Page 246 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“Hail, who goes there?”

Ead looked up. Margret had stopped beside her, and was holding up her lantern.

“I am Lady Margret Beck, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Goldenbirch, and these are Beck lands. I shall brook no mischief in the haithwood.” Margret sounded firm, but Ead knew her voice well enough to hear the fear in it. “Come forth and show yourself.”

Now Ead saw it. A figure stood between the trees, its features obscured by the oppressive darkness of the haithwood. A drumbeat later, it had melted into the shadow, as if it had never been there.

“Did you see that?”

“I saw it,” Ead said.

A whisper of wind unsettled the trees.

They returned to their horses, moving quickly now. Ead buckled Ascalon on to the saddle.

The wolf moon was high over Goldenbirch. Its light glistered on the snow as they rode back to the corpse road. They had just passed one of the coffin stones that marked it when Ead heard a sharp cry from Margret. She yanked the reins, turning her horse around.

“Meg!”

Her breath snared in her throat. The other horse was nowhere to be seen.

And Margret was standing, a blade at her throat, in the arms of the Witch of Inysca.

This kind of magic is cold and elusive, graceful and slippery. It allows the wielder to cast illusions, control water . . . even to change their shape . . .

“Kalyba,” said Ead.

The witch was barefoot. She wore a diaphanous gown, white as the snow, which gathered at her waist.

“Hello, Eadaz.”

Ead was tense as a bowstring. “Did you follow me from Lasia?”

“I did. I watched you flee the Priory, and I saw you leave with the Inysh lord on the ship from Córvugar,” Kalyba said, expressionless. “I knew then that you had no plans to return to my Bower. No plans to honor your oath.”

In her grip, Margret trembled.

“Are you afraid, sweeting?” Kalyba asked her. “Did your milk nurse tell you stories of the Lady of the Woods?” She slid the knife along the nut of Margret’s throat, and Margret shuddered. “It seems it wasyourfamily who concealed my sword from me.”

“Let go of her,” Ead said. Her horse stamped its hooves. “She has not to do with your grievance against me.”

“My grievance.” Despite the bitter cold, no gooseflesh had risen on the witch. “You swore to me that you would bring me what I desire. On this isle in ages past, you would have had your lifeblood spilled for breaking such a vow. How fortunate that you have somethingelseI desire.”

Ascalon was aglow again. Hidden under shirt and cloak, so was the waning jewel.

“It was here all along. In the haithwood.” Kalyba watched Ascalon. “My sword, laid to rest in dirt and darkness. Even if it had not been buried too deep for me to hear it calling, I would have had to crawl to it on my belly like an adder. Galian mocks me even in death.”

Margret closed her eyes. Her lips moved in silent prayer.

“I suppose he did it just before he went to Nurtha. To his end.” Kalyba raised her gaze. “Hand it to me now, Eadaz, and your oath will be fulfilled. You will have given me what I desire.”

“Kalyba,” Ead said, “I know I broke my oath to you. I will pay for it. But I need Ascalon. I will use it to slay the Nameless One, as Cleolind did not. It will quench the fire within him.”

“Yes, it will,” Kalyba said, “but you will not wield it, Eadaz.”

The witch threw Margret into the snow. At once, Margret began to claw at her own arms, and she retched as if there was water in her chest.

“Ead—” she gasped out. “Ead, the thorns—”

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