“I would go to Rauca,” he said, “if you will show me the way.”
The ichneumon barked again and sprang down the mountainside. As it ran, its paws swift as the winds, Loth whispered a prayer of gratitude to the Damsel and the Saint. He knew now that they had put him on this path, and he meant to follow it to the bitter end.
At dawn, the ichneumon prowled to a stop on a crag of rock. Loth smelled sunbaked earth and the spice of flowers. Before them lay the dusty foothills of the Spindles—and beyond those, a desert sprawled as far as the eye could see, powdered gold beneath the sun. It could almost be a mirage in the heat, but he knew that it was real.
Against all odds, he looked upon the Desert of the Unquiet Dream.
24
West
Early autumn was bittersweet. Ead awaited word from Chassar as to whether the Prioress would permit her to stay in Inys for a little longer, but no messages came.
As the winds blew colder and the fashions of summer were exchanged for fur-trimmed reds and browns, the court fell in love with the prince consort. To the surprise of all and sundry, he and Sabran began to watch masques and plays in the Presence Chamber together. Such entertainment had always occurred, but the queen had not attended in several years, except for the betrothal celebrations. She would call for her fools and laugh at their capers. She would bid the maids of honor dance for her. Sometimes she would take her companion by the hand, and they would smile at each other as if there were nobody else in the world.
Ead stood close throughout it all. Nowadays, she was seldom far from the queen.
Not long after the marriage, Sabran woke to find blood on her sheets. It sent her into a rage that left Roslain wringing her hands and the rest of the Upper Household cowering. Even Prince Aubrecht retreated for the day to hunt in Chesten Forest.
Ead supposed it was to be expected. Sabran was a queen, born with the expectation that the world had a duty to provide what she wanted, when she wanted it—but she could not command her own womb to bear fruit.
“I woke today with a great craving for cherries,” Sabran remarked to Ead one morning. “What do you suppose it means?”
“Cherries are no longer in season, madam,” Ead had answered. “Perhaps you miss the bounty of summer.”
The queen had bridled, but said nothing more. Ead had continued brushing her cloak.
She would not indulge Sabran in this. Katryen and Roslain told Sabran what she wished to hear, but Ead was resolved to tell her what she needed to know.
Sabran had never been a patient woman. She soon became reluctant to join her companion at night, staying with her ladies to play cards into the small hours. By day, she was tired and captious. Katryen fretted to Roslain that this frame of mind could make a womb less welcoming, which made Ead want to dash her head until her teeth fell out.
It was not just the dearth of a child that must trouble the queen. Defending Mentendon from the wyrms in the Spindles was already proving to be a greater financial burden than anticipated. Lievelyn had brought a dowry, but it would soon run dry.
Ead was privy to this sort of knowledge now. Intimate, secret knowledge. She knew Sabran would sometimes lie in bed for hours, held there by a sorrow that ran in her bloodline. She knew she had a scar on her left thigh, gained when she had fallen from a tree when she was twelve. And she knew how she both hoped for a pregnancy and feared it more than anything.
Sabran might call Briar House her nest, but at present it was more of a cage. Rumors haunted its corridors and cloisters. The very walls seemed to hold their breath.
Ead herself was no stranger to rumors. Nobody could stop speculating on what a baseborn convert had done to become a Lady of the Bedchamber. Even she had no notion of why Sabran had chosen her over the many noble women in the Upper Household. Linora flung her many a sour look, but Ead paid her little mind. She had stomached these beef-witted courtiers for eight years.
One morning, she dressed in one of her autumn gowns and left to take the air before Sabran woke. Nowadays she had to be up with the lark if she meant to have any time alone with her thoughts. She spent most of each day with Sabran, her access to the queen almost unbounded.
The dawn was fresh and crisp, the cloisters mercifully silent. The only sound was the coo of a wood pigeon. Ead burrowed into the fur collar of her cloak as she passed the statue of Glorian the Third, the queen who had led Inys through the Grief of Ages. It depicted her riding in armor, full to bursting with child, sword raised in defiance.
Glorian had come to power on the day Fyredel slew her parents. The war had been unexpected, but Glorian Shieldheart had not balked. She had married the elderly Duke of Córvugar and betrothed their unborn child to Haynrick Vatten of Mentendon, all while leading the defense of Inys. On the day her daughter was born, she had taken the babe onto the battlefield to show her armies that there was hope. Ead could not decide if that was madness or mettle.
There were other stories like hers. Other queens who had made great sacrifices for Inys. These were the women whose legacy Sabran Berethnet carried on her shoulders.
Ead turned right through a passage and onto a gravel path flanked by horse-chestnut trees. At its end, beyond the walls of the palace grounds, stood Chesten Forest, as ancient as Inys itself.
There was a hothouse in the grounds, built of cast iron and glass. A redbreast took off from the roof as Ead stepped into its brothy warmth.
Jewel lilies floated in a pool. When she found the autumn crocus, she crouched and unhooked a pair of scissors from her girdle. In the Priory, a woman would take saffron for days before she tried to get with child.
“Mistress Duryan.”
She looked up, startled. Aubrecht Lievelyn stood close by, wrapped in a russet cloak.
“Your Royal Highness.” She stood and curtsied, slipping the crocus into her cloak. “Forgive me. I did not see you.”
“On the contrary, I am sorry to disturb you. I did not think anyone else rose this early.”
“Not always, but I enjoy the light before sunrise.”
“I enjoy the quiet. This court is so busy.”
“Is court life so different in Brygstad?”
“Perhaps not. There are eyes and whispers in every court, but the whispers here are— well, I must not complain.” He offered a kind smile. “May I ask what you are doing?”
Her instinct was to be wary of his interest, but Lievelyn had never struck her as the conniving sort. “I am sure you know that Her Majesty suffers from night terrors,” she said. “I was looking for some lavender to grind down and put beneath her pillow.”
“Lavender?”
“It promotes a quiet sleep.”
He nodded. “You may wish to look in the Apothecary Garden,” he said. “May I join you?”
The offer surprised her, but she could hardly refuse. “Yes, of course, Your Highness.”
They left the hothouse just as the upper limb of the sun reached over the horizon. Ead wondered if she should make a stab at conversation, but Lievelyn seemed content to take in the frosted beauty of the grounds as they walked side by side. His Royal Guard followed them at a distance.
“It is true that Her Majesty does not sleep well,” he finally said. “Her duties weigh on her.”
“As yours must weigh on you.”
“Ah, but I have it easier. It is Sabran who will carry our daughter. Sabran who will give her life.” Hoisting up another smile, he motioned toward Chesten Forest. “Tell me, Mistress Duryan. Was the Lady of the Woods ever said to walk among those trees?”
A chill darted through Ead. “That is a very old legend, Highness. I confess myself surprised you have heard of it.”
“One of my new Inysh attendants told it to me. I asked if he would enlighten me on some of the stories and customs of the country. We have our wood-elves and red wolves and suchlike in Mentendon, of course—but a witch who murdered children does seem a particularly bloody tale.”
“Inys was a bloody country once.”
“Indeed. Thank the Saint it no longer is.”
Ead looked toward the forest. “The Lady of the Woods was never known to be here, to my knowledge,” she said. “Her haithwood is in the north, close to Goldenbirch, where the Saint was born. The only time anyone enters it is to make pilgrimage in the spring.”
“Ah.” He chuckled. “What a relief. I almost fancied I might look out of my window one morning and see her standing there.”
“There is nothing to fear, Highness.”
They soon came to the Apothecary Garden. It lay in a courtyard by the Great Kitchen, where the furnaces were being lit.
“Might I do the honor?” Lievelyn asked.
Ead handed him her scissors. “Of course.”
“Thank you.”
They knelt beside the lavender, and Lievelyn removed his gloves, a boyish smile on his lips. Perhaps he found it exasperating to be able to do so little with his own hands. His Grooms of the Inner Chamber must take care of everything, from serving his food to washing his hair.