by Rebecca Ross
“Sean!” I called out to him, leading the horse back into the woods, Nessie on my heels.
“Amadine?”
We continued to call to each other until we met in the woods. His face went pale at the sight of me; he dismounted in a rush.
“What happened? Are you all right?”
“My horse spooked, right after Merei’s,” I said, making my voice waver. “He went for the woods.”
“Gods above, did you break anything?” He was looking at my lip, which I had forgotten about. A little trickle of blood had dribbled down my chin.
“No, it just rattled me a bit,” I said. “How is Merei?”
“She’s well.”
I glanced over his shoulder to see her and the mare approach us. Her gaze took me in, my dirt and my torn dress and my blood. Her fear finally roused, crossing the space between us as a shadow.
Bri, Bri, what are you doing?
“I swear that I chose the steadiest of horses for this tour,” Sean said with a shake of his head. “I cannot believe they both spooked. I apologize.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said, laying my hand on his arm. “All the same, do you mind taking me back to the castle?”
“Of course,” Sean said, offering his knee to help me mount.
We rode back to the courtyard, where Merei’s consort was about to go on a walk. They eagerly invited me to join them, but I declined. All I could think of was two things: I needed to change my dress and scrub the dirt from my nails before Allenach returned. And I needed the privacy to cry in relief that I had the Stone of Eventide.
I did both, and then made myself scarce until dinner, giving my heart and mind plenty of time to settle and realign to what now was to come. Not until after dinner, when I was back in my chamber pacing, trying to give Cartier enough time to leave the hall before I met him in his room, did a knock sound on my door.
Cautiously, I went to answer it, finding my chambermaid standing at the threshold with an envelope.
“One of the mistresses of music has invited you to join her in the library this evening,” the girl said, dutifully handing me the letter.
I took it, fully aware that the guard beside me was watching. “Thank you.”
The chambermaid was off before I could shut my door. I knew Merei wanted to discuss what had happened this morning, that this was her attempt to let me explain myself.
I eased the envelope open; a square of parchment slipped out.
My heart swelled when I recognized her handwriting:
Meet with me?
I hesitated, wanting nothing more than to go to her. But before I could make up my mind, I watched as Merei’s elegant penmanship began to slide around on the paper. My breath caught as it slithered about like a black snake, eventually resting on the paper in slanted Dairine.
Meet with me.
Tristan’s memory unexpectedly captured me. I was too late to save myself from succumbing this time, and I sighed, watching as his hand crumpled the message, as he strode to the fire blazing in his hearth and tossed the parchment to the flames.
He had been waiting two days for her to finally send him this message.
Tristan had invited Princess Norah Kavanagh to Damhan under the pretense of loyal hospitality. She had agreed to stay at his castle, and both of them knew it was only to make plans about stealing the Stone of Eventide from her mother, the queen, before war was unleashed on western Maevana.
Tristan slipped from the chamber. The corridor was quiet, dark. Only a few sconces continued to burn, casting monstrous light on the walls as he began to walk.
He had wondered how the queen’s magic would corrupt in battle. He had read only one story about it, a story Liadan had ensured was passed down as it described what battle magic had done. Uncontrollable storms, unearthly creatures that rose up from the shadows, swords that stole sight when they pierced flesh, arrows that multiplied and returned to their archers . . .
He shuddered, hoping that Norah was ready to do what he suggested, that she would obtain the Stone of Eventide before the war came.
Tristan ascended the stairs to the third floor, silently padded down a narrow hallway to the door that led out to the northern parapet.
He stepped outside on the parapet walk, easing into the cold night.
His lands were drowning in moonlight. Everything looked so small, a quilt of dark greens and umbers and steel blues knit together with celestial light. The moon was swollen with gold, full and generous, the stars scattered about her as sugar spilled over black velvet.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow shift, and he knew it was her.
“Shouldn’t we find a better place to meet?” he asked.
“And why would I meet with you?” A man’s voice.
Tristan’s heart plummeted; he turned to look closer at the moving shadow. It was Norah’s face, her dark hair streaming loose around her shoulders. And her mouth was moving—she was saying something—and he couldn’t hear her. . . .
“Answer me,” Norah snapped, but it was a masculine, suspicious voice that was shaped by her lips. And that was when the princess’s face split down the middle, leaving Rian Allenach behind in her dust.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE WARNING
“What are you doing here?” Rian snarled.
For a moment, all I could do was gape at him as my ears popped, as a shiver pulled over my skin, as horror rooted in my heart. Tristan had completely disintegrated, leaving me behind to mend this disaster.
“I . . . I am sorry,” I panted, pulling my shawl tighter about my shoulders. “I was exploring and I—”
“Who were you exploring with?”
I swallowed, the suspicions in his dark gaze piercing me. “One of the musicians. We thought it would be nice to see a castle view.”
“You don’t have castles in Valenia?”
I stared at Rian, trying not to flinch when he stepped closer to me.
“Why don’t you and I wait together for your friend to arrive,” he murmured, tilting his head to the side as his eyes roamed over me.
I wanted to turn and flee. I almost did, my right foot beginning to slide on the stone floor when Rian moved to purposely block the path to the door.
“This will give us a good chance to get to know each other,” he continued, crossing his arms. “Because ever since you arrived here, my father has been all out of sorts.”
“Wh-what?” My pulse was wild, pounding like a drum in my ears.
“You heard me, Amadine Jourdain.”
I took a step back, to put some space between us. The parapet wall jarred into my back, the mortar picking at my dress.
“Why have you come here?” Rian questioned.
Before the words could crumble in my throat, I said, “I came here for MacQuinn.”
He smiled down at me—we were close to the same height, and yet I felt small in his shadow. It was evident my fear was like wine to him.
“Let’s play a little game.” He withdrew a sheathed dirk from his belt.
“I don’t want to play,” I rasped and tried to slip away.
His arm extended, his hand resting on the wall to keep me standing before him. “I’m not going to hurt you . . . unless you lie. In fact, we’ll play the game equally. If I lie, you get to wield the blade. But if you lie . . .”
I stared at him. I thought of what Jourdain had said to me, just before I departed Valenia. And I told myself to be brave, that Rian was fueling off my fears and helplessness. “Fine, but my friend will arrive any moment. . . .”
“We get three questions each,” he all but spoke over me, flicking the end of the blade. “I’ll go first.” He set the point of his dirk at my throat. I didn’t dare move, breathe, as the steel hovered over my pulse. “If you are a passion of knowledge, where is your fancy cloak?”
I swallowed, fear wedging in my throat like splintered bone. “My cloak was burned in a house fire a month ago. My mistress is currently having it replicated.”
I waited, praying he would believe me. He clearly enjoyed making me worry and suffer, but eventually he lowered the blade and gave it to me. I didn’t want to hold a dirk to him; I didn’t want to stoop to his level of cruelty. And yet I thought of what might have happened to my mother. I took the point of the blade and aimed at his crotch.
Rian glanced down at it and smirked. “You’re a vicious little thing, aren’t you?”
“Why do you feel threatened by a woman?” The question flowed like fire from my mouth, anger curling the words.
His eyes sharpened over mine; his smirk shifted into a sinister expression. “I do not feel threatened by a woman. I question one who would come and appeal for a known traitor and coward.”
He didn’t give me time to weigh his response, to test if he was lying. He swiped the blade from me and pressed it against the bodice of my dress, just below my right breast. He was one inch from pointing it at the Stone of Eventide, which began to hum within my corset, as if the stone were waking with ire.
“The dark-haired musician,” Rian snarled. “What’s her name? Merei, I think. You know her. You knew her before you arrived here. How?”
Sweat began to trace down my back as my mind whirled, trying to weave a plausible lie. My hesitation fanned his contempt. He began to press the blade deeper; I felt the outer layer of my gown tear, my corset bend . . .
“There is camaraderie in passion, in sisterhood,” I answered hoarsely. “This is something I do not expect you to understand, but there are binds between anyone who wears the cloak, even among strangers.”
He paused, his eyes cold as they traced the lines of my face. I thought he believed my answer. I was about to extend my hand for the dirk when he shoved the blade into me.
My body went rigid, stiff with the sudden flare of pain in my side. And then came the terror as I acknowledged that he had stabbed me, that a dirk was embedded in my flesh.
“No, Amadine,” Rian whispered bitterly. “That’s a lie.” And he withdrew the blade from me, so quickly that I staggered, sinking to my knees. “You lose.”
My fingers curled into the stone floor, trying to find something to anchor me, to give me courage to face him. I was violently trembling when he knelt in front of me, when his fingers brushed the hair away from my face. The sensation of his skin touching mine made me want to retch.
“Let me give you some advice, little Valenian lass,” he said, wiping my blood off the dirk before sheathing it back into its scabbard. “If you have come here for one like MacQuinn, if you plan to do something foolish . . . you had better have all your lies figured out. Because King Lannon is a hound when it comes to falsehood. And that wound in your side? That is only a foretaste of what he will do to you if you lie. So you can thank me for the warning.”
Rian stood. I felt a cold whisper of air, heard the howling of the wind as he moved to leave the parapet walk. I was still on my hands and knees when he turned and said, “If my father finds out about this lesson, I can promise you that your little musician friend will pay for it. Good night, Amadine.”
The door closed.
Alone, I began to gulp in air, trying to sear my distress before the shock overcame me, before I lost my composure. I slowly sat back on my heels, my eyes clenched shut. I didn’t want to look; I didn’t want to see what he had done to me. I wanted to melt and vanish; I wanted to go home, but I didn’t even know where home was.
The stone was growing warmer against my stomach, so warm I realized it might burn me through the wooden locket, as if it were angry for me, for what had been done to me. I opened my eyes and glanced down to my bodice.
My blood was trickling down the pale blue of my gown and kirtle, dark as ink in the moonlight. He had stabbed me just below my breast, within my rib cage. I numbly tried to examine my puncture—how deep had the dirk gone into me?—but the layers of my dress . . . I couldn’t access anything, only feel the pain begin to gradually ease as the shock overcame me.
I took my shawl and tied it around my middle, to conceal the blood.
I hurried back inside, down the corridor, down two flights of stairs. I could feel the blood flowing, leaving me. I could feel my panic gnaw around my mind as I held it together, long enough to pass my guard and slip into my chamber.
I locked the door. I tore away the shawl.
My blood was bright red in the firelight.
I stumbled to the tapestry, snagging a candelabra on my way. Into the dark I went. The inner passageway felt like I was roaming the endless bowels of a beast. I went from door to door, my head becoming fuzzy, the shadows whispering and nipping at my dress as I searched for the symbol for Cartier’s room.
I could hardly remain upright, my heart thundering in my ears, my feet tripping over themselves. But like the night before, his door appeared to me just before I gave up, just before I melted to the floor.
The winged weasel flickered with blessing in my candlelight as I opened the inner door, as I pushed against the tapestry.
He was sitting at his desk, writing. My unexpected entrance startled him; he jerked, his quill streaking across the parchment as I came to stand in the heart of his room.
“Brienna?”
The sound of my name, the sound of his voice, was my undoing. I took my hand from my wound, my blood dripping from my fingers onto the rug.
“Cartier,” I whispered just before I collapsed.
TWENTY-SIX
WOUNDS AND STITCHES
He moved faster than I had ever seen, nearly overturning his desk as he caught me just before I hit the ground. The candelabra spilled from my grip, clanging against the floor, the flames going out one by one, but Cartier held me to him, his eyes riveted to mine. I watched that Valenian elegance and poise dissipate from his demeanor as he took in my blood, as he took in my wound. Fury darkened his gaze, a fury found in battles and steel and moonless nights.
Gently weaving his fingers into my hair, he asked, “Who did this?”
I saw the Maevan in him rise, saw it overtake him at the sight of me bleeding in his arms. He was ready to crush whoever had hurt me. I had seen it before, in Jourdain and in Luc. But then I remembered that I was half Maevan. And I let that part of me answer.
“It’s not deep,” I murmured, taking hold of the front of his shirt, taking the helm of this problem. “I need you to undress me. I did not want to call the servant girl.”
We stared at each other. I watched my words expand in his mind—he was about to take off my clothes—and his fingers loosened in my hair.
“Tell me what to do,” he finally said, his gaze straying to the complicated mystery that man calls a woman’s dress.
“There are laces . . . at the back of my gown,” I panted, my breath coming short and shallow. “Loosen them. The gown comes off first. . . .”
He turned me in his arms, his fingers finding the knotted laces, unraveling them quickly. I felt the gown begin to loosen, felt him pull it off of me.
“What next?” he asked, his arm wrapped around my waist to support me.
“The kirtle,” I murmured.
He slid it off, my body beginning to feel light. Then he unlaced my petticoats; they fell to my ankles in a wide hoop.
“My corset,” I breathed.
His fingers fought with the stays, until my corset at last relinquished me and I could sag and breathe. I forgot all about the Stone of Eventide until I heard the wooden locket clink among the layers of fabric at my feet.
“The stone, Cartier . . .”
His arm tightened about me; he spoke into the tangles of my hair, “You found it?”
I heard the desire and the fear in his voice . . . like the thought of the stone being so close was as terrifying as it was marvelous. I leaned back against him, drawing on his strength, and smiled when I realized that he was feeling two conflicting things at once.
And then reality seemed to weave between us; he was holding me, and I was wearing nothing more than my undergarments, and the magical stone
was somewhere at our feet, hidden in my clothes. I didn’t know which one was more astonishing. By the pressure of his hands on my waist . . . neither did Cartier.
“Yes. I’ve been hiding it in my corset.”
At once he knelt and took the locket, setting it on his writing desk. I was amazed at his disinterest in it, that he treated it like any other piece of jewelry. Until his gaze returned to mine, to my wound, and I saw how pale he was, how stressed.
All I wore was my sleeveless chemise, which reached my knees, and my woolen stockings, which had itched their way down my calves. And my blood bloomed bright and angry over the white linen, which I couldn’t lift to examine unless I wanted to utterly bare myself to Cartier.
He must have read my mind. He moved to his wardrobe and brought me a pair of his breeches.
“I know, these are far too big for you,” he said, holding them up to me. “But slip them on. I need to examine your wound.”
I didn’t protest. He guided me to his bedside and turned his back to me, leaving his pants in my hands. I sat on the mattress, unbuckled the dirk from my thigh, and began to pull my legs through his breeches, wincing when the pain echoed through my abdomen.
“All right,” I said. “You can look.”
He was at my side in an instant, guiding me to lie down over his blankets, resting my head on his pillow. Then, gently, he rolled up my chemise to expose my stomach, his fingers carefully probing my wound.
“It’s not deep,” he said, and I watched the tension ease from his face. “But I need to stitch this.”
“I think my corset saved my life,” I breathed, and then laid my head back and laughed.
He did not think that was amusing. Not until I had him fetch my corset, and he held it up. We both saw that the thick material, torn and bloodied, had taken the brunt of the blade, had protected me from a deeper piercing.