The Queen's Rising

by Rebecca Ross

  “Dog?”

  “Nessie,” Allenach said. “She has always hated strangers. But she was certainly attracted to you, and it made me remember . . . when your mother was here all those years ago, one of my wolfhounds refused to leave her side. Nessie’s dam.”

  I swallowed, told myself that a dog couldn’t have known. . . .

  “Why let me return to MacQuinn, then?” I asked, the words too hot to hold any longer in my chest. “You let me reunite with him, only to tear me away.”

  Allenach tried not to smile, but the corners of his mouth revealed his twisted pleasure at the thought. “Yes. Perhaps it was cruel of me, but he was trying to wound me. He was—still is—trying to turn you against me.”

  How wrong Allenach was. Jourdain hadn’t even known whose daughter I truly was.

  And then I stared at his hand—his right hand, holding his chalice—and remembered. That hand had cut down Jourdain’s wife. That hand had betrayed them, brought their wives and daughters to their deaths.

  I rose, my anger and distress a marriage of horror in my blood. “You are mistaken, my lord. I am not your daughter.”

  I was halfway to the door, the air squeezing out of me as if iron fingers had wrapped about my chest. The Stone of Eventide felt it, spread a comforting warmth against my middle, up to my heart. Be brave, it whispered, and yet I was all but running from him.

  My hand was reaching for the door handle when his voice pierced the distance between us.

  “I am not finished, Brienna.”

  The sound of it stopped me short, sealed my feet to the floor.

  I listened to him as he stood, as his tread moved into one of the adjoining chambers. When he returned, I could hear the rustling of papers.

  “Your mother’s letters,” was all he said.

  It turned me about. It dragged me back across the floor to him, where he had set a thick bundle of letters in my chair. It made me reach for them, this tiny remnant of her, the mother I had always longed for.

  I began to read them, my heart completely sundered. It was her. It was Rosalie Paquet. My mother. She had loved him, then, even though she had no inkling as to what he had done.

  In one of the letters was a tiny lock of hair. My hair. A soft golden brown.

  I named our daughter Brienna, out of honor for you, Brendan.

  I sank to the floor, my strength leaving me. My very name was inspired by his—this devious, murderous man. I looked up at him; he stood near, watching me absorb the truth.

  “What do you want with me?” I whispered.

  Allenach knelt on the floor before me, took my face in his hands. Those treacherous hands. “You are my one and only daughter. And I will raise you up to be queen of this land.”

  I wanted to laugh; I wanted to weep. I wanted to peel this day back, burn it, forget it had ever happened. But his hands held me steady, and I had to reckon with this wild claim he was making.

  “And how, my lord, would you make me a queen?”

  A dark light gleamed in those eyes. For one moment, my heart stopped, thinking he had discovered I was carrying the stone. But we were not Kavanaghs. The stone was useless to us.

  “Long ago,” he murmured, “our ancestor took something. He took something that was vital for Maevana to remain a queen’s realm.” His thumbs gently caressed my cheeks as he smiled down at me. “Our House has hidden the Queen’s Canon for generations. This very castle holds it, and I will resurrect the Canon to put you on the throne, Brienna.”

  I closed my eyes, trembling.

  All these years, the House of Allenach had been holding the Stone of Eventide and the Queen’s Canon. My House had destroyed a lineage of queens, had forced magic to fall dormant, had enabled a cruel king such as Lannon. The weight of what my ancestors had done bowed me down; I would have completely melted to the floor if Allenach had not been holding me upright.

  “But I am half Valenian,” I argued, opening my eyes to look at him. “I am illegitimate.”

  “I will legitimize you,” he said. “And it does not matter if you are only Maevan in part. Noble blood flows in your veins, and as my daughter, you have a rightful claim to the throne.”

  I should have denied him right then, before the temptation could set down roots within me. But the Queen’s Canon . . . we needed it. We had the stone, but we also needed the law.

  “Show me the Canon,” I requested.

  His hands slowly drifted from my face, but he continued to stare at me. “No. Not until you pledge allegiance to me. Not until I know that you fully deny MacQuinn.”

  Oh, he was playing with me. He was manipulating me. It made me despise him all the more, that he felt the need to compete with Jourdain. That he only wanted me to flex his own power.

  I will not rush into this, I thought.

  So I took a deep breath, and said, “Give me the night to ponder this, my lord. I will give you my answer in the morning.”

  He would respect that. He was Maevan, and a Maevan’s word was their vow. Valenians had their grace in etiquette and politeness, but Maevans had their words. Simple, binding words.

  Allenach helped me to my feet. He called for a warm bath to be drawn for me back in the unicorn chamber and left me for the night. I soaked in the water until I was wrinkled, staring at the fire and hating my blood. Then I rose and dressed in the sleeping shift he had provided for me, since I had left all of my belongings with Jourdain.

  I sat before the fire, the stone and locket hidden beneath the soft wool of my nightdress, and I fell captive to my own horrible thoughts.

  I had arrived to Damhan tonight believing Allenach was taunting Jourdain with his claims on me. But now I knew better. . . . I was blood of his blood, a stag leaping through laurels, a cruel man’s only daughter.

  And he wanted to make me into a queen.

  I closed my eyes and began to draw my fingers through the tangled web that had become my life.

  In order to resurrect the Canon, I would have to pledge myself to Allenach.

  If I pledged myself to Allenach, I would either follow him, let him place me on the throne, or betray him and take the Canon with me to Mistwood.

  If I refused to pledge myself to Allenach, I would not recover the Canon. I would still ride to Mistwood with the stone, as planned. That is, if Allenach didn’t lock me away in Damhan’s keep.

  “Brienna?”

  I glanced to the right, saw Cartier standing in my chamber. I had not even heard him enter through the secret door, so lost was I in my own dark contemplations. He came to my chair, knelt before me, set his hands on my knees as if he knew that I was drifting, as if he knew his touch would bring me back.

  I watched the firelight kiss the golden threads of his hair, and I let my fingers rush through it, his eyes closing in response to my caress.

  “He’s my father,” I whispered.

  Cartier looked at me. There was such sadness in his eyes, as if he felt every blister of pain within me.

  “Did you know it was him?” I persisted.

  “No. I knew your father was Maevan. I was never told his name.”

  I let my fingers slip from his hair and I leaned my head back in the chair, stared up at the ceiling. “He has the Canon. And he wants to make me queen.”

  Cartier’s fingers tightened on my knees. I brought my gaze back to his; his eyes revealed nothing, even as I spoke betrayal. There was no horror, no greed in his eyes. Only a faithful shade of blue.

  “Cartier . . . what should I do?”

  He stood and pulled a chair close to mine, to sit directly across from me, so I had no other place to look but at him. I watched the fire spill light over one side of his face, shadows on the other.

  “Four months ago,” he said, “I thought I knew the best path for you. I had come to love you, so deeply, that I wanted to make sure you chose the branch that would keep you close to me. I wanted you to go with Babineaux, to teach as I had done. And when summer’s end came, when I discovered you had disappeared wit
hout a trace . . . I realized that I could not hold you, that I could not decide for you. Only when I let you go did I find you again, in the most marvelous of ways.”

  He grew quiet, but his eyes never left mine.

  “I cannot tell you what to decide, what is best,” he stated. “That is for your heart to choose, Brienna. But I will say this: no matter which path you choose, I will follow you, even unto darkness.”

  He rose, his fingers gently tracing my hair, down the sharp line of my jaw to the tip of my chin. A touch of promise, a touch of consecration.

  I will follow you.

  “You know where to find me, should you need to,” he whispered, and then left before I could so much as breathe.

  I waged a war that night, for my heart was divided. Which father should I betray? The one bound by passion, or the one bound by blood? Did Jourdain hate me now, knowing whose daughter I truly was? There were some moments I thought my patron father had come to care for me, had come to love me. But he might never look at me the same, now that he knew.

  I was the daughter of the man who had destroyed him.

  I battled all night . . . pacing, doubting, agonizing. But when dawn breathed lavender light upon the windows, when the morning stole into my room, I had finally chosen my path.

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE WORDS WAKE FROM THEIR SLUMBER

  I met Allenach at the doors of the hall, just before breakfast. He had been waiting for me, leather gloves on his hands, a fur-lined cloak knotted at his collar. I was wearing a Maevan dress that he had provided—a red woolen gown that fit comfortably close to the body, a dress for exploring and riding, with white, billowy sleeves—and a warm cloak and leather boots so fresh they still creaked.

  I raised my brows when I saw him. Did he truly desire me to tell him my answer outside the hall?

  “I want to take you somewhere,” he said before I could utter anything. “We can break our fast afterward.”

  I nodded and let him escort me out to the courtyard, worried as I wondered why he wanted to draw me away from the safety of the castle. Two horses were already tacked, waiting for us. Allenach mounted his chestnut stallion while I took the dapple mare, and I followed him, cantering up a mountain that lay to the east of his lands. The fog was slowly burning away, minute by minute, as we continued to ride higher, the air becoming sweet and sharp.

  The cold had sunk into my bones by the time he came to a stop. My mare eased to a halt beside his stallion, and I watched as the fog receded, brushed by the wind, leaving the two of us behind on a great summit. If I had thought the view from the castle parapet was breathtaking, this changed my mind.

  The lands of Allenach stretched down before us, hillocks and streams and forests, green and blue and umber, docile patches mixed with wild meadows. My eyes soaked it in, this bewitching land. This loam was in my blood, and I felt it, felt it tug and pull along my heart.

  I had to close my eyes.

  “This is your home, Brienna,” he said, his voice rasping, as if he had not slept last night either. “Anything you want, I can give you.”

  Land. Family. A Crown.

  My eyes opened once more. I could see Damhan below, a smudge of dark stones, the smoke rising up from her chimneys.

  “What of your sons?” I asked, finally taking my gaze from the beauty to look at him.

  “My sons will have their portion of inheritance.” The horse shifted beneath him, pawing the earth. Allenach looked at me, the wind playing with his loose, dark hair. “I have waited for you a long time, Brienna.”

  I looked back to the sprawling land, as if my answer lay hidden in her streams and shadows. I had set my mind, determined my course. I had gone to Cartier at dawn to tell him my choice, to spin together a final plan with him. Even so, I was astounded by how doubt still set a crater in my heart.

  But I rested my eyes upon him, the lord who was my father, and I said, “I choose you, Father. I choose the House of Allenach. Set me upon the throne.”

  Allenach smiled, a slow warm smile that made him look ten years younger. He was thrilled, his eyes praising me as if I had no faults, as if I were already his queen rather than his long-lost daughter.

  “I am pleased, Brienna. Let us return to the castle. I want to show you the Canon.” He was turning his horse around when I stopped him with my voice.

  “Perhaps, Father, we can plan to look at the Canon tonight, after dinner?”

  He paused, glancing over his shoulder at me. “Tonight?”

  “Yes,” I said, forcing a smile to the corners of my mouth. “You have the Valenians here, remember? I can wait until tonight.”

  He contemplated my words. I prayed he would take the bait.

  “Very well,” he finally conceded, then inclined his head in invitation for me to follow him back.

  I was heartsick and sore by the time we clattered into the courtyard. I dismounted with as much grace as my tight legs would allow and took Allenach’s hand, letting him guide me to the hall.

  Breakfast was still thriving when we entered, the warmth like a tingling balm to my frozen hands. I noticed that Rian was nowhere to be seen, that his chair was empty. And Allenach took me to it, giving me the seat at his right hand.

  “Good morning, Sister,” Sean greeted, his eyes suddenly wary of me, like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

  “Good morning, Brother,” I returned just as our father took the chair between us.

  I made myself take three swallows of porridge before I found Cartier in the thinning crowd. He was looking my way with heavy-lidded eyes, as if he was bored, but he was intently waiting.

  Discreetly, I stroked my collar.

  He returned the motion, the air shimmering between us, like a cord made of magic was strung from me to him.

  There was no going back from this.

  I waited until dinner was nearly over, the hall buzzing with stories, ale, and music. I had forced myself to eat until my stomach wound into a tight knot. Only then I looked to the left, to Allenach as he sat at my side, and said, “Perhaps you could show me now, Father?”

  He still had food on his plate, a chalice brimming with ale. But if there was one thing I was learning, it was that a father liked to indulge his daughter. Allenach stood at once, and I slipped my hand in his, glancing over my shoulder just before we disappeared from the hall.

  Cartier watched us leave. He would wait ten minutes after our departure, and then he too would slip away.

  I inwardly counted my own steps as Allenach led me back to his private chambers, the order of numbers strangely comforting as my boots pressed into the carpet.

  This was the part of the plan that had been wholly unpredictable—the actual location of the Canon. Allenach had said it was hidden somewhere in the castle, and so Cartier and I had taken our chances with that. I had predicted it was probably in the lord’s wing, the very chambers that had once been Tristan Allenach’s.

  I had presumed right.

  I followed Allenach through his parlor, through his private dining room, into his bedchamber. There was a grand bed, covered with quilts and furs, and a large stone hearth that was cold with ashes. A trio of stained-glass windows lined one wall, candlelight illuminating the dark-colored glass.

  “Tell me, Father,” I said, waiting patiently as he vanished into an adjoining room. “How did you know about the Canon?”

  He remerged holding a long, skinny piece of iron with a curved head. For a moment, my heart struck my breastbone, thinking he was about to wield it as a weapon. But he smiled and said, “It is a secret that has been passed from father to inheriting son ever since the Canon was hidden here.”

  “Does Rian know, then?”

  “He knows. Sean does not.”

  I watched as he began to use the iron pick to uproot one of the stones of the hearth. It was a long slab, stained from years of soot and the scuff of logs, and as he worked to bring it up, I thought of Tristan. I could almost see my ancestor employed with the same movements,
the same motions as Allenach, only Tristan had labored to hide rather than to liberate.

  “Brienna.”

  I moved forward when he spoke my name, the sound of his voice breaking sightless fetters about my ankles. He was holding the stone slab up, waiting for me to come and see what lay beneath, waiting for me to come and claim it.

  Quietly, I walked to Allenach’s side and peered down at the depression in the floor.

  Cartier had once described it to me. He said that Liadan had used her magic to carve the words into stone. The sight of it stole the very breath from me, made the Stone of Eventide flare unbearably hot in its locket, still tucked away in the bodice of my dress. The stone’s awakening forced me to kneel, and with trembling hands I reached for the stone tablet.

  Liadan’s words glimmered, as if stardust had been resting in the grooves. The tablet was deceivingly light, a rectangle of white stone, the size of a large book cover. I wiped away the dirt and dust, the words responding to my strokes, lighting up from within. I knew it was the stirring magic; the Canon was responding to the proximity of the Eventide. And sweat began to prickle at the nape of my neck when I realized Allenach saw the celestial light coming from within the Canon, as if the tablet’s veins had been filled with nourishment.

  I stood and took a few steps away, angling my back to him, cradling the tablet as a child in my arms, silently ordering the Canon to swallow that alluring gleam, for it was about to give me away.