4.5
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20,268 ratings
The New York Times bestselling "epic feminist fantasy perfect for fans of Game of Thrones" (Bustle).
NAMED A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR BY:
AMAZON (Top 100 Editors Picks and Science Fiction and Fantasy) * CHICAGO PUBLIC LIBRARY * BOOKPAGE * AUTOSTRADDLE
A world divided.
A queendom without an heir.
An ancient enemy awakens.
The House of Berethnet has ruled Inys for a thousand years. Still unwed, Queen Sabran the Ninth must conceive a daughter to protect her realm from destruction--but assassins are getting closer to her door.
Ead Duryan is an outsider at court. Though she has risen to the position of lady-in-waiting, she is loyal to a hidden society of mages. Ead keeps a watchful eye on Sabran, secretly protecting her with forbidden magic.
Across the dark sea, Tané has trained all her life to be a dragonrider, but is forced to make a choice that could see her life unravel.
Meanwhile, the divided East and West refuse to parley, and forces of chaos are rising from their sleep.
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ISBN-10
1635570301
ISBN-13
978-1635570304
Print length
848 pages
Language
English
Publisher
Bloomsbury Publishing
Publication date
February 17, 2020
Dimensions
6.05 x 2.5 x 9.15 inches
Item weight
2.31 pounds
You have not seen death, my lord. You have only seen the mask we put on it.
Highlighted by 2,248 Kindle readers
Piety can turn the power-hungry into monsters, Ead said. They can twist any teaching to justify their actions.
Highlighted by 1,966 Kindle readers
That is the problem with stories, child. The truth in them cannot be weighed.
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ASIN :
B07DDGX4KY
File size :
7791 KB
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Enabled
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"Mesmerizing." - Washington Post
"A timelessly relevant classic. Brilliant, diverse, feminist, subversive, thought-provoking, and masterfully told, The Priory of the Orange Tree is an absolute must-read." - Karen Marie Moning, #1 NYT bestselling author of the Highlander and Fever series
"A brilliant, daring, and devastating jewel . . . An incredible world full of depth and danger, with characters I would follow to the ends of the earth. I'm in awe of [Shannon's] talent." - Victoria Aveyard, #1 NYT bestselling author of the Red Queen series
"An epic feminist fantasy perfect for fans of ‘Game of Thrones’ . . . A rich and engaging high fantasy novel that puts women and their stories front and center, The Priory of the Orange Tree will pull you into its magical world from the first page." - Bustle
"An intricately realized and feminist fantasy . . . one might even be tempted to dub Samantha Shannon, ‘The female George R.R. Martin." - Hypable
"This magnificent epic of queens, dragonriders, and badass secret wyrm-slaying priestesses is a tour de force, and my new absolute favorite epic fantasy." - Laini Taylor, NYT bestselling author of the Strange the Dreamer and Daughter of Smoke and Bone series
"Spellbinding . . . extraordinary . . . A well-drawn feminist fantasy with broad appeal for fans of the epic and readers of Zen Cho, Naomi Novik, and V. E. Schwab. Highly recommended." - Booklist, starred review
"A celebration of fantasy that melds modern ideology with classic tropes. More of these dragons, please." - Kirkus Reviews, starred review
"An astonishing achievement." - Marie Brennan, award-winning author of The Memoirs of Lady Trent series
"An epic fantasy destined to be a classic." - Kami Garcia, #1 NYT bestselling coauthor of Beautiful Creatures and author of Unbreakable
"The Platonic Ideal of a fantasy novel . . . This story of good and evil, struggle and triumph, love and loss and return is beautifully written: complex but clear, and utterly immersive. I loved this book." - Nicola Griffith, award-winning author of Hild
"The Priory of the Orange Tree isn't our grandfathers' epic fantasy novel. It is a clever combination of Elizabethan England, the legend of St. George and Eastern dragon lore, with a dash of Tolkien. Shannon's feminist saga has enough detailed world-building, breath-taking action and sweeping romance to remind epic fantasy readers of why they love the genre in the first place. Modern sensibilities integrate seamlessly with genre tropes . . . Readers will beg for a sequel." - Shelf Awareness
"Shannon satisfyingly fills this massive standalone epic fantasy with court intrigue, travel through dangerous lands, fantastical religions, blood, love, and rhetoric." - Publishers Weekly
"A fascinating epic fantasy set in a rich, well-developed world. Shannon has created fertile narrative ground." - New York Journal of Books
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I
Stories of Old
And I saw an angel coming down out of heaven, having the key to the Abyss and holding in his hand a great chain. He seized the dragon, that ancient serpent, who is the devil, or Satan, and bound him for a thousand years.
He threw him into the Abyss, and locked and sealed it over him, to keep him from deceiving the nations any more until the thousand years were ended.
—Revelation 20.1–3
1
East
The stranger came out of the sea like a water ghost, barefoot and wearing the scars of his journey. He walked as if drunk through the haze of mist that clung like spidersilk to Seiiki.
The stories of old said water ghosts were doomed to live in silence. That their tongues had shriveled, along with their skin, and that all that dressed their bones was seaweed. That they would lurk in the shallows, waiting to drag the unwary to the heart of the Abyss.
Tané had not feared those tales since she was a small child. Now her dagger gleamed before her, its curve like a smile, and she fixed her gaze on the figure in the night.
When it called to her, she flinched.
The clouds released the moonlight they had hidden. Enough for her to see him as he was. And for him to see her.
This was no ghost. It was an outsider. She had seen him, and he could not be unseen.
He was sunburned, with hair like straw and a dripping beard. The smugglers must have abandoned him to the water and told him to swim the rest of the way. It was clear that he knew nothing of her language, but she understood enough of his to know that he was asking for help. That he wanted to see the Warlord of Seiiki.
Her heart was a fistful of thunder. She dared not speak, for to show she knew his language was to forge a link between them, and to betray herself. To betray the fact that just as she was now a witness to his crime, he was a witness to hers.
She should be in seclusion. Safe behind the walls of the South House, ready to rise, purified, for the most important day of her life. Now she was tainted. Soiled beyond redemption. All because she had wanted to immerse herself in the sea once more before Choosing Day. There were rumors that the great Kwiriki would favor those with the mettle to slip out and seek the waves during seclusion. Instead he had sent this nightmare.
All her life, she had been too fortunate.
This was her punishment.
She held the outsider at bay with the dagger. Faced with death, he began to shake.
Her mind became a whirlpool of possibilities, each more terrible than the last. If she turned this outsider over to the authorities, she would have to reveal that she had broken seclusion.
Choosing Day might not proceed. The honorable Governor of Cape Hisan—this province of Seiiki—would never allow the gods into a place that might be fouled with the red sickness. It could be weeks before the city was pronounced safe, and by then it would have been decided that the stranger arriving had been an ill omen, and that the next generation of apprentices, not hers, must be given the chance to be riders. It would cost her everything.
She could not report him. Neither could she abandon him. If he did have the red sickness, letting him roam unchecked would endanger the entire island.
There was only one choice.
She wrapped a strip of cloth around his face to keep him from breathing out the sickness. Her hands quaked. When it was done, she walked him from the black sand of the beach and up to the city, keeping as close as she dared, her blade pressed to his back.
Cape Hisan was a sleepless port. She steered the outsider through its night markets, past shrines whittled from driftwood, under the strings of blue and white lanterns that had been hung up for Choosing Day. Her prisoner stared at it all in silence. The dark obscured his features, but she tapped the flat of her blade on his head, forcing him to lower it. All the while, she kept him as far away from others as she could.
She had an idea of how to isolate him.
An artificial island clung to the cape. It was called Orisima, and it was something of a curiosity to the locals. The trading post had been constructed to house a handful of merchants and scholars from the Free State of Mentendon. Along with the Lacustrine, who were on the other side of the cape, the Ments alone had been granted permission to continue trading in Seiiki after the island had been closed to the world.
Orisima.
That was where she would take the outsider.
The torchlit bridge to the trading post was guarded by armed sentries. Few Seiikinese had permission to enter, and she was not one of them. The only other way past the fence was the landing gate, which opened once a year to receive goods from the Mentish ships.
Tané led the outsider down to the canal. She could not sneak him into Orisima herself, but she knew a woman who could. Someone who would know exactly where in the trading post to hide him.
It had been a long time since Niclays Roos had received a visitor.
He was rationing himself a little wine—a trickle of his paltry allowance—when the knock came at his door. Wine was one of his few remaining pleasures in the world, and he had been immersed in breathing in its aroma, savoring that golden moment before the first taste.
Now an interruption. Of course. With a sigh, he uprooted himself, grumbling at the sudden throb in his ankle. Gout was back once more to vex him.
Another knock.
“Oh, do shut up,” he muttered.
Rain drummed on the roof as he groped for his cane. Plum rain, the Seiikinese called it at this time of the year, when the air hung thick and damp as cloud and fruit swelled on the trees. He limped across the mats, cursing under his breath, and opened the door a fraction of an inch.
Standing in the darkness outside was a woman. Dark hair fell to her waist, and she wore a robe patterned with salt flowers. Rain alone could not have made her as wet as she was.
“Good evening, learnèd Doctor Roos,” she said.
Niclays raised his eyebrows. “I strongly dislike visitors at this hour. Or any hour.” He ought to bow, but he had no reason to impress this stranger. “How do you know my name?”
“I was told it.” No further explanation was forthcoming. “I have one of your countrymen with me. He will stay with you tonight, and I will collect him tomorrow at sunset.”
“One of my countrymen.”
His visitor turned her head a little. A silhouette parted ways with a nearby tree.
“Smugglers delivered him to Seiiki,” the woman said. “I will take him to the honored Governor tomorrow.”
When the figure came into the light from his house, Niclays turned cold.
A golden-haired man, just as drenched as the woman, was standing on his threshold. A man he had never seen in Orisima.
Twenty people lived in the trading post. He knew every one of their faces and names. And no Mentish ships would arrive with newcomers until later in the season.
Somehow, these two had entered unseen.
“No.” Niclays stared. “Saint, woman, are you trying to involve me in a smuggling operation?” He fumbled for the door. “I cannot hide a trespasser. If anyone knew—”