Ead felt the words in her core, and she knew that everyone else did, too. They struck like a wave. Left no one untouched.
“Because of her actions, we must bring you most grievous news.” Sabran placed a hand on her belly. “That during our ordeal … we lost the beloved daughter we carried.”
The silence went on. And on.
And on.
Then one of the maids of honor let out a sob, and it was like a thunderclap. The Banqueting House erupted around her.
Sabran remained still and expressionless. The hall resounded with calls for the perpetrators to pay. The steward banged his staff, shouting to no avail for order, until Sabran raised a hand.
At once, the turmoil ceased.
“These are uncertain times,” Sabran said, “and we cannot afford to give way to grief. A shadow has fallen over our realm. More Draconic creatures are waking, and their wings have brought a wind of fear. We see that fear in all your faces. We have seen it even in our own.”
Ead watched the crowd. The words were reaching them. By offering them a glimpse of vulnerability—a fine crack in her armor—Sabran showed that she stood among them.
“But it is in such times that we must look more than ever to the Saint to guide us,” Sabran said. “He opens his arms to the fearful. He shelters us with his own shield. And his love, like a sword in the hand, makes us strong. While we stand together in the great Chainmail of Virtudom, we cannot be defeated.
“We mean to reforge with love what greed has broken. On this, the Feast of High Winter, we pardon all those who were so quick to serve their mistress that they neglected, in their haste and fear, to serve their queen. They will not be executed. They will know the balm of mercy.
“But the woman who used them cannot be forgiven. It was her hunger for power, and her wanton abuse of the power she had already been given, that swayed others to her will.” The hall flickered with nods. “She has dishonored her holy blood. She has scorned her patron virtue—for Igrain Crest knew no justice in her hypocrisy and malice.”
That name sent a ripple of unrest along the tables.
“By her actions, Crest has shamed not only the Knight of Justice, but the blessed Saint and his descendants. Therefore, we expect her to be found guilty of high treason.” Sabran made the sign of the sword, and the court mirrored her. “All of the Dukes Spiritual are presently being questioned. It is our fervent hope that the rest are proven innocent, but we shall bow to the evidence.”
Each of her words was the skip of a stone across a lake, forming ripples of emotion. The Queen of Inys could not cast illusions, but her voice and bearing on this night had turned her into an enchantress.
“We stand here in love. In hope. And in defiance. Defiance of those would have tried to turn us from our values. Defiance of Draconic hate. We rise to face the winds of fear and, by the Saint, we will turn them back upon our enemies.” She walked across the dais, and every eye followed her. “We do not yet have an heir, for our daughter is in the arms of the Saint—but your queen is very much alive. And we will ride into any battle for you, as Glorian Shieldheart rode for her people. Come what may.”
Now there were rumbles of agreement. Nods and shouts of Sabran Queen.
“We will prove to the entire world,” she continued, “that no wyrm will cow the people of Virtudom!”
“Virtudom,” voices echoed. “Virtudom!”
They were all on their feet now. Eyes bright in the frenzy of veneration. Cups held up in taut-knuckled fists.
She had led them from the depths of terror to the height of adoration.
Sabran was golden-tongued.
“Now, in the same defiance this realm has professed for a thousand years,” she called out, “we celebrate the Feast of High Winter—and prepare for spring, the season of change. The season of sweetness. The season of generosity. And what it gives, we will not hoard, but give in turn to you.” She snatched her goblet from the table and thrust it high. “To Virtudom!”
“VIRTUDOM,” the court roared back. “VIRTUDOM! VIRTUDOM!”
Their voices filled the hall like song, rising to its very rafters.
The festivities went on late into the night. Though there were balefires outside, the courtiers seemed grateful to be in the Presence Chamber, where Sabran sat on her marble throne, and flames roared in the cavernous hearth. Ead stood with Margret in the corner.
As she sipped her mulled wine, a blaze of red caught her eye. Her hand flicked to the knife on her girdle.
“Ead.” Margret touched her elbow. “What is it?”
Red hair. The red hair of the Mentish ambassador, not a cloak—yet Ead did not relax. Her sisters must be biding their time, but they would come.
“Nothing. Forgive me,” Ead said. “What were you saying?”
“Tell me what the matter is.”
“It is nothing you want to meddle in, Meg.”
“I wasn’t meddling. Well, perhaps,” Margret admitted. “One must be a trifle meddlesome at court, or one has nothing to talk about.”
Ead smiled. “Are you ready for our journey to Goldenbirch tomorrow?”
“Aye. Our ship leaves at dawn.” Margret paused before adding, “Ead, I don’t suppose you were able to bring Valour home.”
There was hope in her eyes. “He is with an Ersyri family I trust, on an estate in the Harmur Pass,” Ead said. “I could not take him into the desert. You shall have him back, I promise.”
“Thank you.”
Someone stopped beside Margret and touched her on the shoulder. Katryen Withy, wearing a gown of cloud silk. Pearls inlaid in silver nestled in her wreath of hair.
“Kate.” Margret embraced her. “Kate, how do you do?”
“I have been worse.” Katryen kissed her on the cheek before turning to Ead. “Oh, Ead. I am very glad you’re back.”
“Katryen.” Ead looked her over. A bruise was fading under her eye, and her jaw was swollen. “What happened to you?”
“I tried to get to Sabran.” She touched the mark gingerly. “Crest had me locked in my quarters. Her guard did this when I resisted.”
Margret shook her head. “If that tyrant had ever sat the throne …”
“Thank the Damsel she will not.”
Sabran, who had been deep in conversation with Loth, now rose, and the room was quiet. It was time for her to reward those who had proved most faithful to their queen.
The ceremony was no less impressive for its brevity. First, Margret was formally named a Lady of the Bedchamber, while the Knights of the Body were commended for their ceaseless loyalty to the crown. Others who had joined them were given lands and jewels, and then:
“Mistress Ead Duryan.”
Ead stepped from the crowd. Whispers and looks dogged her footsteps.
“By the grace of the Six Virtues,” the steward read, “it has pleased Her Majesty to name you Dame Eadaz uq-Nāra, Viscountess Nurtha. A member of the Virtues Council.”
The Presence Chamber rang with murmurs. Viscountess was an honorary title in Inys, used to raise a woman who was not of noble or holy blood. Never had it been bestowed upon one who was not an Inysh subject.
Sabran took the ceremonial sword from Loth. Ead held still as the flat of the blade touched each of her shoulders. This second title would only serve to deepen her treachery in the eyes of her sisters—but she could wear it if it shielded her for long enough to find Ascalon.
“Rise,” Sabran said. “My lady.”
Ead stood and looked her in the eye.
“Thank you.” Her curtsy was brief. “Your Majesty.”
She took her letters patent from the steward. People whispered my lady as she returned to Margret.
She was Mistress Duryan no more.
There was one last honor to be given. For his courage, Sir Tharian Lintley, who was as much a commoner by blood as Ead, also received a new title. He was made Viscount Morwe.
“Now, Lord Morwe,” Sabran said in an arch tone, once Lintley had received his accolade, “we believe you are of appropriate rank to marry a daughter of the Earls Provincial. Pray, do you … have anyone in mind?”
An outbreak of much-needed laughter followed.
Lintley swallowed. He looked like a man who had just been granted all the wishes of his life.
“Yes.” He looked across the room. “Yes, Your Majesty, I do. But I would prefer first to speak to the lady in private. To be certain of her heart.”
Margret, who had been watching with pursed lips, raised an eyebrow.
“You have spoken for long enough, Sir Tharian,” she called. “Now is the time for action.”
More laughter. Lintley chuckled, as did she. Candlelight danced in her eyes. She crossed the room and took his outstretched hand.
“Your Majesty,” Lintley said, “I ask your permission, and that of the Knight of Fellowship, to take this woman as my companion in the coming days.” The way he gazed at her, she might have been a sunrise after years of night. “So that I might love her as she has always deserved.”
Margret looked to the throne. Her throat bobbed, but Sabran had already inclined her head.
“You have our permission,” she said. “We give it gladly.”