Page 249 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Margret faced the Lady of the Woods, her childhood fear, and kept her hand on Ascalon.

“My ancestors were brave to keep it from you,” she said, “and not foranythingwill I give it to you.”

Ead locked gazes with Kalyba. She who had tricked Galian the Deceiver. The White Wyrm. Ancestor of Sabran. If she took the sword, there would be no victory.

“Very well,” Kalyba said. “If we must do this the hard way, so be it.”

Before their eyes, she began to change.

Limb stretched and bent on itself. Her spine elongated with cracks like gunshots, and her skin was scrolled taut between new bones. In moments, she was as big as a house, and the White Wyrm was before them, towering and terrible. Ead grabbed Margret away just before razor teeth clamped around the horse, smothering the light of Ascalon.

Leathery wings slammed down, bringing with them a hot wind. Horse blood sprayed across the snow as Kalyba launched herself into the night.

As the wingbeats faded into the distance, Ead slid to her knees, shoulders heaving. Spattered with blood, Margret knelt beside her.

“There were thorns,” she said, shuddering. “In my— in my throat. In my mouth.”

“It was nothing real.” Ead leaned against her. “We lost the sword. Thesword, Meg.”

Her hands burned, but she kept them closed. She would need all her siden for the fight that was to come.

“It can’t be true.” Margret swallowed. “All she said about the Saint. The face she wore was trickery.”

“I revealed it with magefire,” Ead murmured. “Magefire is revelation. It tells only the truth.”

Somewhere in the trees, an owl let out a chilling scream. When Margret flinched, dread in her gaze, Ead reached for her hand and squeezed it.

“Without the True Sword, we cannot kill the Nameless One. And unless we can find the second jewel, we cannot bind him,” she said. “But we might be able to raise enough of an army to drive him far away.”

“How?” Margret’s voice was desolate. “Who can help us now?”

Ead rose, pulling Margret with her, and they stood in the red-stained snow beneath the moon.

“I must speak to Sabran,” she said. “It is time to open a new door.”

56

West

Loth had spent his morning writing to the Virtues Council, telling them of the imminent threat and calling them to Ascalon. It was an exhausting process, but since Seyton Combe had been released and taken over building a case against Igrain Crest, some of the burden was off his shoulders.

Sabran joined him in the afternoon. A rock dove perched on her forearm, cooing. Its piebald feathers identified it as having come from Mentendon.

“I have received a reply from High Princess Ermuna. She demands justice for the unlawful execution of Lady Truyde.” She laid the letter on the table. “She also says that Doctor Niclays Roos has been abducted by pirates, and blames me for withholding his pardon for so long.”

Loth unfolded the letter. It had been sealed with the swan of the House of Lievelyn.

“The only justice I can offer for Truyde is the head of Igrain Crest.” Sabran unlatched the doors to the balcony. “As for Roos . . . I should have relented a long time ago.”

“Roos was a swindler,” Loth said. “He deserved punishment.”

“Not to that extreme.”

He sensed there was nothing he could say to deter her. For his part, Loth had never liked the alchemist.

“Fortunately,” Sabran said, “Ermuna has agreed, given the urgency of my request, to have the Library of Ostendeur scoured for knowledge about the reign of Empress Mokwo. She has sent one of her servants to find the records, and will send another bird with all speed when she has them.”

“Good.”

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