“Majesty, we take heart from your courage!”
Ead found a place on the shaded benches with the other ladies-in-waiting and watched the crowd, waiting for a crossbow or pistol to appear in the stands. Her siden was all but extinguished, but she had knives enough for a slew of cutthroats.
Chassar was on the other side of the Royal Box. She would have to wait until after Sabran had retired to speak with him.
“Saint, I thought that introduction would never end.” Margret took a glass of strawberry wine from a page. Two knights-errant lowered their visors. “I do believe Sabran likes her Red Prince. She tried to hide it, but I think she is already smitten.”
“Lievelyn certainly is,” Ead said, distracted.
Combe was in the Royal Box. She scoured him with her gaze, trying to work out whether he looked at Sabran as though she were his queen, or a piece to be moved on a gameboard.
Margret followed her line of sight. “I know,” she said quietly. “He has gotten away with murder.” She sipped her wine. “I detest his retainers, too. For abetting him.”
“Sabran must know,” Ead murmured. “Can she not think of some way to be rid of him?”
“Much as it pains me to admit it, Inys needs his intelligencers. And if Sab ousted him without very good reason, other nobles might feel that their positions were just as fragile. She cannot afford malcontent, not when there is such uncertainty about the threat of Yscalin.” Margret grimaced as the knights-errant broke their lances on each other, drawing a roar from the stands. “Nobles have revolted in the past, after all.”
Ead nodded. “The Gorse Hill Rebellion.”
“Aye. At least there are laws to lessen the danger of it happening again. Once, you would have seen Combe’s retainers strutting about in his livery, as if their first loyalty were not to their queen. All they can do now is wear his badge.” She pursed her lips. “I hate that the symbol of his virtue is a book, you know. Books are too good for him.”
The two challengers wheeled to face each other again. Igrain Crest, who had been talking to a baron, now crossed to the Royal Box and sat in the row behind Sabran and Lievelyn. She leaned down to say something to the queen, who smiled at her.
“I hear Igrain is against this marriage,” Margret said, “though pleased it might yield the long-awaited heir.” She lifted an eyebrow. “She was Protector of the Realm in all but name when Sab was a child. A second mother. And yet if rumor has it right, she would prefer her to be wed to someone with one foot on the corpse road.”
“She may yet get her wish,” Ead said.
Margret looked at her. “You think Sab will change her mind about the Red Prince.”
“Until the ring is on her finger, I think there is every chance of it.”
“Court has made you cynical, Ead Duryan. We might be about to witness a romance to rival that of Rosarian the First and Sir Antor Dale.” Margret linked an arm through hers. “You must be pleased to see Ambassador uq-Ispad after all these years.”
Ead smiled. “You have no idea.”
The games went on for several hours. Ead stayed under the awnings with Margret, never taking her gaze off the stands. Finally, Lord Lemand Fynch, the acting Duke of Temperance, was declared the champion. After giving her cousin a ring as a prize, Sabran retired to escape the heat.
At five of the clock, Ead found herself ensconced in the Privy Chamber, where Sabran was playing the virginals. While Roslain and Katryen whispered to one another, and poor Arbella fumbled her needlework, Ead pretended to be absorbed in a prayer book.
The queen had paid more attention to her than usual since her fever. She had been invited several times to play cards and listen to the Ladies of the Bedchamber as they kept Sabran abreast of goings-on at court. Ead had noticed that they sometimes spoke well of certain people and advised Sabran to show them greater favor than she had. If there was no bribery involved in these recommendations, then Ead was Queen of the Ersyr.
“Ead.”
She looked up. “Majesty?”
“Come to me.”
Sabran patted a stool. When Ead sat, the queen leaned toward her conspiratorially. “It seems the Red Prince is less like a dormouse than we thought. What do you make of him?”
Ead felt Roslain watching her.
“He seemed courteous and gallant, madam. If he is a mouse,” she said lightly, “then we may rest assured that he is a prince among mice.”
Sabran laughed. A rare sound. Like a vein of gold hidden in rock, loath to show itself.
“Indeed. Whether he will make me a good consort has yet to be seen.” She ghosted a finger over the virginals. “I am not yet wed, of course. A betrothal can always be annulled.”
“You should do as you see fit. There will always be voices telling you what to do, and how to act, but it is you who wears the crown,” Ead said. “Let His Royal Highness prove that he is worthy of a place by your side. He must earn that honor, for it is the greatest one of all.”
Sabran studied her.
“You do speak comely words,” she remarked. “I wonder if you mean them.”
“Mine are honest words, madam. All courts will fall prey to affectation and deceit, often veiled as courtesy,” Ead said, “but I like to believe that I speak from the heart.”
“We all speak from the heart to Her Majesty,” Roslain snapped. Her eyes were bright with anger. “Are you implying that courtesy is a kind of artifice, Mistress Duryan? Because the Knight of Courtesy would—”
“Ros,” Sabran said, “I was not addressing you.”
Roslain fell silent, plainly stunned.
In the tense period that followed, one of the Knights of the Body entered the Privy Chamber.
“Majesty.” He bowed. “His Excellency, Ambassador uq-Ispad, asks if you might spare Mistress Duryan for a short while. If it please you, he is waiting for her on the Peaceweaver Terrace.”
Sabran brought her cascade of hair to one side of her neck.
“I think she can be spared,” she said. “You are excused, Ead, but be back in time for orisons.”
“Yes, madam.” Ead rose at once. “Thank you.”
As she left the Privy Chamber, she avoided looking at the other women. She ought not to make an enemy of Roslain Crest if she could help it.
Ead made her way out of the Queen Tower and ascended to the south-facing battlements of the palace, where the Peaceweaver Terrace overlooked the River Limber. Her heart chirred like a bee-moth. For the first time in eight years, she was going to speak to someone from the Priory. Not just anyone, but Chassar, who had raised her.
The evening sun had transfigured the river to molten gold. Ead crossed the bridge and stepped onto the tiled floor of the terrace. Chassar was waiting at the balustrade. At the sound of her footsteps, he turned and smiled, and she went to him like a child to a father.
“Chassar.”
She buried her face against his chest. His arms encircled her.
“Eadaz.” He placed a kiss on the top of her head. “There, light of my eyes. I am here.”
“I have not heard that name in so long,” she said thickly in Selinyi. “For the love of the Mother, Chassar, I thought you had abandoned me for good.”
“Never. You know that leaving you here was like having a rib wrenched from my side.” They walked together to a canopy of sweetbriar and honeysuckle. “Sit with me.”
Chassar must have reserved the terrace for his private use. Ead sat at a table, where a platter was piled high with sun-dried Ersyri fruit, and he poured her a glass of pale Rumelabari wine.
“I had all this brought across the sea for you,” he said. “I thought you might like a small reminder of the South.”
“After eight years, it would be easy to forget that the South even existed.” She gave him a hard look. “I had no word. You did not answer one of my letters.”
His smile faded. “Forgive my long silence, Eadaz.” He sighed. “I would have written, but the Prioress decided that you should be left alone to learn Inysh ways in peace.”
Ead wanted to be angry, but this was the man who had sat her on his lap when she was small and taught her to read, and her relief at seeing him outweighed her vexation.
“The task you were given was to protect Sabran,” Chassar said, “and you have honored the Mother by keeping her alive and unharmed. It cannot have been easy.” He paused. “The cutthroats that stalk her. You said in your letters that they carried Yscali-made blades.”
“Yes. Parrying daggers, specifically, from Cárscaro.”
“Parrying daggers,” Chassar repeated. “A strange choice of weapon for murder.”
“I thought the same. A weapon used for defense.”
“Hm.” Chassar stroked his beard, as he often did when he was thinking. “Perhaps this is as simple as it looks, and King Sigoso is hiring Inysh subjects to kill a queen he despises … or perhaps these blades are a rotten fish. Covering the scent of the true architect.”
“I think the latter. Someone at court is involved,” Ead said. “Finding the daggers would have been possible on the shadow market. And someone let the cutthroats into the Queen Tower.”