Loth.
“It may be for the best,” Combe continued into the stillness. “Lord Arteloth’s absence will allow rumors of an affair between you to cool—and it is high time we knew what was happening in Yscalin. And whether your lord father, Prince Wilstan, is alive.”
Combe was lying. Loth could not have just stumbled upon a plot to send a spy to Yscalin and decided to go himself. The idea was absurd. Not only would Loth never be so reckless, but the Night Hawk would never allow such plans to be discovered.
He had contrived this.
“Something is not right,” Sabran finally said. “It is not like Loth to behave so rashly. And I find it exceedingly difficult to believe that none of you guessed his intentions. Are you not my councillors? Do you not have eyes in every corner of my court?”
The next silence was as thick as marchpane.
“I asked you to send someone to retrieve my father two years ago, Lord Seyton,” the queen said, softer. “You told me the risk was too great.”
“I feared it was, Majesty. Now I think a risk is needful if we are to know the truth.”
“Lord Arteloth is not to be risked.” There was marked strain in her voice. “You will send your retainers after him. To bring him back to Inys. You must stop him, Seyton.”
“Forgive me, Majesty, but he will be in Draconic territory by now. It is quite impossible to send anyone to retrieve Lord Arteloth without betraying to the Vetalda that he is there on unsanctioned business, which they will already suspect. We would only endanger his life.”
Ead swallowed the tightness in her throat. Not only had Combe sent Loth away, but he had sent him to a place where Sabran had lost all influence. There was nothing she could do. Not when Yscalin was now an unpredictable enemy, capable of destroying the fragile peace in a heartbeat.
“Your Majesty,” Stillwater said, “I understand that this news has pained you, but we must make a final decision on the suit.”
“Her Majesty has already decided against Lievelyn,” Crest cut in. “Askrdal is the only—”
“I must insist upon further discussion, Igrain. Lievelyn is a better candidate, in many respects, and I would not see him dismissed.” Stillwater spoke in clipped tones. “This is a delicate subject, Majesty, forgive me—but you must have a successor, and soon, to reassure your people and secure the throne for another generation. The need would not be half so urgent if not for the attempts on your life. If you only had a daughter—”
“Thank you for your concern, Your Grace,” Sabran said curtly, “but I am not yet recovered enough from seeing a corpse by my bed to discuss its use for childing.” A chair scraped on the floor, followed by four others. “You may question Lady Linora at your leisure.”
“Majesty—” Combe began.
“I would break my fast. Good morrow.”
Ead was back inside and descending before the doors to the Council Chamber opened. At the base of the tower, she walked down the path, her heart beating hard.
Margret would be devastated when she found out. Her brother was too na?ve, too gentle, to be a spy in the court of the Vetalda.
He was not long for this world.
In the Queen Tower, the royal household danced to the dawn chorus. Grooms and maids crisscrossed between rooms. The scent of rising bread poured from the Privy Kitchen. Swallowing her bitterness as best she could, Ead edged her way through the Presence Chamber, where petitioners were packed tight, as always, waiting for the queen.
Ead sensed her warding as she approached the Great Bedchamber. They were laid like traps across the palace. For the first year at court, she had been a tattered nerve, unable to sleep as they rang with movement, but little by little, she had learned to recognize the sensations they sparked in her, and to shift them as if on a counting frame. She had taught herself to notice only when someone was out of place. Or when a stranger came to court.
Inside, Margret was stripping the bed, and Roslain Crest was shaking out plain-woven cloths. Sabran must be near her blood—the monthly reminder that she was not yet swollen with an heir.
Ead joined Margret in her work. She had to tell her about Loth, but it would have to wait until they were alone.
“Mistress Duryan,” Roslain said, breaking the silence.
Ead straightened. “My lady.”
“Lady Katryen has taken ill this morning.” The Chief Gentlewoman hooked one of the cloths on to a silk girdle. “You will taste Her Majesty’s food in her stead.”
Margret frowned.
“Of course,” Ead said calmly.
This was punishment for her deviation during the storytelling. The Ladies of the Bedchamber were rewarded in kind for the risks they took as food-tasters, but for a chamberer, it was a thankless and dangerous chore.
For Ead, it was also an opportunity.
On her way to the Royal Solarium, another opportunity presented itself. Truyde utt Zeedeur was walking behind two other maids of honor. When Ead passed, she took her by the shoulder and drew her aside, breathing into her ear, “Meet me after orisons tomorrow evening, or I will see to it that Her Majesty receives your letters.”
When the other maids of honor looked back, Truyde smiled, as if Ead had told her a joke. Sharp little fox.
“Where?” she said, still smiling.
“The Privy Stair.”
They parted ways.
The Royal Solarium was a quiet haven. Three of its walls jutted out from the Queen Tower, providing a peerless view of the Inysh capital, Ascalon, and the river that wound through it. Columns of stone and woodsmoke rose from its streets. Some two hundred thousand souls called the city their home.
Ead seldom went out there. It was not proper for ladies-in-waiting to be seen quibbling with merchants and toeing through filth.
The sun cast shadows on the floor. The queen was silhouetted at her table, alone but for the Knights of the Body in the doorway. Their partizans crossed in front of Ead.
“Mistress,” one of them said, “you are not due to serve Her Majesty’s meal today.”
Before she could explain, Sabran called, “Who is that?”
“Mistress Ead Duryan, Your Majesty. Your chamberer.”
Silence. Then: “Let her pass.”
The knights stood aside at once. Ead approached the queen, the heels of her shoes making no sound.
“Good morrow, Your Majesty.” She curtsied.
Sabran had already looked back at her gold-enameled prayer book. “Kate should be here.”
“Lady Katryen has taken ill.”
“She was my bedfellow last night. I would know if she was ill.”
“Lady Roslain says it is so,” Ead said. “If it please you, I will taste your food today.”
When she received no reply, Ead sat. This close to Sabran, she could smell her pomander, stuffed with orris root and clove. The Inysh believed such perfumes could ward off illness.
They sat in silence for some time. Sabran’s breast rose and fell steadily, but the set of her jaw betrayed her anger.
“Majesty,” Ead finally said, “this may be too bold, but you seem not to be in high spirits today.”
“It is far too bold. You are here to see that my food is not poisoned, not to remark upon my spirits.”
“Forgive me.”
“I have been too forgiving.” Sabran snapped her book shut. “You clearly pay no heed to the Knight of Courtesy, Mistress Duryan. Perhaps you are no true convert. Perhaps you only pay empty service to my ancestor, while you secretly hold with a false religion.”
She had been here for only a minute, and already Ead was walking on quicksand.
“Madam,” she said carefully, “Queen Cleolind, your ancestor, was a crown princess of Lasia.”
“There is no need for you to remind me of that. Do you think me a halfwit?”
“I meant no such insult,” Ead said. Sabran set her prayer book to one side. “Queen Cleolind was noble and good of heart. It was through no fault of hers that she knew nothing of the Six Virtues when she was born. I may be na?ve, but rather than punishing them, surely we should pity those in ignorance and lead them to the light.”
“Indeed,” Sabran said dryly. “The light of the pyre.”
“If you mean to put me to the stake, madam, then I am sorry for it. I hear we Ersyris make very poor kindling. We are like sand, too used to the sun to burn.”
The queen looked at her. Her gaze dipped to the brooch on her gown.
“You take the Knight of Generosity as your patron.”
Ead touched it.
“Yes,” she said. “As one of your ladies, I give you my loyalty, Majesty. To give, one must be generous.”