Page 77 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

So it was that Loth found himself walking with Kit into the cavernous throne room of the Palace of Salvation. The space was awash with courtiers and nobles, but there was no sign of Prince Wilstan.

The Donmata Marosa, crown princess of the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin, sat on a throne of volcanic glass beneath a canopy of state. Her head was encased in a horned mask of iron, shaped like the head of a High Western. The weight of it must have been enormous.

“Saint,” Kit whispered, so low that only Loth could hear. “She wears the face of Fýredel.”

Guards in golden armor stood in front of the throne. The canopy showed the badge of the House of Vetalda. Two black wyvems and a sword, broken in twain.

Not just any sword, but Ascalon. The symbol of Virtudom.

The ladies-in-waiting had folded back their plague veils, which hung from small but ornate coronets. Lady Priessa Yelarigas stood to the right of the throne. Now her face was revealed, Loth could see her pale, freckled cheeks, her deep-set eyes, and the proud bearing of her chin.

The purr of conversation dwindled when they stopped in front of the throne.

“Radiance,” the steward called, “I present to you two Inysh gentlemen. Here is Lord Arteloth Beck, son of the Earl and Countess of Goldenbirch, and here is Lord Kitston Glade, son of the Earl and Countess of Honeybrook. Ambassadors from the Queendom of Inys.”

Silence fell in the throne room, followed swiftly by hissing. Loth got down on one knee and bowed his head.

“Your Radiance,” he said, “we thank you for receiving us at your court.”

The hissing tapered off when the Donmata raised her hand.

“Lord Arteloth and Lord Kitston,” she said. The iron helm made her voice echo strangely. “My beloved father and I bid you welcome to the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin. My sincere apologies for delaying this audience—I had business elsewhere.”

“You need not justify it, Radiance,” was all Loth said. “You have the right to see us at your pleasure.” He cleared his throat. “Lord Kitston has our letters of credence, if you will accept them.”

“Of course.”

Lady Priessa nodded to a servant, who took the letters from Kit.

“When the Duke of Courtesy wrote to my father, we were delighted that Inys wishes to strengthen its diplomatic ties to Yscalin,” the Donmata continued. “We would hate to think that Queen Sabran would endanger our long friendship over . . . religious differences.”

Religious differences.

“Speaking of Sabran, it has beensucha long time since I last heard from her,” the Donmata remarked. “Tell me, is she yet with child?”

A muscle flinched beneath Loth’s eye. That she could sit beneath that blasphemous device and proclaim friendship to Sabran was repulsive.

“Her Majesty is not wed, madam,” Kit said.

“But soon.” She laid a hand on each arm of her throne. When neither of them answered her, she said, “I think you do not yet know the happy tidings, my lords. Sabran is lately promised to Aubrecht Lievelyn, High Prince of the Free State of Mentendon. My one-time betrothed.”

Loth could only stare at her.

Of course, he had known Sabran would eventually choose a companion—a queen had no choice in that—but he had always assumed that it would be someone from Hróth, the more established of the two other countries in Virtudom. Instead she had chosen Aubrecht Lievelyn, grand-nephew to the late Prince Leovart, who had also courted Sabran despite the decades between them.

“Sadly,” the Donmata said, “I was not asked to attend the ceremony.” She leaned back. “You look troubled, Lord Arteloth. Come, speak your mind. Is the Red Prince not worthy of bedding your mistress?”

“Queen Sabran’s heart is a private matter,” Loth bit out. “It is not to be discussed in such a place as this.”

Laughter shattered the hush in the throne room, making his spine tingle. The Donmata joined in merrily from behind her terrible mask. “Her Majesty’s heart may be a private matter, but her bed is not. After all, they say the day the Berethnet bloodline ends, the Nameless One will return to us. If she means to keep him bound, had Sabran better not get on with the business of opening her . . . country to Prince Aubrecht?”

More laughter.

“I pray the Berethnet bloodline continues to the end of time,” Loth said, before he quite knew what he was doing, “for it stands between us and chaos.”

In one smooth movement, the guards unsheathed their rapiers. The laughter stopped.

“Careful, Lord Arteloth,” the Donmata said. “Do not say anything that could be construed as speaking ill of the Nameless One.” She held a hand toward the guards, who put away their blades. “Do you know, I heard tell thatyouwere to become prince consort. Did you prove too low to love a queen?” Before he could protest, she clapped. “Never mind. We can remedy your lack of companion here in Yscalin. Musicians! Play the thirty turns! Lady Priessa will dance with Lord Arteloth.”

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