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.”
Her hair was unbound, parted like drapes where her shoulders peeked through.
“I never thanked you. For everything you did in Quiver Lane,” she said. “Pained though I was, I did notice how well you fought to protect me.” She lifted her chin. “Was it you who slew the other cutthroats? Are you the watcher in the night?”
Her expression was impenetrable. Ead wanted to do as she had resolved—tell the truth—but the risk was too great. If word got back to Combe, she would be forced out of court.
“No, madam,” she said. “Perhaps they could have protected Prince Aubrecht, as I could not.”
“It was not your duty to protect the prince,” Sabran said. Her profile was half shadow and half gold. “It is my fault that Aubrecht is dead. You told me not to open that door.”
“The cutthroat would have found a way to him, that day or another,” Ead said. “Somebody paid Bess Weald handsomely to ensure Prince Aubrecht died. His fate was sealed.”
“That may be true, but I should have listened. You have never deceived me. I cannot ask Aubrecht for his forgiveness, but . . . I will ask yours, Ead Duryan.”
It took effort to hold her gaze. She had no idea just how greatly Ead had deceived her.
“Granted,” Ead said.
Sabran released her breath through her nose. For the first time in eight years, Ead felt a stab of remorse for the lies she had told.
“Truyde utt Zeedeur must pay the price for her treachery, no matter her youth,” Sabran stated. “By rights I should demand that High Princess Ermuna sentences her to death. Or perhaps you would prefer me to offer mercy, Ead, since you find its taste so comforting.”
“You must do as you will with her.”
In truth, Ead did not want the girl dead. She was a dangerous fool, and her stupidity had caused a slew of deaths, but she was seventeen. There was time for her to make amends.
Another silence passed before the queen turned to face her. This close, Ead could see the thick black rings that surrounded her irises, dark against their startling green.
“Ead,” she said, “I cannot speak with Ros or Kate of this, but I will speak with you. I feel that you will think no less of me. That you will . . . understand.”
Ead interlaced their fingers.
“You can always speak freely to me,” she said.
Sabran shifted closer. Her hand was cold and delicate, the fingers bare without their jewels. She had buried her love-knot ring in the Sunken Gardens to mark a place for a memorial.
“You asked me, before I took Aubrecht to consort, if I wanted to wed,” she said, almost too softly to hear. “I confess now, to you alone, that I did not. And . . . still do not.”
The revelation hung between them. This was dangerous talk. With the threat of invasion, the Dukes Spiritual would soon be exhorting Sabran to take another companion, even with the heir inside her.
“I never thought I would say those words aloud.” Her breath verged on a laugh. “I know that Inys faces war. I know that Draconic things are waking the world over. I know that my hand would strengthen any of our existing alliances, and that the other countries of Virtudom were brought into the fold through the sacred institution of companionship.”
Ead nodded. “But?”
“I fear it.”
“Why?”
Sabran was still for a time. One hand sat on her belly, while Ead kept hold of the other.
“Aubrecht was kind to me. Tender and good,” she finally said, voice low in her throat, “but when he was inside me, even when I found pleasure in it, it felt—” She closed her eyes. “It felt as if my body were not wholly my own. It . . . still feels that way now.”
Her gaze dipped to the barely visible bump, swathed by the silk velvet of her nightgown.
“Alliances have ever been forged and strengthened through royal marriages,” she said. “While Inys has the greatest navy in the West, we lack a well-trained standing army. Our population is small. If we are invaded, we will need as much support as we can muster . . . but each nation in Virtudom will consider itself duty-bound to defend its own shores first. A marriage, however, would come with legal stipulations. Guarantees of military support.”
Ead kept her silence.
“I have never had any great inclination toward marriage, Ead. Not the sort of marriage those of royal blood must make—born not of love, but fear of isolation,” Sabran murmured. “Yet if I refrain, the world will stand in judgment. Too proud to wed my country to another. Too selfish to give my daughter a father to love her if I should perish. This is how I will be seen. Who would rise in defense of such a monarch?”
“Those who call her Sabran the Magnificent. Those who saw her vanquish Fýredel.”
“They will soon forget that deed when enemy ships darken the horizon,” Sabran said. “My blood cannot deter the armies of Yscalin.” Her eyelids were sinking. “I do not expect you to say anything to comfort me, Ead. You have let me unburden myself, even though my fears are selfish. The Damsel has granted me the child I begged of her, and all I can do is … quake.”
Even though a fire roared in the hearth, gooseflesh flecked her skin.
“Where I come from,” Ead said, “we would not call it selfish to do as you have done.”
Sabran looked at her.
“You have just lost your companion. You are carrying his child. Of course you feel vulnerable.” Ead pressed her hand. “Childing is not always easy. It seems to me that this is the best-kept secret in all the world. We speak of it as though there were nothing sweeter, but the truth is more complex. No one talks openly about the difficulties. The discomfort. The uncertainty. So now you feel the weight of your condition, you believe yourself alone in it. And you have turned the blame upon yourself.”
At this, Sabran swallowed.
“Your fear is natural.” Ead held her gaze. “Let no one convince you otherwise.”
For the first time since the ambush, the Queen of Inys smiled.
“Ead,” she said, “I am not quite sure what I did without you.”
