“He said Orsul had already woken.” Ead took another sip of ale. “And Valeysa soon.”
“At least the others are long dead. And of course, the Nameless One himself cannot return. Not while the House of Berethnet endures.”
When Ead tried to sit up, her arms shook, and she slumped back into the pillows. Margret went to the door to speak to a servant before returning.
“Meg,” Ead said, while Margret dabbed her brow, “I know what happened to Loth.”
Margret stilled. “He wrote to you?”
“No.” Ead glanced toward the door. “I overheard the Dukes Spiritual speaking with Sabran. Combe claims Loth has gone to Cárscaro as a spy—to find out what is happening there, and to look for Wilstan Fynch. He said Loth went without permission … but I think we both know the truth of it.”
Slowly, Margret sat back. Her hand came to her middle.
“Saint save my brother,” she murmured. “He is no spy. Combe has sentenced him to death.”
Silence fell, broken only by the birds outside.
“I told him, Ead,” Margret finally said. “I told him a friendship with a queen was not the same as any other, that he needed to be careful. But Loth never listens.” She raised a sad, wry smile. “My brother thinks that everyone is just as good as he is.”
Ead tried to find some words of comfort, but had none. Loth was in too much danger.
“I know. I tried to warn him, too.” She took her friend by the hand. “He may yet find his way home.”
“You know he will not last long in Cárscaro.”
“You could petition Combe to bring him back. You are Lady Margret Beck.”
“And Combe is the Duke of Courtesy. He has more influence and wealth than I ever will.”
“Could you not tell Sabran yourself, then?” Ead asked. “She clearly has her suspicions about the story.”
“I cannot accuse Combe or anyone without proof of a conspiracy. If he told Sab that Loth went by choice, and I can present no evidence to counter him, then even she can do nothing.”
Ead knew Margret was right. She tightened her grip, and Margret released a shaking breath.
Someone tapped on the door. Margret murmured to whoever was outside. Now her siden was quiet, and her senses blunted, Ead could not hear what they said.
Her friend came back with a cup. “Caudle,” she said. “Tallys made it specially. Such a kind girl.”
The hot gruel, sweetened to the point of sickliness, was the answer to everything in Inys. Too weak to grip the handles, Ead let Margret spoon the awful stuff into her mouth.
Another knock. This time, when Margret opened it, she fell into a curtsy.
“Leave us a moment, Meg.”
Ead knew that voice. With a glance in her direction, Margret left.
The Queen of Inys stepped into the room. Her riding habit was the dark green of holly.
“Call if you have need of us, Majesty,” said a gruff voice from outside.
“I do not think a bedbound woman poses too great a danger to my person, Sir Gules, but thank you.”
The door closed. Ead sat up as best she could, conscious of her sweat-soaked shift and the sour taste in her mouth.
“Ead,” Sabran said, looking her over. A flush touched her cheeks. “I see you are at last awake. You have been absent from my lodgings for too long.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty.”
“Your generosity has been missed. I intended to call upon you earlier, but the physicians feared you might have the sweat.” The sun lightened her eyes. “You were in the clock tower the day the wyrm came. I would like to know why.”
“Madam?”
“The Royal Librarian found you there. Lady Oliva Marchyn tells me that some courtiers and servants use the tower for … venery.”
“I have no lover, Majesty.”
“I will brook no lewdness in this palace. Confess, and the Knight of Courtesy may show mercy.”
Ead sensed the queen would not swallow the story about taking a wrong turn. “I went up to the belfry … to see if I could distract the beast from Your Majesty.” She wished she had the strength to speak with more conviction. “But I need not have feared for you.”
It was the truth, stripped of its vital parts.
“I trust that Ambassador uq-Ispad would not ask for a person of loose morals to be accepted into my Upper Household,” Sabran concluded, “but do not let me hear of you visiting the clock tower again.”
“Of course, madam.”
The queen walked to the open window. Setting a hand on the sill, she looked out at the palace grounds.
“Majesty,” Ead said, “may I ask why you went out to face the wyrm?” A clement breeze floated in from outside. “Had Fyredel slain you, all would have been lost.”
Sabran did not reply for a time.
“He threatened my people,” she murmured. “I had stepped out before I had considered what else might be done.” She looked back at Ead. “I have received another report about you. Lady Truyde utt Zeedeur has been telling my courtiers that you are a sorceress.”
Damn that red-haired gurnet. Ead almost admired her mettle, ignoring the threat of a curse.
“Madam, I know nothing of sorcery,” she said, tinging her words with a hint of scorn.
Sorcery was not a word the Prioress much liked.
“Doubtless,” Sabran said, “but Lady Truyde has a notion that it was you who protected me from Fyredel. She claims she saw you in the clock tower, casting a spell toward me.”
This time Ead was silent. There was no possible argument against the accusation.
“Of course,” the queen said, “she is a liar.”
Ead dared not speak.
“It was the Saint that drove back the wyrm. He held forth his heavenly shield to protect me from the fire. To imply that it was cheap sorcery comes very close to treason,” Sabran stated, her voice flat. “I have half a mind to send her to the Dearn Tower.”
All the tension rushed out of Ead. A laugh of relief bubbled in her, threatening to brim over.
“She is only young, Your Majesty,” she said, forcing it down. “With youth comes folly.”
“She is old enough to accuse you falsely,” Sabran pointed out. “Do you not crave vengeance?”
“I prefer the taste of mercy. It lets me sleep at night.”
Those stone-cold eyes ran her through. “Perhaps you imply that I should show mercy more often.”
Ead was too exhausted to fear that look. “No. Only that I doubt Lady Truyde meant insult to Your Majesty. More likely she has a grudge against me, since I was promoted to a position she desires.”
Sabran lifted her chin.
“You will return to your duties in three days. I will have the Royal Physician take care of you until then,” she said. Ead raised her eyebrows. “I need you well,” Sabran continued, rising to leave. “Once the announcement is made, I will need all my ladies by my side.”
“Announcement, madam?”
Sabran had turned her back to her, but Ead saw her shoulders tense.
“The announcement,” she said, “of my betrothal to Aubrecht Lievelyn, High Prince of the Free State of Mentendon.”
12
East
The water trials passed like a long dream. Most citizens took shelter in their houses as the storm battered the west coast of Seiiki, but sea guardians were expected to endure the worst conditions.
“Rain is water, and so are we,” the Sea General called over the thunder as he marched past the ranks. His hair was plastered to his skull, and raindrops rolled off the end of his nose. “If a little water can defeat you, you cannot hope to ride a dragon, or guard the sea, and this is not the place for you.” He raised his voice. “Will water defeat you?”
“No, honored Sea General,” the apprentices shouted.
Tané was already dripping. At least the rain was warm.
Archery and firearms were easy enough. Even in this downpour, Tané had sharp eyes and a steady hand. Dumusa was best with a bow—she could have done it blindfolded—but Tané came second. None of them, not even Dumusa, could best her with a pistol, but a sea guardian from the West House came close. Kanperu, the eldest and tallest, whose jaw looked as if a sword could be struck upon it, and whose hands seemed big enough to wrap around tree trunks.
Mounted archery was next. They each had to hit six glass floats that had been hung from a beam. Dumusa was not as skilled on horseback as she was on foot and only shattered five of them. Not being fond of horses, Onren, who gritted her teeth throughout the trial, lost control of her steed and missed three. Tané, however, struck true each time—until her horse stumbled and sent her final shot awry, allowing Turosa to steal first place.
They rode their horses back into the stables. “Bad luck, peasant,” Turosa said to Tané as she slid from the saddle. “I suppose some things are in the blood. Perhaps one day, the honored Sea General will realize that dragonriders are born, not made.”
Tané set her jaw as an ostler took her stallion. Its coat was dark with rain and sweat.
“Ignore him, Tané,” Dumusa said, dismounting. Her hair coiled wetly about her shoulders. “The water runs the same in all of us.”
Turosa curled his lip, but left. He never quarreled with the other descendants of riders.