The Queen's Rising

by Rebecca Ross

  My gaze slowly moved from the crest to his face—which was in no manner ugly and old but young and handsome. Eyes blue as cornflowers. A mouth that rarely smiled.

  I was broken, I was mended as I stared at him, as he stared at me.

  For he was not just d’Aramitz, the third fallen lord. He was not just an unfamiliar man I was supposed to make eye contact with and then drift away from.

  He was Cartier.

  TWENTY-TWO

  D’ARAMITZ

  For a moment, all I could do was stand and breathe, my hands pressed to the silk of my bodice, to the stays of my corset. This could not be, I thought, the protest filling my mind as rain in a river. Cartier was a passion. Cartier was a Valenian.

  And yet, all this time, he had been something else.

  Cartier was Theo d’Aramitz . . . Aodhan Morgane . . . a fallen Maevan lord.

  I could not take my eyes from him.

  The sounds of the hall began to melt away as frost in sun, the firelight flickering into a dark gold, as if it were laughing, laughing at Cartier and me. Because I saw it in his gaze too, the longer he drank me in. He was shocked, alarmed that I was the mademoiselle with the silver rose, that I was Amadine Jourdain, the one to retrieve the Stone of Eventide, the one he had been admonished to keep an eye on, to assist if trouble should befall her.

  His eyes rushed over me, hung upon that rose in my hair as if it were a thorn, something akin to pain flaring across his expression. And then his gaze returned to mine, the distance between us thin and sharp, like the air just before a steep incline.

  Oh, how, how had this happened? How had we not known about each other?

  The shock of this was about to blow our covers.

  I turned away first and stepped directly into a man who caught me by the arm before I spilled his chalice of ale down his doublet.

  “Careful, Mademoiselle,” he said, and I forced a shy smile to my lips.

  “Forgive me, Monsieur,” I rasped, then darted away before he could hold me captive.

  I was seeking a place to run, to hide until I could recover—I wanted shadows and quiet and solitude—when I heard Cartier following me. I knew it was him; I recognized the heady sensation of distance closing between us.

  I stopped before one of the empty trestle tables, pretending that I was admiring the heraldry on the wall, when I felt his leg brush my skirts.

  “And who might you be, mademoiselle?”

  His voice was soft, agonized.

  I should not look at him, should not talk to him. If Allenach happened to glance this way, he would know. He would know there was something between Cartier and me.

  And yet I could not resist it. I turned to face him, my body waking to how close he was to me.

  “Amadine Jourdain,” I responded—polite, detached, disinterested. But my gaze was bright, my heart smoldering, and he knew it. He knew it because I saw the same in him, as if we were mirrors, reflecting each other. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Theo d’Aramitz.” He gave me a bow; I watched as his blond hair gleamed in the light, as his body moved with grace. Beneath that polish and passion, he was steel and cold wind; he was the blue banner and the horse of the House of Morgane.

  A rebelling House. A fallen House.

  His father must have been the lord to join with MacQuinn and Kavanagh, because Cartier would have been only a child twenty-five years ago. And even as I began to weave together the threads, I knew there was still more that I needed to know. He and I needed to find a way to speak, alone, before the mission completely rotted beneath our feet.

  “Which room is yours?” I whispered, and enjoyed the way his face flushed from my brash inquiry.

  “The flying stoat,” he returned, so low I almost didn’t hear him.

  “I will come to you, tonight,” I said, and then turned away, as if he had lost my interest.

  I merged back into the crowd just in time, because Allenach entered the hall, his eyes finding me immediately. He strode toward me, and I waited, hoping that the color in my face had cooled.

  “I would like for you to sit at my table, at the place of honor,” Allenach said, offering me his hand.

  I took it, let him walk me to the dais, where a long table sat heavily laden with chalices, plates, flagons, and platters of steaming food. But it wasn’t the feast that drew my attention; it was the two young men who sat waiting for us there.

  “Amadine, allow me to introduce you to my oldest son, Rian, and my youngest son, Sean,” Allenach said. “Rian and Sean, this is Amadine Jourdain.”

  Sean nodded politely at me, his hazelnut-colored hair cropped short, his face freckled and sunburned. I guessed him to be a little older than me. But Rian, the firstborn, merely looked at me with eyes of flint, his thick eyebrows cocked, his dark brown hair loose and long at his collar as he impatiently tapped his fingers along the table. I made a note to avoid him in the future.

  I curtsied to them, even though it felt awkward and unnecessary in such a hall. Rian sat at Allenach’s right—signifying he was the heir—and Sean sat on his left. I was to sit on the other side of Sean, which was probably the safest seat in the entire hall for me at the moment. I was cushioned from Rian’s suspicious gaze and Allenach’s inquiries, and I was on the other side of the hall from Cartier.

  But as I sat in my appointed chair of honor, my gaze helplessly roamed the trestle tables set before us, seeking my master out despite my better judgment. He was sitting to the left of the hall, three tables away, yet he and I had a perfect view of each other. It felt like a chasm had opened up, cracking the tables, the pewter and silver, the tiles that stretched between us. His eyes were on me; my eyes were on him. And he raised his chalice ever so slightly and drank to me. Drank to my fooling him, drank to my reuniting with him, drank to the plans that entwined us not as passions but as rebels.

  “So, my father says you are a passion of knowledge,” Sean said, trying to engage me in polite conversation.

  I glanced at him, granted him a little smile. He was regarding me as if I were a flower with briars, the grandeur of my dress obviously making him slightly uncomfortable.

  “Yes, I am,” I replied, and forced myself to take the platter of dove breasts that Sean handed me. I began to fill my plate, my stomach revolting at the sight of everything as it had been crunched all day by my corset. But I had to appear at ease, grateful. I ate and spoke to Sean, slowly adjusting to the cadence of the hall.

  I was just asking Sean about the hunt and the hart when I felt Cartier’s gaze on me. He had been staring at me for a while, and I had stubbornly resisted, knowing that Allenach was also watching me from the corner of his eye.

  “Has anyone seen the hart yet?” I asked Sean, dicing my potatoes and finally meeting Cartier’s gaze from beneath my lashes.

  Cartier inclined his head, his eyes flickering to something. I was just about to follow his silent order to look at whatever he was perturbed about when the warmth of strings filled the hall. A violin.

  I would know her music anywhere.

  Startled, I glanced to the right, where a group of musicians—passions of music—had gathered with their instruments, their music beginning to claim the hall. Merei sat among them, her violin obediently propped on her shoulder, her fingers dancing along the strings as she began to harmonize with the others. But her eyes were on me, dark and lucid, as if she had just woken from a dream. She smiled, and my heart about escaped my chest.

  I was so overcome I knocked over my chalice of ale. The golden liquid spilled down the table, onto my dress, onto Sean’s lap. The youngest son bolted upright, but I could hardly move. Merei was in the hall. Merei was playing. In Maevana.

  “I am so sorry,” I panted, trying to catch my breath as I began to mop up the ale.

  “It’s all right; these were my old breeches anyway,” Sean said with a crooked smile.

  “Does music always affect you like that, Amadine?” Rian drawled from his end of the table, leaning over to watch a
s I helped Sean clean up the mess.

  “No, but it is a pleasant surprise to hear it in a Maevan hall,” I replied as Sean resumed his seat, looking as if he had wet his pants.

  “I like for my Valenian guests to feel at home,” Allenach explained. “The past few years, I have invited a consort of musicians for the season of the hunt.” He took a sip of ale, motioned for a servant to come refill my chalice although I was utterly finished with eating and drinking and trying to appear normal. “As one passion to another, they should make you feel at home.”

  I chuckled, unable to help myself. Steam had been building in my chest ever since I had come face-to-face with Cartier. And now it was escaping, along with Merei’s music.

  I had known she would travel the realm with her patron. But never had I imagined that she would cross the channel and play in a Maevan hall.

  Merei, Merei, Merei, my heart sang along with its pulse. And as her music flowed over me, explored every corner and eave of the grand hall, I suddenly realized how dangerous it was for her to be there. She was not to know me; I was not to know her. And yet how could I sleep under such a roof, knowing she and Cartier were both here, so close to me?

  Cartier must have already experienced this, the first night at Damhan, when Merei had unexpectedly emerged with Patrice Linville’s consort to play in the evening. Cartier must have told her to pretend that she did not know him, and so all I could do was pray she extended the same act toward me.

  I thought of a myriad of ways to approach her under pretense, to find a way to speak to her alone, to explain to her why I was here. But all I could do was sit and listen to her, the hall growing quiet in appreciation of the music, my heart thrumming with longing and fear. Should I move or remain frozen?

  I wanted to look at her; I wanted to rush to her. But I rose to my feet and glanced to Lord Allenach, smiling as I requested, “Will you escort me to my room, my lord? I fear I am exhausted from a long journey.”

  He stood at once, the golden circlet over his forehead winking in the firelight. As he led me down the aisle, my eyes brushed over the tables to the left of the hall, one by one.

  Cartier had disappeared.

  TWENTY-THREE

  TO PASS THROUGH A TAPESTRY

  I did not expect to see a guard posted at my door. But as Allenach escorted me back to the unicorn chamber, I realized that I was to be watched and guarded. My face betrayed nothing, but my heart was tripping over my ribs as I realized there would be no way for me to sneak out to Cartier’s room, for me to sneak out of the castle to get the stone.

  “For your protection, Amadine,” Allenach said when we came to the door, the guard standing as determinedly quiet as a statue. “With so many men in the castle, and you without an escort, I would not want you to come to harm.”

  “How thoughtful, my lord. I shall sleep peacefully tonight,” I lied and gave him a sweet smile.

  He returned it, although the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes as he opened the door for me. “I’ll send the chambermaid to come assist you.”

  I nodded and entered the room, the candlelight sighing with my return. Everything was crumbling, I thought as I sat on the edge of my bed. Was this why secret missions always failed, because it was impossible to prepare for every little twist in the road?

  I had planned to sneak out the following night, to give myself time to locate the servant doors Liam had described to me, the doors I should use to move in and out of Damhan. And if I couldn’t find a way out of this room . . . I was going to have to adjust my plans. I was going to have to recover the stone during daylight. And that was going to be risky, with the men hunting in the woods.

  I needed to conjure a reason to either join the hunt or to be near the woods tomorrow. Both seemed impossible at the moment, when I was tired and overwhelmed and guarded.

  The chambermaid finally arrived, to help me undress and stir a fire in the hearth. I was grateful when she left, when I was finally alone wearing nothing but my chemise, my hair loose and tangled. And then I collapsed on my bed and stared at the unicorn tapestry, my head aching.

  I thought of Tristan. He had once lived here. Maybe he had once been in this room.

  That prompted me to sit forward. I began to pick apart every memory of his I had inherited, searching them until they were softened from so much handling. He had shared a thought with me about Damhan, the day he sparred with his brother. He had thought about the nooks and crannies, the secret passages and hidden doors of this castle.

  I rose from the bed and began to access the room. I was instantly drawn to the tapestry. Gently, I pulled it aside and looked at the stone wall beneath. My fingertips began to trace the mortar lines, seeking, seeking . . .

  It took me a while. My feet had gone cold on the stone floors by the time I felt a strip of mortar catch beneath my nails. I eased it forward, felt the wall shift as a narrow, ancient door opened into a dark inner corridor that smelled of mold and moss.

  A hidden web. An intricate branching of the castle’s veins and arteries. A way to move about without being seen.

  I hurried to gather my slippers and a candelabra. And then I dared to step into the passage, letting the shadows swallow me, my candlelight hardly making a splash amid the darkness. I didn’t latch my door, but I did close it as much as I dared. And then I mulled over thresholds, how they were portals and each chamber needed a blessing. If the main doors had signifiers, then surely a hidden door would, as well?

  I raised my candelabra, scrutinizing the roughened arch of this door. And there . . . the unicorn was carved, rather crudely, but it was marked.

  I could find Cartier’s room like this, I thought, and before my courage could wane, before my better sense could dampen my impulse, I began to walk the passage. I wondered if I could also find a way out of the castle by these routes, and then shivered when I imagined getting hopelessly lost in this dark, twisting maze.

  I went cautiously, as if I were a child just learning to walk. I paused every time I heard a sound . . . echoes from the kitchen, doors banging beneath me, the wind howling as a beast on the other side of the wall, peals of laughter. But I began to find the other doors, and I read their blessings. This portion of the castle was the guest wing, and as the inner passage began to curve, I took note of every bend and turn I made, praying Cartier’s chamber would have an inner door.

  I lost track of time. I was just about to relent, my feet as ice, the cold air seeping through my thin chemise, when I found his door. Under different circumstances, I would have laughed that Cartier’s room was blessed by a winged weasel. But my heart, my stomach, my mind were all tangled in a knot, and I was trembling, trembling because I was about to see him. Would he be angry at me?

  I lifted my fingers and flipped the latch. The secret door opened into the passage, most likely so it wouldn’t scuff the chamber floors. A heavy tapestry met me, to guard the passage as mine had been covered.

  I could hear Cartier’s boots on the floor, although he was not coming to me. He was pacing, and I wondered how to greet him without frightening him.

  “Master.”

  My voice melted through the tapestry, but he heard. And he must have felt the draft. He all but yanked the tapestry from the wall as his eyes fell on me in the yawning of the secret door. For the second time that night, I had rendered him speechless, and I invited myself into his chamber, brushing past him and all but groaning at the warmth and rosy light of the fire.

  I stood in the center of his room, waiting for him to come to me. He took the candelabra from my hands and roughly set it on a table, his fingers pulling through his loose hair. He kept his back to me, looking everywhere but at me, until he finally turned. Our eyes locked.

  “Amadine Jourdain,” he said with a sorrowful smile. “How did you slip past me?”

  “Master Cartier, I am sorry,” I rushed to say, the words tumbling over one another. I think he must have heard the pain in my voice, the pain of having to leave Magnalia so quietly. “I
wanted to tell you.”

  “And now I understand why you didn’t.” He sighed and noticed my shivering, that I was wearing nothing but my chemise. “Here, come sit by the fire. You and I need to have a little talk.” He drew two chairs before his hearth, and I sank into one, easing my feet forward to catch the warmth. I felt him watching me, that space between us tender and confusing. For I might have left Magnalia without a trace, but he had been keeping secrets as well.

  “So,” he said, casting his gaze to the fire. “Jourdain is your patron.”

  “Yes. And you are Aodhan Morgane.” I whispered that forbidden name, as if it were honey on my tongue, as if the walls might hear us. But the sound of it seemed to electrify the air between us, for Cartier looked at me, his eyes wide and bright as midsummer, and he gave me a tilt of a smile.

  “So I am. And so I am also Theo d’Aramitz.”

  “As well as Cartier Évariste,” I added. Three different names, three different faces. All one man.

  “I don’t even know where to start, Brienna,” he stated.

  “Start at the beginning, Master.”

  He seemed to hang on that last word—“master”—as if it reminded him of what our relationship was still supposed to be. But then he found his voice, and his story woke as an ember.

  “My father defied Lannon twenty-five years ago, a story you no doubt know very well by now. I was so young I do not remember anything, but my mother and my older sister were slaughtered, and my father ran with me before the same fate could befall me. He came south to Delaroche, became a scribe, and raised me up as a Valenian. About the time that I began to beg him to let me passion, he told me who I truly was. I was not Theo d’Aramitz, as I’d thought I was. I was not Valenian. I was Aodhan, and he was a disgraced Maevan lord who had a score to settle.”

  He paused. I could see him remembering his father. Cartier’s face hardened, as if the pain of that loss was still keen.