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.”
51
East
It was just past dawn, and in the courtyard of Vane Hall, Elder Vara was oiling his iron leg. Tané approached him. The cold had turned her knuckles pink.
“Good morning, Elder Vara.” She set down a tray. “I thought you might wish to break your fast.”
“Tané.” His smile was weary. “How kind of you. My old bones would be grateful for the warmth.”