The Priory of the Orange Tree (The Roots of Chaos, #1)

by Samantha Shannon

‘To be kin to a dragon,’ Nayimathun said, ‘you must not only have a soul of water. You must have the blood of the sea, and the sea is not always pure. It is not any one thing. There is darkness in it, and danger, and cruelty. It can raze great cities with its rage. Its depths are unknowable; they do not see the touch of the sun. To be a Miduchi is not to be pure, Tané. It is to be the living sea. That is why I chose you. You have a dragon’s heart.’

‘The all-honoured Unceasing Emperor has made his decision,’ Thim said in Seiikinese. ‘He agrees to the proposal.’

‘Kalyba,’ she said. ‘Mita,’ the redhead answered.

Every girl in the Priory wanted to be a Red Damsel, and every Red Damsel hoped that she would one day be the representative of the Mother.

‘My loving people of Virtudom,’ she said, and her voice was her power, ‘the Draconic Army has returned.’

‘You can light another candle,’ Ead said to her. ‘Light does not keep me awake.’ ‘I do not need it.’ Sabran slid a hand to Ead’s nape. ‘Not with you.’

‘The Nameless One has a weakness. The twentieth scale of his chest armour is the one that Cleolind Onjenyu damaged all those years ago. She failed to hit the mark, but perhaps she opened the door. A door into his armour.’

Kalyba wrenched away, eyes flared. Quick as a scorpion, she turned, fire igniting in her hand again. A narrow blade ran her through. The sterren blade. A sliver of the comet.

Then a banner of misty green rushed beneath her. She was caught in the coil of a tail. ‘I have you, little sister.’ Nayimathun lifted Tané on to her back. ‘Hold on.’

‘Together,’ Tané whispered. ‘For Neporo. For Cleolind.’

‘I would live alone for fifty years to have one day with you.’

‘In the days before Virtudom, the people of Inysca would make a trothplight to the one they loved. A promise that they would make a home together.’ She held her gaze. ‘You must do your duty as Prioress. I must do mine as Queen of Inys. For a time, we must go our separate ways . . . but ten years from now, I will meet you on the sand of Perchling. And we will find our somewhere.’