Page 50 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Onren skidded with a gasp. Her knee gave way. Before she could rise, Tané had set her blade across her shoulders.

“Rise,” said the Sea General, sounding pleased. “Well fought. Honorable Tané of the South House, victory is yours.”

The spectators applauded. Tané handed the halberd to a servant and extended a hand to Onren.

“Did I hurt you?”

Onren let Tané help her up. “Well,” she said, panting, “I suspect you’ve broken my kneecap.”

A puff of briny air came from behind them. The green Lacustrine dragon was grinning at Tané over the rooftop, showing all her teeth. For the first time, Tané smiled back.

Distantly, she realized that Onren was still speaking.

“Sorry,” she said, light-headed with joy. “What did you say?”

“I was only observing how the fiercest warriors can hide behind such gentle faces.” They bowed to each other before Onren nodded to the benches, where the apprentices were still clapping. “Take a good look at Turosa. He knows he has a fight on his hands.”

Tané followed her gaze. Turosa had never looked so angry—nor so determined.

11

West

“There it is,” Estina Melaugo said, with a sweeping gesture toward land. “Feast your eyes on the Draconic cesspit of Yscalin.”

“No, thank you.” Kit drank from the bottle they were sharing. “I would much rather my death was a surprise.”

Loth peered through the spyglass. Even now, a day after seeing the High Western, his hands were unsteady.

Fýredel. Right wing of the Nameless One. Commander of the Draconic Army. If he had woken, then the other High Westerns would surely follow. It was from them that the rest of wyrmkind drew strength. When a High Western died, the fire in its wyverns, and in their progeny, burned out.

The Nameless One himself could not return—not while the House of Berethnet stood—but his servants could wreak destruction without him. The Grief of Ages had proven that.

There had to be a reason they were rising again. They had fallen into their slumber at the end of the Grief of Ages, the same night a comet had crossed the sky. Scholars had speculated for centuries as to why, and to when, they might wake, but no one had found an answer. Gradually, everyone had begun to assume that they never would. That the wyrms had become living fossils.

Loth returned his attention to what he could glimpse through the spyglass. The moon was a half-closed eye, and they floated on water as dark as his thoughts. All he could see was the nest of lights that was Perunta. A place that might be crawling with Draconic plague.

The sickness had first oozed from the Nameless One, whose breath, it was said, had been a slow-acting poison. A more fearsome strain had arrived with the five High Westerns. They and their wyverns carried it, the same way rats had once carried the pestilence. It had existed only in pockets since the end of the Grief of Ages, but Loth knew the signs from books.

It began with the reddening of the hands. Then a scalelike rash. As it tiptoed over the body, the afflicted would experience pain in the joints, fever and visions. If they were unlucky enough to survive this stage, the bloodblaze set in. They were at their most dangerous then, for if not restrained, they would run about screaming as if they were on fire, and anyone whose skin touched theirs would also be afflicted. Usually they died within days, though some had been known to survive longer.

There was no cure for the plague. No cure and no protection.

Loth snapped the spyglass closed and handed it to Melaugo.

“I suppose this is it,” he said.

“Don’t abandon hope, Lord Arteloth.” Her gaze was detached. “I doubt the plague will be in the palace. It’s those of us you call the commons who suffer most in times of need.”

Plume and Harlowe were approaching the bow, the latter with a clay pipe in hand.

“Right, my lords,” the captain said. “We’ve enjoyed having you, truly, but nothing lasts forever.”

Kit finally seemed to grasp the danger they were in. Either he was cupshotten or he had lost his wits, but he clasped his hands. “I beseech you, Captain Harlowe—let us join your crew.” His eyes were fevered. “You need not tell Lord Seyton. Our families have money.”

“What?” Loth hissed. “Kit—”

“Let him speak.” Harlowe motioned with his pipe. “Carry on, Lord Kitston.”

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