The dragon jerked its head toward the rock.
Niclays trembled. He heard nothing of his own body, not his heartbeat or his breath, but he could picture the sword at his throat in meticulous detail. A curved blade. An edge sharp enough to spill his life if he moved a fraction of an inch.
A hiss came through the night. Then another.
And another.
The dragon let out a snarl. Claw rang against rock, like sword on sword.
Black smoke consumed the beach. The smell of it was acrid, like burning hair and brimstone. And gunpowder. Firecloud. Abruptly Niclays was wrenched to his feet—then he was stumbling through the billows of smoke, choking on them, hauled by a figure shrouded in cloth. The sand slithered beneath his feet, sending each footstep awry.
“Wait,” he panted at his captor. “Wait, damn you—”
A tail lashed out of the smoke and caught him a terrific blow in the gut. He was thrown back on to the sand, where he lay, benumbed and winded, his eyeglasses dangling off one ear.
He drifted, drunk on the black cloud. It rushed into his nostrils and plumed out again.
A mournful sound, like a dying baleen. A thud that shook the earth. He saw Jannart walking barefoot on the beach, a faint smile on his lips. “Jan,” he breathed, but he was gone.
Two booted feet pressed into the sand.
“Give me a reason,” a voice said in Seiikinese, “and I may not gut you.” A bone-handled knife flashed in front of him. “Do you have something to offer the Fleet of the Tiger Eye?”
He tried to speak, but his tongue felt bee-stung. Alchemist, he wanted to say. I am an alchemist. Spare me.
Someone lifted his satchel. Time splintered as scarred hands rummaged through his books and scrolls. Then the hilt of the knife clipped his temple, and a dark wave swept away his cares.
30
West
Truyde utt Zeedeur was imprisoned in the Dearn Tower. Under threat of the rack, she had confessed to many crimes. After the royal visit had been announced, she had approached a playing company called the Servants of Verity, a so-called masterless troupe, bereft of the patronage of a noble and treated as vagabonds by the authorities. Truyde had promised her own patronage, and money for their families, in exchange for their help.
The staged attack had been intended to convince Sabran that she was in mortal danger, both from Yscalin and the Nameless One. Truyde had meant to use it as grounds to petition her to open negotiations with the East.
It had not taken much wit to piece together what had happened next. Those with true hatred toward the House of Berethnet had infiltrated the performance. One of those—Bess Weald, whose home in Queenside had been stuffed with pamphlets written by doomsingers—had murdered Lievelyn. Several innocent members of the Servants of Verity had also been slain in the fray, along with a number of city guards, two of the Knights of the Body, and Linora Payling, whose grief-stricken parents had already come for her.
Truyde might not have meant to kill anyone, but her good intentions had been for naught.
Ead had already written to Chassar to tell him what had happened. The Prioress would not be pleased that Sabran and her unborn child had come so close to death.
Briar House was draped in the gray samite of mourning. Sabran shut herself into the Privy Chamber. Lievelyn was laid in state in the Sanctuary of Our Lady until a ship arrived to bear him home. His sister Ermuna was to be crowned, with Princess Bedona as heir apparent.
A few days after Lievelyn had been taken, Ead made her way to the royal apartments. Usually the early morning was peaceful, but she could not shake the tension in her back.
Tharian Lintley had watched her take four lives during the ambush. He must have realized she was trained. She doubted anyone else had seen in that bloody clash, and it was clear Lintley had not reported her affinity for blades, but she intended to keep her head down.
Easier said than done as a Lady of the Bedchamber. Especially when the queen had also seen her kill.
“Ead.”
She turned to see a breathless Margret, who caught her by the arm. “It’s Loth,” her friend whispered. “He sent me a letter.”
“What?”
“Come with me, quick.”
Heart pounding, Ead followed her into an unused room. “How did Loth get a letter past Combe?”
“He sent it to a playwright Mama supports. He managed to pass it to me during the visit to Ascalon.” Margret withdrew a crumpled note from her skirts. “Look.”
Ead recognized his writing at once. Her heart swelled to see it again.
Dearest M, I cannot say much for fear this note will be intercepted. Things are not as they seem in Cárscaro. Kit is dead, and I fear Snow is in danger. Beware the Cupbearer.
“Lord Kitston is dead,” Ead murmured. “How?”
Margret swallowed. “I pray he is mistaken, but … Kit would do anything for my brother.” She touched the handstamp. “Ead, this was sent from the Place of Doves.”
“Rauca,” Ead said, stunned. “He left Cárscaro.”
“Or escaped. Perhaps that was how Kit—” Margret pointed to the last line. “Look at this. Did you not say the woman who shot Lievelyn invoked a cupbearer?”
“Yes.” Ead read the note again. “Snow is Sabran, I assume.”
“Aye. Loth used to call her Princess Snow when they were children,” Margret said, “but for the life of me, I cannot understand this web of intrigue. There is no official cupbearer to the queen.”
“Loth was sent to find Prince Wilstan. Wilstan was investigating the death of Queen Rosarian,” Ead said under her breath. “Perhaps they are connected.”
“Perhaps,” Margret said. Sweat dewed her brow. “Oh, Ead, I want so badly to tell Sab he is alive, but Combe will find out how I got the note. I fear to close that door to Loth.”
“She is mourning Lievelyn. Do not give her false hope that her friend will return.” Ead squeezed her hand. “Leave the Cupbearer to me. I mean to root them out.”
With a deep breath, Margret nodded.
“Another letter from Papa, too.” She shook her head. “Mama says he is becoming agitated. He keeps saying he has something of the utmost importance to impart to the heir to Goldenbirch. Unless Loth returns—”
“Do you think it is the mind fog?”
“Perhaps. Mama says I should not indulge it. I will go back soon, but not yet.” Margret tucked the letter into her skirts. “I must go. Perhaps we could meet for supper.”
“Yes.”
They parted ways.
It had been a terrible risk for Loth to send that note. Ead meant to heed his warning. Sabran had come all too close to death in the city, but never again.
Not on her watch.
The pregnancy was making Sabran sick. Roslain was up with the lark to hold back her hair while she retched over a chamberpot. On some nights, Katryen would sleep beside them on a truckle bed.
Still only a handful of people knew about the child. Now was not the time, in these early days of mourning.
Each day, the queen would emerge from the Royal Bedchamber, where she had spent her wedding night, looking more careworn than the day before. Each day, the shadows below her eyes seemed grimmer. On the rare occasions she talked, she was curt.
So when she spoke one evening without being coaxed, Katryen almost dropped her embroidery.
“Ead,” the Queen of Inys said, “you will be my bedfellow this night.”
At nine of the clock, the Ladies of the Bedchamber disrobed her, but for the first time, Ead also changed into her nightgown. Roslain took her to one side.
“There must be light in the room all night,” she told her. “Sabran will be afraid if she wakes in darkness. I find it easiest to keep a candle burning on the nightstand.”
Ead nodded. “I will make sure.”
“Good.”
Roslain looked as if she wanted to say more, but refrained. Once the Royal Bedchamber was secure, she shepherded the other ladies-in-waiting out and locked the doors.
Sabran was recumbent in the bed. Ead climbed in beside her and drew the coverlet over herself.
For a long time, they were silent. Katryen knew how to keep Sabran in good spirits, while Roslain knew how to counsel her. Ead wondered what her role ought to be. To listen, perhaps.
Or to tell her the truth. Perhaps that was what Sabran valued most.
It had been years since she had slept so close to someone else. She was too aware of Sabran. The flicker of sooty lashes. The warmth of her body. The rise and sink of her breast.
“I have had many nightmares of late.” Her voice broke the silence. “Your remedy helped, but Doctor Bourn tells me I must take nothing while I am with child. Not even sleepwater.”
“I have no wish to contest Doctor Bourn,” Ead said, “but perhaps you could use the rosewater in an ointment. It will soothe your skin, and may still help fend off the nightmares.”
Nodding, Sabran laid a hand on her belly. “I will ask for it tomorrow. Perhaps your presence will keep the nightmares at bay tonight, Ead. Even if roses cannot.”