Her gaze was on the ceiling.
“I have not left,” she said. “All I do, I do for the Mother. To glorify her name.” She closed her eyes. “But I hope—I pray—that my path will bend southward again someday.”
Hating the pain in her voice, Loth reached for her. A careful brush of his thumb along her cheekbone.
“I am glad,” he said, “that it bends westward this day.”
She returned his smile.
“Loth,” she said, “I did miss you.”
They were riding again before the sun rose in the morning, and on they rode for days. A snowstorm had blown in, slowing their horses, and one night brigands set upon them, demanding all their coin. Alone, Loth would have been overwhelmed, but Ead put up such a spirited fight that they retreated.
There was no more time for sleep. Ead was in her saddle again before the brigands were out of sight; it was all Loth could do to keep up with her. They turned northeast at Crow Coppice and galloped up the South Pass, keeping their heads down as they joined the wagons, packhorses, and coaches moving toward Ascalon. And finally, by owl light, they arrived.
Loth slowed his horse. The spires of Ascalon were black against the evening sky. Even in the rain, this city was the beacon of his heart.
They rode on to Berethnet Mile. Fresh snow was a bordcloth on it, as yet untrampled. At its end, far away, loomed the wrought-iron gates of Ascalon Palace. Even in the gloaming, Loth could see the damage to the Dearn Tower. He had almost not believed that Fyredel had been upon it.
He could smell the River Limber. The bells of the Sanctuary of Our Lady were ringing.
“I want to ride past the palace,” Ead said. “To see if there are increased defenses.” Loth nodded.
Each ward of the city began at its gatehouse. Queenside, the closest to the palace, had the most impressive, tall and gilded, carved with likenesses of past queens. As they neared it, the street, usually busy at dusk as people flocked to orisons, was quiet.
The snow beneath the gatehouse was stained dark. When Loth looked up, the feeling left his face. High above them, two severed heads were mounted on pikes.
One was unrecognizable. Little more than a skull. The other had been tarred and parboiled, but the features slumped with decay. Ears and nose leaking rot. Flies on pallid skin.
He might not have recognized her if not for the hair. Long and red, streaming like blood.
“Truyde,” Ead breathed.
Loth could not tear his gaze from the head. From that swaying hair, grotesquely animate.
Once, he and Sabran and Roslain had all gathered by the fire in the Privy Chamber and listened to Arbella Glenn tell them about Sabran the Fifth, the only tyrant of the House of Berethnet, who had adorned every finial on the palace gates with the heads of those who had displeased her. No queen had dared to raise her ghost by doing it again.
“Quickly.” Ead turned her horse. “Follow me.”
They rode to the ward of Southerly Wharf, where silk merchants and clothiers reigned. They soon reached the Rose and Candle, one of the finest inns in the city, where they handed their horses to an ostler. Loth stopped to retch. Vomit seethed in his belly.
“Loth.” Ead ushered him indoors. “Hurry. I know the innkeeper here. We will be safe.”
Loth no longer remembered what it was to be safe. The stench of rot was etched into his throat.
An attendant led them inside and knocked on a door. A ruddy-faced woman in a boxy doublet answered it. When she saw Ead, her eyebrows shot up.
“Well,” she said, recovering, “you ought to come in.”
She ushered them into her quarters. As soon as the door was closed, she embraced Ead.
“Dear girl. It’s been a very long time,” she said, her voice hushed. “What in damsam are you doing on the streets?”
“We had no choice.” Ead drew back. “Our common friend told me you would give me shelter if I should ever need it.”
“The promise stands.” The woman inclined her head to Loth. “Lord Arteloth. Welcome to the Rose and Candle.”
Loth wiped his mouth. “We thank you for your hospitality, goodwife.”
“We need a room,” Ead said. “Can you help?”
“I can. But have you only just arrived in Ascalon?” When they nodded, she took a roll of parchment from the table. “Look.”
Ead unraveled it. Loth read over her shoulder.
In the name of QUEEN SABRAN, Her Grace, the DUCHESS OF JUSTICE, offers a reward of eighteen thousand crowns for the capture of Ead Duryan, a low-born Southerner in the guise of a lady, wanted alive for Sorcery, Heresy, and High Treason against HER MAJESTY. Curling black hair, dark brown eyes. Report any sighting at once to a city guard.
“The heralds have read your name and description every day,” the innkeeper said. “I trust those you met in the yard, but you must speak to no one else. And be gone from this city as soon as you can.” She shivered. “Something is not right in the palace. They said that child was a traitor, but I cannot think Queen Sabran would execute one so young.”
Ead handed the notice back. “There were two heads,” she said. “Whose was the other?”
“Bess Weald. Wicked Bess, they call her now.”
The name meant nothing to Loth, but Ead nodded. “We cannot leave the city,” she stated. “We are about most important business.”
The innkeeper blew out a breath. “Well,” she said, “if you want to risk staying, I vowed to the ambassador that I would help you on your way.” She picked up a candle. “Come.”
She led them up a staircase. Music and laughter echoed from the hall. The innkeeper opened one of the doors and handed Ead the key.
“I shall have your belongings brought up.”
“Thank you. I will not forget this, and neither will His Excellency,” Ead told her. “We will also need clothes. And weapons, if you can manage it.”
“Of course.”
Loth took the candle from the innkeeper before he joined Ead, who bolted the door. The chamber boasted one bed, a roaring fire, and a copper bath, full and steaming.
“Bess Weald was the merchant who shot Lievelyn.” Ead swallowed. “This is Crest.”
“Why would she have murdered Lady Truyde?”
“To silence her. Only Truyde, Sabran, and myself knew that Bess Weald worked for someone called the Cupbearer. And Combe,” she added, after a moment. “Crest is covering her spoor. My head would have been up there, too, sooner or later, if I had not left court.” She paced the room. “Crest could not have executed Truyde without Sabran knowing. Surely death warrants must have a royal signature.”
“No. The signature of whomsoever holds the Duchy of Justice is also valid on a death warrant,” Loth said, “but only if the sovereign is unable to sign with her own hand.”
The implication settled over them both, heavy with portent.
“We need to get into the palace. Tonight,” Ead said, frustration mounting in her voice. “I must speak with someone. In another ward.”
“Ead, no. This entire city is looking for—”
“I know how to evade discovery.” Ead put her hood back up. “Lock the door behind me. When I get back, we will make a plan.” She paused to kiss his cheek on the way out. “Fear not for me, my friend.”
And she was gone.
Loth undressed and sank into the copper bath. All he could think about was the heads staked on the gatehouse. The promise of an Inys he could not recognize. An Inys without his queen.
He battled sleep for as long as he could, but days of riding in the cold had taken their toll. When he tumbled into bed, he dreamed not of severed heads, but of the Donmata Marosa. She came to him naked, with eyes full of ash, and her kiss tasted of wormwood. You left me, she breathed. You left me to die. Just like you left your friend.
When a knock finally came, he jerked awake.
“Loth.”
He groped for the bolt. Ead was outside. He stood aside to let her into the chamber.
“I have our way in,” she said. “We will go with the waterfolk.”
They crewed the barges and wherries that crossed the River Limber every day, taking people and goods from one side to the other. “I assume you have more friends among them.”
“One,” she confirmed. “A shipment of wine is being taken to the Privy Stair for the Feast of High Winter. He has agreed that we can join the waterfolk. That will get us inside.”
“And when we are?”
“I mean to find Sabran.” Ead looked at him. “If you would prefer to stay here, I will go in alone.”
“No,” Loth said. “We go together.”
They set out dressed like merchants, armed to the chin under their cloaks. Soon they entered the ward of Fiswich-by-Bridge and slipped down the wherry stairs on Delphin Street. The stairs were squeezed alongside a tavern, the Gray Grimalkin, where the waterfolk drank after a long day on the Limber.
The tavern faced the east wall of Ascalon Palace. Loth followed Ead. Their riding boots crunched through the shells on the riverbank.
He had never set foot in this part of the city. Fiswich-by-Bridge had a reputation for knavery.
Ead approached one of the men outside the tavern.