marble Gallery, where he and Sabran had often sat and talked for hours. There was a haunting beauty in the way the stone wept to the ground like wax.

No natural fire could have melted it. Only something retched up by the Dreadmount.

“This is where I lost my daughter.”

He looked over his shoulder. Sabran was close by, face cold-burned beneath a fur hat. Her Knights of the Body waited at a distance, all in the silver-plated armor of winter.

“I called her Glorian. The grandest name of my lineage. Each of its three bearers were great queens.” Her gaze was in the past. “I often wonder what she would have been like. If her name would have been a burden, or if she would have become even more illustrious than the others.”

“I think she would have been as fearless and virtuous as her mother.”

Sabran managed a tired smile.

“You would have liked Aubrecht.” She came to stand beside him. “He was kind and honorable. Like you.”

“I am sorry I never met him,” Loth said.

They watched the sun rise. Somewhere in the grounds, a lark began to chirrup.

“I prayed this morning for Lord Kitston.” Sabran rested her head on his shoulder, and he drew her in close. “Ead does not believe that Halgalant awaits us after death. Perhaps she is right—but I still trust, and always will, that there is a life beyond this one. And I trust that he has found it.”

“I must trust in that, too.” Loth thought of the tunnel. That lonesome tomb. “Thank you, Sab. Truly.”

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