“Eastern books.”
“Yes. Their dragons are one with air and water, not with fire. The East has been estranged from us for so long that we have forgotten the difference.” When Ead only looked at her in disbelief, Truyde tried a different tack: “As a fellow outsider in this country, hear me. What if the Inysh are wrong, and the continuation of the House of Berethnet is not what keeps the Nameless One at bay?”
“What are you prattling about, child?”
“You know something has changed. The Draconic creatures awakening, the breaking-away of Yscalin from Virtudom—these events are only the beginning.” Her voice dropped low. “The Nameless One is coming back. And I believe he is coming soon.”
For a moment, Ead was speechless.
What if the continuation of the House of Berethnet is not what keeps the Nameless One at bay?
How had a young woman of Virtudom come to this heretical conclusion?
Of course, she might well be right. The Prioress had said as much to Ead before she came to Inys, explaining why a sister must be sent to guard Queen Sabran.
The House of Berethnet may protect us from the Nameless One, or it may not. There is no proof either way. Just as there is no proof to say whether the Berethnet queens are indeed descendants of the Mother. If they are, their blood is sacred, and it must be protected. She could see the Prioress now, clear as spring water. That is the problem with stories, child. The truth in them cannot be weighed.
That was why Ead had been sent to Inys. To protect Sabran, in case the myth was true and her blood would prevent the enemy rising.
“And you mean us to prepare for his … second coming,” Ead said, feigning amusement.
Truyde lifted her chin. “I do. The Easterners have many dragons that live alongside humans. That do not answer to the Nameless One,” she said. “When he returns, we will need those Eastern dragons to defeat him. We must stand together to prevent a second Grief of Ages. Triam and I will not let humankind walk to its extinction. We may be small, and we may be young, but we will shake the world for our beliefs.”
Whatever the truth, this girl had swallowed the torch of delusion.
“How is it you are so certain that the Nameless One will come?” Ead asked. “Are you not a child of Virtudom, born to believe that Queen Sabran keeps him chained?”
Truyde straightened.
“I love Queen Sabran,” she said, “but I am no green child to believe what I am told without proof. The Inysh may have blind faith, but in Mentendon, we value evidence.”
“And you have evidence that the Nameless One will return? Or is this guesswork?”
“Not guesswork. Hypothesis.”
“Whatever your hypothesis, your plot is heresy.”
“Do not speak to me of heresy,” Truyde shot back. “Did you not once worship the Dawnsinger?”
“My beliefs are not in question here.” Ead paused. “So that is where Sulyard is gone. On some mad-born quest in the East, trying to broker an impossible alliance on behalf of a queen who knows nothing about it.” She sank onto the lip of the well. “Your lover will die in this attempt.”
“No. The Seiikinese will listen—”
“He is not an official ambassador from Inys. Why ever should they hear him out?”
“Triam will persuade them. No one speaks from the heart as he does. And once the Eastern rulers are convinced of the threat, we will go to Queen Sabran. And she will see the necessity of an alliance.”
The child was blinded by her passion. Sulyard would be executed the moment he set foot in the East, and Sabran would sooner cut off her own nose than strike up an alliance with wyrm-lovers, even if she could be persuaded to believe that the Nameless One might rise while she drew breath.
“The North is weak,” Truyde ploughed on, “and the South is too proud to treat with Virtudom.” Her cheeks were flushed. “You dare to judge me for seeking help elsewhere?”
Ead looked her in the eye.
“You may think yourself the only one who seeks to protect this world,” she said, “but you have no idea of the foundation upon which you stand. None of you does.” When Truyde knitted her brow, Ead said, “Sulyard asked for your help. What have you done to assist him from here? What plans have you made?” Truyde was silent. “If you have done anything to aid his mission, it is treason.”
“I shall not speak another word.” Truyde pulled away. “Go to Lady Oliva if you like. First you will have to explain what you were doing in the Coffer Chamber.”
As she made to leave, Ead closed a hand around her wrist.
“You wrote a name in the book,” she said. “Niclays. I think it refers to Niclays Roos, the anatomist.” Truyde shook her head, but Ead saw the spark of recognition in her eyes. “What has Roos to do with all this?”
Before Truyde could answer, a wind rushed through the grounds.
Every branch quivered on every tree. Every bird in the aviary ceased its singing. Ead released her hold on Truyde and stepped out of the alcove.
Cannons were firing in the city. Muskets went off with sounds like chestnuts bursting on a fire. Behind her, Truyde stayed beside the well.
“What is that?” she said.
Ead breathed in as her blood pounded. It had been a long time since this feeling had swept through her body. For the first time in years, her siden had been kindled.
Something was coming. If it had got this far, it must have found a way through the coastal defenses. Or destroyed them.
A flare like the sun breaking through cloud, so hot it parched her eyes and lips, and a wyrm soared over the curtain wall. It burned away the archers and musketeers and smashed a line of catapults to splinters. Truyde sank to the ground.
Ead knew what it was from its magnitude alone. A High Western. A monster from its teeth to the bullwhip of its tail, where lethal spikes jutted. Its battle-scarred abdomen was rusted brown, but the bulk of it was black as tar. Arrows sliced from watchtowers and clattered off its scales.
Arrows were useless. Muskets were useless. It was not just any wyrm, not just any High Western. No one living had laid eyes on this creature, but Ead knew its name.
Fyredel.
He who had called himself the right wing of the Nameless One. Fyredel, who had bred and led the Draconic Army against humankind in the Grief of Ages.
He was awake.
The beast wheeled over Ascalon Palace, casting the lawns and orchards into shadow. Ead sickened, and her skin burned, as his smell enflamed the siden in her blood.
Her longbow was out of reach in her chamber. Years of routine had blunted her vigilance.
Fyredel landed on the Dearn Tower. His tail coiled serpentine around it, and his claws found purchase on its roof. Tiles crumbled away, forcing guards and retainers far below to scatter.
His head was crowned with two cruel horns. Eyes like pits of magma blazed out of the dark.
“SABRAN QUEEN.”
The sky itself echoed his words. Half of Ascalon must be able to hear them.
“SEED OF THE SHIELDHEART.” More stone fell from the tower. Arrows skittered off his armor. “COME FORTH AND FACE YOUR ENEMY OF OLD, OR WATCH YOUR CITY BURN.”
Sabran would not answer his call. Someone would stop her. The Virtues Council would send a representative to treat with him.
Fyredel exposed his gleaming metal teeth. The Alabastrine Tower was too high for Ead to see its uppermost balcony, but her newly tuned ears picked up on a second voice: “I am here, abomination.”
Ead froze.
The fool. The utter fool. By emerging, Sabran had signed her own death warrant.
Screams rang from every building. Courtiers and servants were leaning out of open windows to behold the evil in their midst. Others ran pell-mell for the palace gates. Ead charged up the Privy Stair.
“So you have awakened, Fyredel,” Sabran said with contempt. “Why have you come here?”
“I come to give you warning, Queen of Inys. The time to choose your side is near.” Fyredel let out a hiss that raised gooseflesh all over Ead. “My kin are stirring in their caves. My brother, Orsul, has already taken wing, and our sister, Valeysa, will soon follow. Before the year is out, all our followers will have awakened. The Draconic Army will be reborn.”
“Damn your warnings,” Sabran hit back. “I do not fear you, lizard. Your threats have as much weight as smoke.”
Ead heard their words like thunder in her head. The fumes that rose from Fyredel were grindstones on her senses.
“My master stirs in the Abyss,” he said, tongue flickering. “The thousand years are almost done. Your house was our great enemy before, Sabran Berethnet, in the days you call the Grief of Ages.”
“My ancestor showed you Inysh mettle then, and I will show it to you now,” Sabran retorted. “You speak of a thousand years, wyrm. What deceit does your forked tongue sell?”