Page 58 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

A damp breeze wafted through the corridors, warm as the steam off freshly made soup. The polished floor rattled beneath her as she strode back through the school.

She washed away the sweat and practiced alone in her room with her sword. When her arm finally tired, a worm of misgiving began to eat at her. There was no reason her horse should have stumbled during the trial. What if Turosa had impaired it somehow, just to spite her?

In the end, she went back to the stables. When she found the farrier, he assured her that there was nothing wrong. The ground had been wet. Most likely the horse had slipped.

Don’t let a little shit like Turosa get the better of you, Susa had said, but her voice seemed very far away.

Tané spent what remained of the evening in the practice hall, pockmarking scarecrows with throwing knives. Only once she could hit every single one in the eye did she let herself return to her room, where she lit an oil lamp and began her first letter to Susa.

So far, the trials are as difficult as I feared. Today my horse slipped, and I paid the price for it.

Even though I feel as if I have bled myself dry practicing, some of the others seem to perform just as well as I do without working themselves to sleeplessness. They drink and smoke and laugh with one another, but all I can do is continue to refine my skill. After fourteen years of preparation, the water in me will not run true—and I am afraid, Susa.

Those fourteen years are nothing here. We are judged for today, not for yesterday.

She gave it to a servant to send to Cape Hisan, then lay on her bedding and listened to the cut of her own breath.

Outside, an owl hooted. After a short while, Tané got up and slipped back out of her room.

She could practice a little more.

The Governor of Cape Hisan was a slender fellow, neat as a parcel, who lived in an illustrious mansion in the middle of the city. Unlike the Chief Officer, he knew how to smile. He was gray-haired, with a kind face, and was rumored to be soft on petty criminals.

A pity that Niclays, having broken the cardinal rule of Seiiki, could by no stretch of the imagination be deemed apetty criminal.

“So,” the Governor said, “the woman brought the outsider to your door.”

“Yes,” Niclays confirmed. His throat was almost too dry to form words. “Yes, indeed, honored Governor. I had been enjoying a cup of your remarkable Seiikinese wine just moments before their arrival.”

They had held him in a room for several days. He had lost count in the darkness. When soldiers had finally marched him out, he had almost fainted, thinking they were taking him straight to the block. Instead they presented him to a physician, who had checked his hands and examined his eyes. The soldiers had then given Niclays fresh clothes and escorted him to the most powerful official in this region of Seiiki.

“So you took this man into your home,” said official continued. “Did you believe he was a legal settler in Orisima?”

Niclays cleared his throat. “I, ah— no. I know everyone in Orisima. But the woman threatened me,” he said, trying to appear haunted by the memory. “She . . . held a dagger to my throat, and sh-she said that if I did not take the outsider in, she would kill me.”

Panaya had told him to be honest, but every good story needed a pinch of embellishment.

Two foot soldiers kept watch close by. Iron helms covered their heads and napes, secured by green cords that tied beneath their chins. In unison, they slid the screens aside, letting two more soldiers into the room. They held someone between them.

“Was it this woman?” the Governor asked.

Her hair clumped around her shoulders. One of her eyes was swollen closed. From the bloated lip on the soldier to her left, she had fought. Someone gallant would deny it.

“Yes,” Niclays admitted.

She gave him a hateful look.

“Yes,” the Governor echoed. “She is a musician in a theatre in Cape Hisan. The all-honored Warlord permits some Seiikinese artists to provide entertainment and conversation on certain days in Orisima.” He raised his eyebrows. “Have you ever been visited?”

Niclays managed a strained smile. “I have generally been content with my own company.”

“Good,” the woman spat at him. “Then you can fuck yourself, silver-loving liar.”

One of the soldiers struck her. “Quiet,” she snapped.

Niclays flinched. The woman crumpled to the floor, where she drew in her shoulders and pressed a hand to her cheek.

“Thank you for confirming that this is the woman.” The Governor drew his lacquered writing box toward him. “She will say nothing of how an outsider came to be on this island. Do you know?”

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