“Why?” Ead asked, stunned. “Why would you destroy the House of Berethnet when you made it? Has this all been a game to you—some elaborate revenge on Galian?”
“I have not destroyed the House of Berethnet,” Kalyba said. “No. That night—the night I struck down Sabran and her unborn child—I saved it. In ending the line, I earned the trust of Fyredel, who will commend me to the Nameless One.” There was no amusement or joy in her now. “He will rise, Eadaz. None can stop him. Even if you were to plunge Ascalon into his heart, even if the Long-Haired Star returns, he will always rise anew. The imbalance in the universe—the imbalance that created him—will always exist. It can never be righted.”
Ead tightened her grip on her sword. The jewel was icy cold against her heart.
“The Nameless One will let me be his Flesh Queen in the days to come,” Kalyba said. “I shall give him Sabran as a gift and take her place on the throne of Inys. The throne Galian took from me. No one will know the difference. I will tell the people that I am Sabran, and that the Nameless One, in his mercy, has allowed me to keep my crown.”
“No,” Ead said quietly.
Kalyba held out a hand once more. Margret placed hers on Ascalon, still buckled into the saddle.
“Give me the sword,” Kalyba said, “and your oath will be fulfilled.” Her gaze flicked to Margret. “Or perhaps you will return it, child, to undo the wrong your family did me by hiding it.”
Margret faced the Lady of the Woods, her childhood fear, and kept her hand on Ascalon.
“My ancestors were brave to keep it from you,” she said, “and not for anything will I give it to you.”
Ead locked gazes with Kalyba. She who had tricked Galian the Deceiver. The White Wyrm. Ancestor of Sabran. If she took the sword, there would be no victory.
“Very well,” Kalyba said. “If we must do this the hard way, so be it.”
Before their eyes, she began to change.
Limb stretched and bent on itself. Her spine elongated with cracks like gunshots, and her skin was scrolled taut between new bones. In moments, she was as big as a house, and the White Wyrm was before them, towering and terrible. Ead grabbed Margret away just before razor teeth clamped around the horse, smothering the light of Ascalon.
Leathery wings slammed down, bringing with them a hot wind. Horse blood sprayed across the snow as Kalyba launched herself into the night.
As the wingbeats faded into the distance, Ead slid to her knees, shoulders heaving. Spattered with blood, Margret knelt beside her.
“There were thorns,” she said, shuddering. “In my— in my throat. In my mouth.”
“It was nothing real.” Ead leaned against her. “We lost the sword. The sword, Meg.”
Her hands burned, but she kept them closed. She would need all her siden for the fight that was to come.
“It can’t be true.” Margret swallowed. “All she said about the Saint. The face she wore was trickery.”
“I revealed it with magefire,” Ead murmured. “Magefire is revelation. It tells only the truth.”
Somewhere in the trees, an owl let out a chilling scream. When Margret flinched, dread in her gaze, Ead reached for her hand and squeezed it.
“Without the True Sword, we cannot kill the Nameless One. And unless we can find the second jewel, we cannot bind him,” she said. “But we might be able to raise enough of an army to drive him far away.”
“How?” Margret’s voice was desolate. “Who can help us now?”
Ead rose, pulling Margret with her, and they stood in the red-stained snow beneath the moon.
“I must speak to Sabran,” she said. “It is time to open a new door.”
56
West
Loth had spent his morning writing to the Virtues Council, telling them of the imminent threat and calling them to Ascalon. It was an exhausting process, but since Seyton Combe had been released and taken over building a case against Igrain Crest, some of the burden was off his shoulders.
Sabran joined him in the afternoon. A rock dove perched on her forearm, cooing. Its piebald feathers identified it as having come from Mentendon.
“I have received a reply from High Princess Ermuna. She demands justice for the unlawful execution of Lady Truyde.” She laid the letter on the table. “She also says that Doctor Niclays Roos has been abducted by pirates, and blames me for withholding his pardon for so long.”
Loth unfolded the letter. It had been sealed with the swan of the House of Lievelyn.
“The only justice I can offer for Truyde is the head of Igrain Crest.” Sabran unlatched the doors to the balcony. “As for Roos … I should have relented a long time ago.”
“Roos was a swindler,” Loth said. “He deserved punishment.”
“Not to that extreme.”
He sensed there was nothing he could say to deter her. For his part, Loth had never liked the alchemist.
“Fortunately,” Sabran said, “Ermuna has agreed, given the urgency of my request, to have the Library of Ostendeur scoured for knowledge about the reign of Empress Mokwo. She has sent one of her servants to find the records, and will send another bird with all speed when she has them.”
“Good.”
Sabran held up her arm. The rock dove hopped off it and fluttered away.
“Sab.”
She looked at him.
“Crest told me something,” Loth said. “About … why she arranged for your mother to die.”
“Say it.”
Loth let her have a moment without the knowledge. He tried not to think of how Crest had looked throughout the questioning. Her disdainful gaze, her brazen lack of remorse.
“She told me that the Queen Mother committed adultery with a privateer. Captain Gian Harlowe.” He hesitated. “The affair began the year before she became pregnant with you.”
Sabran closed the doors to the balcony and took the seat at the head of the table.
“So,” she said, “I may be a bastard.”
“Crest thought so. That was why she took such a great role in your upbringing. She wanted to mold you into a more virtuous queen.”
“A more obedient queen. A manikin,” Sabran said curtly, “to be manipulated.”
“Prince Wilstan may have been your father.” Loth placed a hand over hers. “The affair with Harlowe might not even have existed. Crest is clearly not in her right mind.”
Sabran shook her head. “Part of me has always known. Mother and Father were loving in public, but cold in private.” She pressed his hand. “Thank you for telling me, Loth.”
“Aye.”
She reached in silence for her swan-feather quill. Loth kneaded the stiffness from his neck and continued with his work.
It was peaceful to be alone with her. He found himself glancing at his childhood friend, wondering.
Had Sabran been in love with Lievelyn and turned to Ead for comfort after his death? Or had her marriage to Lievelyn been one of convenience, and it was Ead who was the root of her heart? Perhaps the truth was somewhere between.
“I have a mind,” Sabran said, “to make Roslain the new Duchess of Justice. She is heir apparent.”
“Is that wise?” When she only continued writing, Loth said, “I have been a friend to Roslain for many years. I know her devotion to you—but can we be sure her part in this was innocent?”
“Combe is as convinced as he can be that she acted only to save my life. Her broken fingers are evidence of her loyalty.” She dipped her quill in the inkhorn again. “Her grandmother will lose her head. Ead may have counseled for mercy in the past, but too much of it makes a fool.”
Footsteps approached from outside the chamber. Sabran tensed as they heard the clash of partizans.
“Who goes there?” she called.
“The Lady Chancellor, Your Majesty,” came the answer.
She relaxed a little. “Send her in.”
Lady Nelda Stillwater walked into the Council Chamber, wearing the ruby chain of her office.
“Your Grace,” Sabran said.
“Majesty. Lord Arteloth.” The Duchess of Courage curtsied. “I have just now been released from the Dearn Tower. I wanted to come in person to tell you of my anger that a fellow duchess would rise against you.” Her face was tight. “You have always had my loyalty.”
Sabran gave a gracious nod. “I thank you, Nelda, and am very glad to see you released.”
“On behalf of my son and granddaughter, I must also beg mercy for Lady Roslain. She has never spoken a word of treason against you in my presence, and I cannot think that she ever meant you harm.”
“Be assured that Lady Roslain will be judged fairly.”
Loth nodded his agreement. Little Elain, who was but five years old, must be worried for her mother.
“Thank you, Majesty,” Stillwater said. “I trust your verdict. Lord Seyton has also asked me to tell you that Lady Margret and Dame Eadaz arrived in Summerport at noonday.”
“Send word that they should come to the Council Chamber as soon as they reach the palace.”
Stillwater curtsied again and went back through the doors.
“It seems Lord Seyton has already returned to his role as your industrious spymaster,” Loth said.
“Indeed.” Sabran picked up her quill again. “Are you certain that he had no notion of this plot?”