The Priory of the Orange Tree (The Roots of Chaos)

She had hoped not to kill anyone in the palace. If there had been more time, Ead might have candled the man.

She retrieved the torch and let it fall into the well. She wiped the blood from her knife.

“Find Meg and hide in her quarters,” she said quietly. “I want to scout the palace.”

Loth was staring at her as if she were a stranger. She gave him a push up the steps.

“Hurry. They will search everywhere when they find the body.”

He went.

Ead followed him before paring away. She crossed the courtyard with the apple tree and pressed her back to the limewashed wall of the Great Kitchen. She waited until a detail of guards had gone past before she slipped into the passage that led to the Sanctuary Royal.

Two more knights-errant, both in black surcoats and armed with partizans, stood outside its doors.

She candled them both. Mother willing, they would wake up too addled to report what had happened. Inside, she hid behind a pillar and gazed into the gloom. As always, many courtiers had gathered for orisons. Voices rang to the vaulted ceiling.

Sabran was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Margret.

Ead took note of how the worshippers were sitting. Usually they would huddle on the benches in the spirit of fellowship. Tonight, however, there was a clear-cut faction. Retainers in full livery. Black and murrey, the twin goblets embroidered on their tabards.

Once, you would have seen Combe’s retainers strutting about in his livery, Margret had told her, as if their first loyalty were not to their queen.

“Now,” the Arch Sanctarian said, once the hymn was finished, “we pray to the Knight of Generosity for Her Majesty, who prefers to pray in seclusion at this most sacred time. We pray for the princess in her belly, who will one day be our queen. And we give thanks to Her Grace, the Duchess of Justice, who tends so vigilantly on them both.”

Ead left the sanctuary as soundlessly as she had entered it. She had seen enough.

Carnelian House was not far from the Privy Stair. Loth evaded a brace of retainers, both wearing the badge of the Duchess of Justice, and slipped through the unlocked door.

He chased a winding stair and emerged in a corridor he knew well, decorated with portraits of Ladies of the Bedchamber who had served under long-dead queens. A new likeness of a young Lady Arbella Glenn had appeared at one end.

When he reached the right door, he listened. Silence within. He turned the handle and stepped inside.

Candles lit the chamber. His sister was bent over a book. At the sound of the door opening, she startled to her feet.

“Courtesy’s name—” She snatched her knife from the nightstand, her eyes wide. “Get you gone, knave, or I will cut out your heart. What sends you to my door?”

“Fraternal duty.” He lowered his hood. “And a terrible fear of your wrath if I stayed away a moment longer.”

The knife fell from her hand, and her eyes filled. She ran to him and flung her arms around his neck.

“Loth.” Her body heaved with sobs. “Loth—”

He drew her into an embrace, close to tears himself. It was only now he held her that he dared believe that he was home.

“I really could cut out your heart, Arteloth Beck. Abandoning me for months, sneaking in here like a vagabond—” Margret laid her hands on his cheeks. Hers were wet with tears. “And what is that on your face?”

“I must insist that the Night Hawk shoulders the blame for my absence. Though not for the beard.” He kissed her brow. “I will tell you everything later. Meg, Ead is here.”

“Ead—” Joy sparked in her eyes, then went out. “No. It’s too dangerous for both of you—”

“Where is Sab?”

“The royal apartments, I assume.” Margret gripped his shoulder with one hand and used the other to wipe her eyes. “They say she is in confinement because of the pregnancy. Only Roslain is permitted to attend on her, and Crest retainers guard her door.”

“Where is Combe in all this?”

“The Night Hawk took wing a few days ago. Stillwater and Fynch, too. I have no idea whether it was of their own volition.”

“What of the other Dukes Spiritual?”

“They seem to be helping Crest.” She looked at the window. “Did you see there is no light up there?”

Loth nodded, understanding the import well. “Sabran cannot sleep in darkness.”

“Aye.” Margret moved to shut the curtains. “The thought that she might deliver her bairn in that cheerless room—”

“Meg.”

She turned.

“There will be no Princess Glorian,” Loth said softly. “Sab is not with child. And will not be with child again.”

Margret was very still.

“How?” she finally asked.

“Her belly was . . . pierced. When the White Wyrm came.”

His sister groped for her settle.

“Now all this begins to make sense.” She sat. “Crest doesn’t want to wait until Sabran dies to take the throne.”

Her breath shook. Loth came to sit beside her, giving her time to take it all in.

“The Nameless One will return.” Margret composed herself. “I suppose all we can do now is prepare for it.”

“And we cannot do that if Inys is divided,” a new voice said.

Loth rose with his sword drawn to see Ead in the doorway. Margret let out a wordless sound of relief and went to her. They embraced like sisters.

“I must be dreaming,” Margret said into her shoulder. “You came back.”

“You told me we would meet again.” Ead held her close. “I did not want to make you a liar.”

“You have a lot of explaining to do. But it can wait.” Margret drew back. “Ead, Sabran is in the Queen Tower.”

Ead bolted the door. “Tell me everything.”

Margret repeated to her exactly what she had told Loth. As she listened, Ead stood like a statue.

“We must reach her,” she eventually said.

“The three of us will not get far,” Loth murmured.

“Where are the Knights of the Body in all this?”

The loyal bodyguards of the Queens of Inys. Loth had not even thought to ask.

“I have not seen Captain Lintley in a week,” Margret owned. “Some of the others are on guard outside the Queen Tower.”

“Is it not their duty to protect Her Majesty?” Ead asked.

“They have no reason to suspect the Duchess of Justice of doing her harm. They think Sab is resting.”

“Then we need to let them know that Sabran is being held against her will. The Knights of the Body are formidable. With even half of them on our side, we could stamp out the insurrection,” Ead said. “We should try to find Lintley. Perhaps they have put him in the guardhouse.”

“We could take the secret route I showed you,” said Margret.

Ead made for the door. “Good.”

“Wait.” Margret held out a hand to Loth. “Lend me a weapon, brother, or I shall be as much use as a fire in an ice house.”

He surrendered his baselard without complaint.

Margret took a candle and led the way down the corridor. She brought them before a portrait of a woman, and when she dragged one side away from the wall, a passage was revealed. Ead climbed into it and gave Margret a hand. Loth pulled the portrait shut behind them.

A draft blew out the candle, leaving them in darkness. All Loth could hear was their breathing. Then Ead snapped her fingers, and a silver-blue flame jumped like a spark from a firestriker. Loth exchanged a glance with his sister as Ead cupped it in her palm.

“Not all fire is to be feared,” Ead said.

Margret appeared to steel herself. “You had better make Crest fear it by dawn.”

They followed a flight of steps until they reached a way out. Ead pushed it open just a crack.

“All clear,” she murmured. “Meg, which door?”

“The closest,” Margret said at once. When Loth raised his eyebrows at her, she stamped on his foot.

Ead stepped into the unlit passageway and tried the door, to no avail. “Captain Lintley?” she said, voice soft. When there was no answer, she knocked. “Sir Tharian.”

A pause, then: “Who goes there?”

“Tharian.” Margret joined Ead the door. “Tharian, it’s Meg.”

“Meg—” A muffled oath. “Margret, you must leave. Crest has had me locked in.”

She clicked her tongue. “That sounds like a reason to get you out, fool, not to leave.”

Loth glanced down the corridor. If anyone opened the door to the guardhouse, they would have nowhere to hide.

Ead knelt beside the door. When she flexed her fingers, the fire drifted to hang beside her like a corpse candle. She studied the keyhole and used her other hand to slide a hairpin from her curls and into the lock. When it clicked, Margret eased open the door, careful not to let the hinges creak.

Inside his chamber, Sir Tharian Lintley stood in a shirt and breeches. Every taper in the room had burned to a stump. He went straight to Margret and cupped her cheek with one hand.

“Margret, you must not—” Catching sight of Loth, he started, and bowed in his soldierly way. “Saint. Lord Arteloth, I had no idea you had returned. And—” His stance changed. “Mistress Duryan.”

“Captain Lintley.” Ead still held her flame. “Should I expect you to try and arrest me?”

Lintley swallowed.

“I wondered if you were the Lady of the Woods herself,” he said. “The Principal Secretary’s retainers told stories of your witchcraft.”

“Peace.” Margret touched his arm. “I don’t yet understand it, either, but Ead is my friend. She returned at great risk to her life to help us. And she brought Loth back to me.”

A look from her was all it took to soften Lintley.

“Combe ordered us to arrest you that night,” he said to Ead. “Is he in league with Crest?”

“That, I do not know. His morals are questionable, to be sure, but he may not be the true enemy.” Ead closed the door. “We suspect Her Majesty is being held against her will. And that we have not much time to reach her.”

“I have already tried.” Lintley looked as if all hope had forsaken him. “And I shall be banished for it.”

“What happened?”

“Rumor had it that you were in league with King Sigoso and had returned to him, but it was so soon after Lord Arteloth vanished, I sensed a deliberate attempt to make Her Majesty vulnerable.”

“Go on,” Ead said.

“Her Majesty had not emerged from the Queen Tower since the White Wyrm came, and there was no light from her window. Dame Joan Dale and I demanded entrance to the Great Bedchamber to reassure ourselves she was well. Crest had us stripped of our armor for disobedience,” he said bitterly. “Now I am confined here.”

“What of the other Knights of the Body?” Margret asked.

“Three are also here for protesting.”

“Not for long,” Ead said. “How many retainers would we face, should we make our move tonight?”

“Of the thirty-six retainers Crest has at court, I would guess that about half are armed. She has several knights-errant, too.”

The Knights of the Body were among the best warriors in Inys, hand-picked for their skill. They could defeat a rabble of servants.

“Do you think the others are still loyal?” Ead asked.

“Absolutely. Their first allegiance is always to Her Majesty.”

“Good,” she replied. “Muster them and go after Crest. Once she is apprehended, her retainers will lay down their arms.”

They stole out of the chamber. Ead broke the locks on three other doors, and Lintley whispered the plan to his soldiers. Soon they stood with Dame Joan Dale, Dame Suzan Thatch, and Sir Marke Birchen.

“There are not many guards outside the armory.” Ead offered Lintley one of her own blades. “Retrieve your weapons, but I would advise against armor. It will make you slow. And loud.”

Lintley took the blade. “What will you do?”

“I will find Her Majesty.”

“She will be surrounded by retainers in the service of Crest,” Lintley reiterated. “They were stationed on almost every floor of the Queen Tower when last I was there.”

“I can deal with them.”

Lintley shook his head. “I cannot tell if you have lost your wits, Ead, or if you are the Knight of Courage come again.”

“Let me go with you,” Loth said to her. “I can help.”

“If you think a handful of traitors will keep me from her side,” came her immediate answer, “you are sorely mistaken.” Then, softer, “I can do this alone.”

The conviction in her words caught him unawares. He had seen her fell a wyverling. She could handle a few retainers.

“Then I will go with you, Sir Tharian,” he said.

Lintley nodded. “It would be my honor to fight alongside you, Lord Arteloth.”

“I will go with you, too,” Margret said. “If you will have me.”

“I will, Lady Margret.” Lintley raised a smile. “I will have you.”

Their gazes held for a moment longer than necessary. Loth cleared his throat, making Lintley look away.

“I still say you will be arrested before you get to the doors,” one of the Knights of the Body said darkly to Ead.

“You speak as if it is a certainty.” Ead stood with folded arms. “If any of you wish to turn back, say it now. We can afford no cowardice.”

“We number the same as the Saint and his Holy Retinue,” Margret said firmly. “If the seven of them managed to found a religion, then I sincerely hope the seven of us can rout a few milk-livered knaves.”

Ead climbed the ladder of woodvines up the Queen Tower, as she had before. When she was close to the Privy Kitchen, she pushed off the wall and seized the windowsill. Weakened by her last climb, the woodvines tore away under her boot and collapsed onto the glasshouse far below.

She pulled herself through and fell into a crouch. Somewhere below, a bell began to ring. They must have found the body in the well.

For Lintley, the alarm was good tidings. He and his Knights of the Body could take advantage of the distraction to retrieve their swords from the armory. For Ead, however, the outlook was grim. This commotion would raise every retainer in the Queen Tower from bed.

Only a few more rooms now stood between her and Sabran.

The Gallery of the Blood Royal was empty. She strode past the portraits of the women of the House of Berethnet. Painted green eyes seemed to follow her as she approached the stair. There were differences between the queens—a curl to the hair, a dimple, a well-defined jaw—but each of them looked so much like the others, they might all have been sisters.

Her siden thrummed, and she could hear up to the next floor. Footsteps were approaching. By the time a group of retainers in green stormed down the stair, she was pressed against a tapestry, out of sight.

The bell had drawn them away from the royal apartments. This was her chance to reach Sabran.

Upstairs was the corridor she had lived in as a Lady of the Bedchamber. Ead stopped when she heard a voice from far below.

“To the Queen Tower!” It was Lintley. “Knights of the Body! All swords to the queen!”

They had been seen, and too early. Ead ran to the window and looked down.

With her razor senses, she could see every fine detail of the clash. In the Sundial Garden, Crest retainers were locking swords with the armed Knights of the Body. She saw Loth, sword flashing in his hand. Margret stood back to back with him.

The flame called for release. For the first time since she was a child, Ead conjured a fistful of Draconic fire, red as the morning sun, and hurled it at the Sundial Garden, into the midst of the traitors. Panic reigned. The retainers turned wildly, searching for the source of the fire, no doubt thinking a wyrm was above. Seizing the moment, Loth struck down his adversary with his elbow. Ead saw his face harden, his throat flex, and his fist clench.

“People of the court,” he called, “hearken to me!”

The commotion had already roused the palace. Windows were opening in every building.

“I am Lord Arteloth Beck, who was banished from Inys for loyalty to the crown.” Loth strode to the middle of the Sundial Garden as he bellowed over the clangor of blades. “Igrain Crest has turned against our queen. She allows her retainers to wear her colors and carry arms. She spits at the Knight of Fellowship by allowing her servants to fight like hounds at court. These are traitorous actions!”

He sounded like a man reborn.

“I urge you, in fellowship and faith, to rise for Her Majesty,” he shouted. “Help us reach the Queen Tower and assure her safety!”

Cries of outrage ascended from the windows.

“You. What are you doing in here?”

Ead turned. Twelve more retainers had appeared.

“It’s her,” one of them barked, and they ran toward her. “Ead Duryan, yield your weapons!”

She could not candle all of them.

Blood it would have to be.

Two swords were already in her hands. She leaped high and landed, catlike, in their midst, slicing fingers and tendons, spilling guts like a cutpurse spilling gold. Death came for them like a desert wind.

Her blades were as red as the cloak she had forsworn. And when the dead lay at her feet, she looked up, tasting iron, hands gloved in wetness.

Lady Igrain Crest stood at the end of the corridor, flanked by two knights-errant.

“Enough, Your Grace.” Ead sheathed her blades. “Enough.”

Crest appeared unruffled by the carnage.

“Mistress Duryan,” she said, eyebrows raised. “Blood, my dear, is never the way forward.”

“Rich words,” Ead replied, “from one whose hands are soaked in it.”

Crest did not flinch.

“How long have you seen yourself as the judge of queens?” Ead took a step toward her. “How long have you been punishing them for straying from whichever path you deemed virtuous?”

“You are raving, Mistress Duryan.”

“Murder is against the teachings of your ancestor. And yet . . . you judged the Berethnets and found them wanting. Queen Rosarian took a lover outside the marriage bed and, in your eyes, she was stained.” Ead paused. “Rosarian is dead because of you.”

It was an arrow loosed into the dark, aimed on little more than instinct. And yet Crest smiled.

And Ead knew.

“Queen Rosarian,” the Duchess of Justice said, “was removed by Sigoso Vetalda.”

“With your approval. Your help from inside. He was scapegoat and weapon, but you were the instigator,” Ead said. “I suppose when it all went smoothly, you understood your power. You hoped to mold the daughter into a more obedient queen than the mother. Tried to make Sabran dependent on your counsel, and to make her love you as a second mother.” She mirrored that little smile. “But of course, Sabran developed a will of her own.”

“I am the heir of Dame Lorain Crest, the Knight of Justice.” Crest spoke in a measured tone. “She who ensured that the great duel of life was conducted fairly, who weighed the cups of guilt and innocence, who punished the unworthy, and who saw to it that the righteous would triumph always over the sinners. She who was most beloved of the Saint, whose legacy I have lived to defend.”

Her eyes were now afire with fervor.

“Sabran Berethnet,” she said softly, “has destroyed the house. She is barren stock. Bastard-born. No true heir of Galian Berethnet. A Crest must wear the crown, to glorify the Saint.”

“The Saint would brook no tyrants on the throne of Inys,” a voice behind Ead said.

Sir Tharian Lintley appeared at her shoulder with nine of the Knights of the Body. They surrounded Crest and her protectors.

“Igrain Crest,” Lintley said, “you are arrested on suspicion of high treason. You will come with us to the Dearn Tower.”

“You cannot make an arrest without a warrant from Her Majesty,” Crest said, “or from myself.” She looked straight ahead, as if all of them were beneath her. “Who are you to draw your swords upon holy blood?”

Lintley did not dignify the question with a retort.

“Go,” he said to Ead. “Get to Her Majesty.”

Ead needed no urging. She cast a final look at Crest and made for the end of the corridor.

“We can have a peaceful transition now, or war when the truth outs,” Crest called after her. “And it will, Mistress Duryan. The righteous will always triumph . . . in the end.”

Jaw clenched, Ead strode away.

As soon as she was out of sight, she broke into a run. Blood dripped in her wake as she followed the path she had taken countless times.

Into the Presence Chamber she ran. All was cold and dark. She rounded a corner, and there were the doors to the Great Bedchamber. The doors she had walked through so many times to find the Queen of Inys.

Something moved in the darkness. Ead stopped short. Her flame cast a queasy light on the figure crumpled by the doors. Eyes like cobalt glass and a curtain of dark hair.

Roslain.

“Get back.” A knife shone in her grasp. “I will cut your throat if you touch her, Grandmother, I swear it—”

“It’s me, Roslain. Ead.”

The Chief Gentlewoman of the Bedchamber finally saw past the light.

“Ead.” She kept the knife up, breathing hard. “I dismissed the rumors about your sorcery . . . but perhaps you are the Lady of the Woods.”

“A humbler witch than she, I assure you.”

Ead crouched beside Roslain and reached for her right hand, making her flinch. Three of her fingers were bent at a grotesque angle, a splinter of bone jutting out above her love-knot ring.

“Did your grandmother do this?” Ead asked her quietly. “Or are you in league with her?”

Roslain let out a bitter laugh. “Saint, Ead.”

“You were raised in the shadow of a queen. Perhaps you grew to resent her.”

“I am not in her shadow. I am her shadow. And that,” Roslain bit out, “has been my privilege.”

Ead studied her, but there was no deceit in that tear-stained face.

“Go to her, but be on your guard,” Roslain whispered. “If my grandmother comes back—”

“Your grandmother is arrested.”

At this, Roslain let out a breathless sob. Ead squeezed her shoulder. Then she stood, and for the first time in an age, she faced the doors to the Great Bedchamber. Each sinew of her being was a harpstring, pulled taut.

Inside, the darkness yawned sinister. The flame untethered itself from her hand to float like a ghostlight and, by its pallid flicker, Ead made out a figure at the foot of the bed.

“Sabran.”

The figure stirred. “Leave me,” it rasped. “I am at prayer.”

Ead was already beside Sabran, lifting her head. Shivering limbs recoiled from her.

“Sabran.” Her voice quaked. “Sabran, look at me.”

When Sabran raised her gaze, Ead drew in a breath. Gaunt and listless, wound in the shroud of her own hair, Sabran Berethnet looked more of a carcass than a queen. Her eyes, once limpid, took little in, and the smell of days unwashed clung to her nightgown.

“Ead.” Fingers came to her face. Ead pressed the icy hand to her cheek. “No. You are another dream. You come here to torment me.” Sabran turned away. “Leave me in peace.”

Ead stared at her. Then she laughed for the first time in weeks, a laugh that stemmed from deep in her belly.

“Damn you, intransigent fool.” She almost choked on her laughter. “I have crossed the South and the West to get back to you, Sabran Berethnet, and you reward me thus?”

Sabran looked at her a moment longer, her face clearing, and suddenly began to weep. “Ead,” she said, her voice splintering, and Ead crushed her close, wrapping her arms around as much of her as she could. Sabran curled like a kitten against her.

There was nothing of her. Ead pulled the coverlet from the bed and enfolded her in it. Explanations could come later. So could vengeance. For now, all she wanted was for her to be safe and warm.

“She killed Truyde utt Zeedeur.” Sabran was shivering so badly, she could hardly speak. “She imprisoned my Knights of the Body. Igrain. I tried— I tried—”

“Hush.” Ead pressed a kiss to her brow. “I am here. Loth is here. Everything will be well.”