West
The Feast of High Winter began at six of the clock in the Banqueting House of Ascalon Palace. As always, it would be followed by music and dancing in the Presence Chamber.
As the bells chimed in the clock tower, Ead studied her reflection. Her gown was palest blue silk, snowed with seed-pearls, the ruff made of white cutwork lace.
For one more night, she would dress as a courtier. Her sisters would think her even more of a traitor when they discovered that she had accepted a title from the Queen of Inys. If she was to survive here, however, it seemed she had no other choice.
A knock at the door, and Margret let herself in. She wore ivory satin and a silver girdle, and her attifet was studded with moonstones.
“I just came from Sabran,” she said. “I am to be made a Lady of the Bedchamber.” She set down the candle. “I thought you might not want to go to the Banqueting House alone.”
“You thought correctly. As always.” Ead met her gaze in the glass. “Meg, what has Loth told you about me?”
“Everything.” Margret grasped her by the shoulders. “You know I take the Knight of Courage as my patron. There is courage, I think, in open-mindedness, and thinking for oneself. If you are a witch, then perhaps witches are not so wicked after all.” Her face turned serious. “Now, a question. Would you prefer me to call you Eadaz?”
“No. But thank you for asking.” Ead was touched. “You may call me Ead, as I call you Meg.”
“Very well.” Margret linked her arm. “Then let me reintroduce you to court, Ead.”
Snow had settled thickly on every ledge and step. Courtiers were emerging from all over the palace, drawn to the light from the windows of the Banqueting House. As they entered, the steward called out, “Lady Margret Beck and Mistress Ead Duryan.”
Her old name. Her false name.
The Banqueting House fell almost silent. Hundreds of eyes turned to look upon the witch. Margret tightened her grip on her arm.
Loth was alone at the high table, seated to the left of the throne. He beckoned with one hand.
They walked between the rows of tables. When Margret went to the chair on the other side of the throne, Ead sat beside her. She had never once eaten at the high table, which had always been reserved for the queen, the Dukes Spiritual, and two other guests of honor. In the old days, those guests of honor had usually been Loth and Roslain.
“I’ve seen more cheer in a charnel garden,” Margret muttered. “Did you speak to Roslain, Loth?”
Loth rested his knuckles on his cheek and turned his face toward them, hiding his lips.
“Aye,” he said. “After the bonesetter came to tend to her hand.” He kept his voice low. “It appears your instinct was right, Ead. Crest believes herself to be the judge of queens.”
Ead took no pleasure in it.
“I am not sure when her madness set in,” Loth went on, “but when Queen Rosarian was still alive, one of her ladies reported to Crest that she had taken Captain Gian Harlowe as a lover. Crest saw Rosarian as … a harlot, unfit to be queen. She punished her in several ways. Then decided that she was beyond reform.”
Ead could see in his face that he was struggling to swallow this. He had believed for too long in the delicate artifice of court. Now the artfully placed leaves had blown away, revealing the shining jaws of the trap.
“She warned Queen Rosarian,” Loth continued, brow pinched, “but the affair with Harlowe carried on. Even—” He glanced toward the doors. “Even after Sab was born.”
Margret raised her eyebrows. “So Sabran may be his daughter?”
“If Crest speaks true. And I think she does. Once she started talking, she seemed almost desperate to tell me every detail of her … enterprise.”
Another secret to be kept. Another crack in the marble throne.
“Once Sab was old enough to bear children of her own,” Loth said, “Crest sought help from King Sigoso. She knew he reviled Rosarian for refusing his hand, so together they conspired to kill her, with Crest hoping the blame would drift toward Yscalin.”
“And Crest still considered herself pious?” Margret snorted. “After murdering a Berethnet?”
“Piety can turn the power-hungry into monsters,” Ead said. “They can twist any teaching to justify their actions.”
She had seen it before. Mita had believed she was serving the Mother when she executed Zāla.
“Crest waited then,” Loth said. “Waited to see if Sabran would grow to be more devout than her mother. When Sab resisted the childbed, Crest sensed rebellion. She bribed people to enter the Queen Tower with blades to frighten her. Ead, it is just as you suspected. The cutthroats were supposed to be caught. Crest promised their families would be compensated.”
“And she infiltrated Truyde’s plan in order to kill Lievelyn?” Margret asked, and Loth nodded. “But why?”
“Lievelyn traded with Seiiki. That was the reason she gave me. She also considered him a drain on Inys—but in truth, I think she could not bear that Sabran spurned her choice of companion. That she was becoming influenced by someone other than her.”
“Sab did seem to hearken to Lievelyn,” Margret conceded. “She went outside her palace for the first time in fourteen years because he asked it of her.”
“Just so. An upstart sinner with too much power. Once he had served his purpose, and Sabran was pregnant, he had to die.” Loth shook his head. “When the physician told her Sabran would not conceive again, it proved to Crest, once and for all, that she was of tainted seed, and that the House of Berethnet was no longer fit to serve the Saint. She decided that the throne must pass, at last, to the only worthy descendants of the Holy Retinue. To her own heir.”
“This confession must be enough to condemn Crest,” Ead said.
Loth looked grimly satisfied. “I do believe it is.”
At that moment, the steward thumped his staff on the floorboards.
“Her Majesty, Queen Sabran!”
The court fell silent as it rose. When Sabran came into the candlelight, with the silver-clad Knights of the Body behind her, there was a shared intake of breath.
Ead had never seen her look so splendidly alone. Usually she came to the Banqueting Hall with her ladies, or with Seyton Combe or some other person of importance.
She wore no powder on her face. No jewelry but her coronation ring. Her gown was black velvet, its sleeves and forepart mourning gray. It was clear to anyone with sense that she was not with child.
Murmurs of confusion rang through the hall. It was traditional for a queen to be holding her swaddled daughter, the first time she appeared in public after her confinement.
Loth stood to let Sabran take the throne. She lowered herself into it, watched by her court.
“Mistress Lidden,” she said, her voice stentorian, “will you not sing for us?”
The Knights of the Body took their places behind the high table. Lintley never removed his hand from his sword. The court musicians began to play, and Jillet Lidden sang.
Silver platters of food were brought out from the Great Kitchen and laid on the tables, displaying all Inys had to offer in the high winter. Swan pie, woodcock, and roasted goose, baked venison in a rich clove sauce, burbot sprinkled with almond snowflakes and silver leaf, white cabbage and honey-glazed parsnip, mussels seethed in butter and red wine vinegar. Conversation stole back into the hall, but nobody seemed able to tear their eyes from the queen.
A page filled their goblets with ice wine from Hróth. Ead accepted a few mussels and a cut of goose. As she ate, she gave Sabran a sidelong glance.
She recognized the look on her face. Fragility with a front of strength. As Sabran lifted her goblet to her lips, only Ead noticed the tremor in her hand.
Jumbles, sugar plums, spiced pear and cranberry pie, pastry horns stuffed with snow cream, and blanched apple tarts, among other delicacies, followed the main course. When Sabran rose, and the steward announced her, a deathly silence fell again.
Sabran did not speak for some time. She stood tall, with her hands clasped at her midriff.
“Good people,” she said at last, “we know that things at court have been disquieting in recent days, and that our absence must have troubled you.” Somehow, despite the low pitch of her voice, she managed to make herself heard. “Certain people at this court have conspired, of late, to break the spirit of fellowship that has always united the people of Virtudom.”
Her face was a locked door. The court waited for revelation.
“It will be a great shock to you that during our recent illness, we were confined in the Queen Tower by one of our own councillors, who was attempting to usurp our Saint-given authority.” Murmurs flickered across the hall. “This councillor took advantage of our absence to pursue her own ambition to steal our throne. A person of holy blood.”