The Rose Eternal skirted the western coast of Yscalin. Since Fýredel had disappeared, its people had begun to rebuild the damage wrought in the Draconic Years. Prayer houses and sanctuaries rose from the wreckage. Lavender was planted in the fields that had been burned. And soon enough, red pear trees would sweeten the streets of Cárscaro again.
Mereswine leaped together from the waves, spraying water. Dusk had fallen, but Ead had never felt more awake. The salt wind danced through her hair, and she breathed it deep into her lungs.
Prioress. She who stood where the Mother once had. Guardian of the orange tree.
All her life she had been a handmaiden. She had never known what it was to rule. She had also spent enough time with Sabran to know that a crown was a heavy weight to bear—but the Priory of the Orange Tree did not possess a crown. She was not an empress or a queen, but one cloak among many.
She would find out where Fýredel had hidden, and she would slay him as she had his master. She would not rest until the only fire that ascended came through the orange tree, and the mages who ate of its fruit. And when the Long-Haired Star came once more, the balance would be restored.
Gian Harlowe came to join her at the stern, clay pipe in hand. He lit it with a taper, breathed in deeply, and puffed out a wreath of blue-tinged smoke. Ead watched it drift away.
“Queen Marosa will invite the foreign sovereigns to her court in the spring, I hear,” he said. “To open Yscalin again.”
Ead nodded. “Let us hope that this peace holds.”
“Aye.”
For a time, the only sound was the waves.
“Captain,” Ead said, and Harlowe grunted, “at the Inysh court, there are rumors about you, spoken deep in the shadows. Rumors that you courted Queen Rosarian.” She watched his brow darken. “They say you meant to take her to the Milk Lagoon.”
“The Milk Lagoon is a fable,” he said curtly. “A tale whispered to children and lovers without hope.”
“A wise young woman told me once that all legends grow from a seed of truth.”
“Is it you or the Queen of Inys who desires the truth?”
Ead waited, watching his face. Those eyes were in a distant past.
“She was never much like Rose.” His voice softened. “She was night-born, you know. They say that makes a child grave . . . but Rose came into the world at the lark’s calling.”
He drew on his pipe again.
“Some truths,” he said, “are safest buried. Some castles best kept in the sky. There’s promise in tales that are yet to be spoken. In the shadow realm, known only to the few.” He glanced at her. “You ought to know, Eadaz uq-Nāra. You whose secrets will one day be a song.”
With the faintest smile, Ead cast her gaze toward the stars.
“One day, perhaps,” she said. “But not today.”
