by Rebecca Ross
The first time I had stepped into this cavernous hall, I had done so as a Valenian girl in an exquisite dress, alone.
I now entered it as a Maevan woman, covered in blood and woad, Merei on my left, Luc on my right, Jourdain and Cartier at my back.
Lannon was sitting on the throne, his eyes wide, his fear like a stench in the air as his hands gripped the antler armrests. He had only a few men remaining around him, standing, watching as we strode closer, closer. . . .
Yseult finally came to stand before the dais. The hall grew quiet as she opened her arms, victorious, the light glistening down her dragon-inspired armor.
“Gilroy Lannon.” Her voice echoed up to the rafters. “Maevana has weighed you and found you wanting. Come and kneel before us.”
He wasn’t going to move. His face had gone pale, the ends of his hair quivering as he tried to swallow his fear. He might have sat there stubbornly, but then the men standing around him knelt before her, leaving Lannon exposed, leaving him on his own.
Slowly, as if his bones might break, he stood and descended the dais. He came to kneel before her, before all of us.
“Father?” Yseult murmured, glancing to where Hector stood near her elbow. “Take the crown from him.”
Hector Laurent rustled forward, lifted the crown from Lannon’s head.
There was a moment of silence, as if she was pondering how to punish him. And then Yseult struck Lannon across the face, lightning swift. I saw the former king’s head snap to the side, watched his cheek begin to welt as he gradually brought his eyes back to hers.
“That is for my sister,” Yseult said. And then she struck him again, on the other cheek, drawing blood. “That is for my mother.”
She struck him again.
“That is for Lady Morgane.” Cartier’s mother.
Again.
“That is for Ashling Morgane.” Cartier’s sister.
Again, the crack of bone, the crack of twenty-five years.
“And that is for Lady MacQuinn.” Jourdain’s wife, Luc’s mother.
For the women who had fallen, who had paid in blood.
“Now lie prostrate before us,” she demanded, and Lannon did. He slithered forward and lay facedown on the tiles. “You will be bound and held in the keep, and the people of Maevana will decide your fate in trial, fourteen days from now. Do not expect mercy, O Cowardly One.”
Lannon’s wrists were bound behind his back by Yseult’s men. He was dragged away, and a cheer resounded in the hall as thunder, rumbling deep in my chest where my heart continued to pound in awe.
That was when Yseult turned to find me in the crowd, wedged between my father and my brother. Her eyes were lined with tears, her hair flowing as fire when I stepped forward.
The hall grew quiet, like the first falling of snow, as I brought the wooden locket out from beneath my armor. Reverently, I unlatched the locket and let the wood fall between our feet.
The Stone of Eventide swung gracefully from its chain as it hung from my fingers. It rippled with color, with crimson and blue and lavender, like a pebble influenced the surface of a quiet lake. I smiled at her, my friend and my queen, and carefully raised the stone higher.
“My Lady,” I said. “May I present to you the Stone of Eventide.”
She knelt before me, closing her eyes as I set the stone about her neck, as the Eventide came to rest over her heart.
I had long imagined how magic would awaken. Would it return gently, quietly, like winter gradually melting into spring? Or would it come violently, like a storm or a flood?
The stone glimmered to liquid gold as it rested against her, as it basked in the glory she granted it. I waited, hardly breathing as Isolde Kavanagh stood and opened her eyes. Our gazes locked; she smiled at me, and that was when the wind blew into the hall, carrying the scent of forests and lush meadows, of summits and valleys and the rivers that flowed between shadows and light.
I felt warmth radiate from my arm, like honey was rushing along my skin, like sunlight had kissed my wound. I felt her heal me, weld my broken veins back together, seal the arrow’s puncture with magical threads.
She didn’t even know that she was doing it, that I was the first one to feel her magic.
And so it would return gently, naturally as sun and blissful warmth, as healing and mending.
I watched as she walked among her people, reaching out to hold their hands, to learn their names. Isolde Kavanagh was surrounded as men and women gathered about her as if she were a cup of everlasting water to quench their thirst; they laughed and cried as she blessed them, as she brought us together as one.
All eyes were on her, save for one gaze.
I felt his draw, let my eyes drift to where the lord of the House of Morgane stood, half in the shadows, half in the light.
The world grew quiet between me and Cartier, as he looked to me, as I looked to him.
It was only when he smiled did I realize tears were streaming down his face.
Hours after Lannon fell, I returned to the battle green with a flask of water as I began to search for wounded survivors. A few healers had already set up tents to work in the shade; I could hear their weary voices as they labored to stitch wounds and set broken bones. I knew Isolde was among them, drawing magic into her hands as she touched to mend, for I could feel it again: her magic stirred a gentle, fragrant breeze over the blood and gore of the field.
I didn’t know if I should ask after his name, or keep searching on my own, desperately hoping he had survived. Eventually, I approached one of the healers, her dress smudged with blood, and inquired.
“Sean Allenach?”
The healer pointed to a distant tent. “The traitors are over there.”
And my throat tightened to hear it. Traitors. But I swallowed and made my way carefully to that tent, unsure as to what I would find.
Men and women were laid out on the grass, shoulder to shoulder. Some looked to have already died before a healer could tend to them. Others were moaning, broken and weak. All of them wore the Lannon green or the Allenach maroon.
I found Sean on the outskirts. Carefully, I knelt at his side, believing he was dead until I saw his chest rise and fall. His armor had been unbolted, and I could see the severity of the wound in his side.
“Sean?” I whispered, taking his hand.
His eyes opened slowly. I tilted his head up so I could trickle some water into his mouth. He was too weak to talk, so I merely sat at his side with my fingers linked with his, so he would not have to die alone.
I don’t know how long I sat there with him before she came. But that breeze blew into the tent, lifting the matted hair off my neck, and I turned to see Isolde was standing among us, her eyes focused on me and my brother.
She walked to us, kneeling at my side so she could look at Sean.
“Lady?” one of the healers respectfully murmured to the queen. “Lady, these are traitors.”
I knew what the healer was implying. These are traitors, and they deserve to die as they lie, without the queen’s healing magic. And I yearned to tell Isolde that Sean was not a traitor, that Sean had chosen to fight for her.
“I know,” Isolde answered, and then she gently took Sean’s hand from me.
My brother’s eyes fluttered open, riveted to the queen. I watched the air shimmer around our corners and edges as Isolde traced Sean’s wound. The sunlight fractured as if she were a prism, and Sean’s breath caught as the queen slowly, achingly knit him back together with sightless threads.
My feet were prickling with pins and needles by the time she finished, offering him a cup of water.
“You will be weak for a few days,” she said. “Rest, Sean Allenach. When you are stronger, we can talk about the future of your House.”
“Yes, Lady,” he rasped.
Isolde stood and laid a reassuring hand on my shoulder. And then she moved on to the others, healing the traitors one by one, not seeing their faults but seeing their possibilities.
And while I could not heal, I could do other measures of service. I began to pass out bowls of soup, chunks of bread, listening as stories began to unwind about me, stories of bravery and stories of fear, stories of desperation and stories of redemption, stories of loss and stories of reunion.
I fed, I buried, and I listened until I was so exhausted I could hardly think, and night had drawn her cloak over the sky, dusted with a multitude of stars.
I stood in the field and drank the darkness, the grass still crimped and stained with blood, and gazed at the constellations. Weeks ago, I would have wondered straightaway which one was supposed to be mine. But now, all I could wonder was where I was to go, where I was to remain. I had done almost everything I had set out to do. And now . . . I did not know where I belonged.
I heard the gentle footsteps of a man walking through darkness to find me. I turned, recognizing Jourdain at once, the starlight catching the silver in his hair. He must have read my thoughts, or read my face with ease.
He drew me to his side so we could admire the stars together. And then, so quietly I almost didn’t hear, he said, “Let’s go home, Brienna.”
THIRTY-THREE
FIELDS OF COROGAN
Lord MacQuinn’s Territory, Castle Fionn
Three days later, I rested in the dappled shade of a lonely oak, the dust of travel still clinging to my breeches and shirt, Nessie panting at my side. The surrounding fields had just been harvested, the air smelling of candied earth, the grass golden from the songs the men had chanted while their sickles had swung.
Jourdain’s—MacQuinn’s—castle sat in the heart of the meadow, the shadows of the mountains only touching the roof early morning and late evening. It was built of white stone, a modest holding, not as grand or large as some of the others, like Damhan. But the walls were seasoned with fire and stories, with friendship and loyalty.
Steadfastness.
And the rightful lord had finally come home.
I had watched as his people greeted him, as they gathered about him in the courtyard, which was strewn with wildflowers and herbs and ribbons. And it had taken me by surprise, the longing for Valenia in that moment. It might have been the ribbons, the colors of passion tangled over the cobblestones. Or it might have been the wine they brought us, which I knew came from a bottle that had crossed the channel.
I had chosen to walk the fields and found this tree not long after the introductions were made and I became known as MacQuinn’s daughter. I was content to watch the sun continue her arc across the sky, weaving long tendrils of grass together as I reflected on all that had come to pass, a faithful dog at my side.
“I think you should pick the eastern chamber,” Luc declared. I glanced up to see him walking toward me. “It’s spacious and has bookshelves. And a beautiful view of the sunrise.”
I smiled as he sat beside me, ignoring Nessie’s protective growl. It was difficult to think about which room I should pick when there was still so much to come . . . Isolde’s coronation, Lannon’s trial, trying to mend a world that had continued to spin beneath tyranny. I wondered how the coming days would gather, how they would feel as I tried to settle into my new life.
“Although,” Luc said, flicking a beetle from his sleeve, “I have a feeling you won’t remain at this castle for long.”
I shot him a curious glance. He was ready for it, cocking his brow at me with that arrogant, brotherly confidence.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” I countered.
“You know what I mean, Sister. Shall I give him a hard time?”
“I have no inkling as to what you speak of.” I plucked another blade of grass and twisted it, feeling Luc’s gaze on me.
“It doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “The old legends claim that nearly all of the Maevan lords fall hard.”
“Hmm?”
Luc sighed, plucking a clover. “I suppose I shall have to challenge him to a spar. Yes, that is the best way to handle this.”
I shoved him in the arm and said, “I think you have counted your eggs before they hatch, dear brother.”
But the smile he gave me told me otherwise. “I hear Aodhan Morgane is an expert sword master. I should probably practice.”
“All right, enough.” I laughed and nudged him again.
I had not seen Cartier since three days ago in the hall, which already felt like a year. But he was a lord now. He had his people, his lands to restore. I told myself I would not see him until Lannon’s trial, which would come the end of next week. And even so, we would be consumed with the task.
Before Luc could tease me anymore, a group of children ran through the field, searching for him.
“Lord Lucas!” one of the little girls cried excitedly when she spotted him in the shade of the oak. “We found you a lute! It’s in the hall.”
“Oh, excellent!” My brother rose, brushing stray clover buds from his clothes. “Care to join us for some music, Brienna?”
Music made me think of Merei, which made my chest feel far too small for my heart. Yet I smiled and said, “Go on without me, brother. I shall be along shortly.”
He hesitated; I think he was about to ask me again when the little girl boldly grabbed his sleeve and tugged on him, giggling.
“Last one to the courtyard has to eat a rotten egg,” Luc challenged, and the children squealed in delight as they tore across the field, as he chased them all the way to the courtyard.
I waited until I saw that he was, indeed, the last one to the courtyard—I would have loved to see Luc eat a rotten egg—but my heart was still restless. I rose and began to walk toward a copse of trees that grew along the river, Nessie trotting at my side as we followed the silver thread of water, eventually coming to a mossy bank.
I sat in a patch of sun and dipped my fingers to the rapids, trying to identify why I felt a shade of sadness, when I heard his soft tread behind me.
“This was where I married my wife.”
I glanced over my shoulder to see Jourdain leaning against a river birch, quietly regarding me.
“No grand celebration?” I asked, and he moved forward, sitting beside me on the moss with a slight grunt, as if his joints were sore.
“No grand celebration,” he said, propping his elbow on his knee. “I married Sive in secret by handfasting, on this riverbank by the light of the moon. Her father didn’t particularly care for me, and she was his one and only daughter. That is why we married in secret.” He smiled as he reminisced, staring into the distance as if his Sive were standing on the other side of the river.
“What was she like? Your wife?” I asked gently.
Jourdain looked down to the water, and then to me. “She was graceful. Passionate. Just. Faithful. You remind me of her.”
My throat tightened as I glanced to the moss. All this time, I worried he would look at me and see Allenach. And yet he looked at me as if I truly were his daughter, as if I had inherited his wife’s attributes and character.
“She would have loved you, Brienna,” he whispered.
The wind rustled the branches above us; golden leaves drifted loose and free, eventually caught by the river to be carried away downstream. I wiped a few tears from my eyes, thinking he would not notice, but not much escapes a father.
“I miss Valenia too,” Jourdain said, clearing his throat. “I didn’t think that I would. But I find myself longing for those vineyards, for that politeness, for a perfectly tailored silk doublet. I even miss those eels upon sops.”
I laughed, and a few more tears escaped me. Eels upon sops was disgusting.
“I know that you still have family there,” he continued, serious once more. “I know you may choose to return to Valenia. But always know that you have a home here, with Luc and me.”
I met his gaze as his words settled like gentle rain over me. I had a home, a family, and friends on both sides of the channel. I thought of my brave Merei, who had departed Maevana to return to Valenia, despite my begging her to stay. She still had
obligations, a four-year contract with Patrice Linville to uphold. But when those four years were over . . .
I had shared my idea with her, hoping it would eventually draw her back. It was a purpose that had begun to blossom in the far reaches of my mind, one I was almost afraid to speak aloud. But Merei had smiled when I told her; she even said she might return for such a purpose.
“Now,” Jourdain said, rising to his feet, offering his hand to pull me up along with him. “There is a horse saddled and ready for you.”
“For what?” I asked, letting him guide me from the copse of trees.
“Lord Morgane’s holding is only a short ride from here,” Jourdain explained, and I swear I saw a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “Why don’t you ride there now, invite him for a celebratory feast in our hall tonight?”
I had to hold back another laugh, but he saw the helpless crinkling of my nose. I was surprised by how he knew it too, this irresistible draw between Cartier and me. As if it were obvious for the world to see when I stood near my former master, like the desire was a catching flame between our bodies. But perhaps I shouldn’t be shocked; it had been evident even before the solstice, before I had come to wholly realize it.
Jourdain led me to where he had the horse waiting, in the cool shadows of the stables. I pulled myself up in the saddle, felt the wind sigh golden with hay and leather in my hair as I looked down at my father.
“Take the western road,” he said, patting the mare’s withers. “Follow the Corogan flowers. They shall guide you to Morgane.”
I was just about to nudge my horse onward, my heart like an eager drum, when Jourdain took the reins, forced me to look at him.
“And be back before dark,” he admonished. “Or else I will worry.”