by Rebecca Ross
An older man stood in the sun, his white hair knotted in a braid, his face deeply lined, and his clothes ragged. As soon as he met my gaze, astonishment shone in his eyes.
“Seamus Morgane,” I said. I knew who he was. He had once held me as a child; he had once knelt before me as he swore his fealty to me. My father had told me of him countless times, this man who had been his most trusted of thanes.
“My lord Aodhan.” He knelt before me, among the weeds.
“No, no.” I took Seamus’s hands, guiding him back to his feet. I embraced him, forgoing formality. I felt the tears rack his body as he clung to me.
“Welcome home, Seamus,” I said with a smile.
Seamus composed himself and leaned back, his fingers on my arms as he stared up at me, somewhat agape, like he still could not believe I was standing before him. “I cannot . . . I cannot believe it,” he rasped, tightening his hold on me.
“Would you like to come in? I fear I do not have any food or drink, or I would offer you some refreshments.”
Before Seamus could respond, there was a cry from the courtyard. I glanced up to see a slim woman, also older, with curly silver hair that rested on her shoulders like a cloud, standing by a wagon overflowing with supplies. She had a corner of her patchwork apron pressed to her mouth, as if she was also trying to wrestle back a sob at the sight of me.
“My lord,” Seamus said, shuffling to stand beside me, to hold his hand out to the woman. “This is my wife, Aileen.”
“Gods above, look at you! How you’ve grown!” Aileen burst, dabbing her eyes with her apron. She extended her hands to me, and I crossed the distance, to embrace her. She hardly reached my shoulder in height, and yet she took hold of my arms and gave me a gentle shake, and I could only laugh.
Aileen nudged me back, to peer up at my face, memorizing it.
“Ah, yes,” she said, sniffing. “You have Kane’s build. But look, Seamus! He has Líle’s coloring, Líle’s eyes!”
“Yes, love. He is their son,” Seamus responded, and Aileen swatted him.
“Aye, I know. And he’s the most handsome lad I’ve ever seen.”
I felt my face warm, embarrassed by all the fuss. I was grateful to be saved by Seamus, who directed the conversation to more practical matters. “Are we the first to arrive, my lord?”
I nodded, the crick in my neck protesting. “Yes. I’ve sent out a call to my people, to return as soon as they are able. But I fear the castle is much worse than I anticipated. I have no food. No blankets. No water. I have nothing to give.”
“We didn’t expect that you would,” Aileen said, indicating the wagon. “This is a gift from Lord Burke. We were made to serve him during the dark years. Thankfully, he was good to us, to your people.”
I walked to the wagon, to hide the tangle of my emotions. There were bundles of blankets and yarn, fresh sets of clothing, cast iron to cook in, casks of ale and cider, wheels of cheese, bushels of apples, dried shanks of meat. There was also a collection of buckets to draw water from the well, and paper and ink for letters.
“I owe Lord Burke a great debt, then,” I said.
“No, my lord,” Seamus spoke, laying a hand on my shoulder. “This is the beginning of Lord Burke’s payment, for remaining silent when he should have spoken.”
I stared at Seamus, not knowing what to say.
“Come! Let’s carry the goods inside and we can begin to tidy the place,” Aileen declared, seeming to sense the sorrow of my thoughts.
The three of us began to carry the casks and baskets into the kitchens, and that was when I realized Tomas had disappeared again. I almost called for him when there came another knock on the front doors.
“Lord Aodhan!” A dark-haired young man with a freckled face, whose arms were nearly the size of my waist, greeted me with a broad smile. “I am Derry, your stonemason.”
And that was how the morning continued to progress.
As the light strengthened, more of my people returned, bearing whatever gifts they could bring. Two more of my thanes and their wives arrived, followed by the millers, the chandlers, the weavers, the healers, the gardeners, the brewmen, the cooks, the masons, the coopers, the yeomen . . . They returned to me laughing and weeping. Some I had never seen before; others I instantly recognized as the men- and women-at-arms who had rallied to fight with me days ago on the castle green. Only now they brought their families, their children, their grandparents, their livestock. And my mind swelled with their names, and my arms became sore from carrying so many bundles of provisions to the storerooms.
By late afternoon, the women had busied themselves with cleaning and straightening the hall, and the men had begun to clear the weeds and vines from the courtyard, to sweep out the broken glass and splintered furniture from the rooms.
I was carrying out the remains of a chair when I saw Derry standing with his back to me in the courtyard, staring down at the stone bearing Declan’s name. Before I could think of something to say, the mason took an iron wedge and viciously uprooted the stone. Holding it facedown, so that the name would not show, he whistled for one of the lads, setting it into his hands.
“Run this to the quagmire, just on the other side of those woods,” Derry said. “Don’t turn it over, you hear? Give it to the bog just like that, facedown.”
The boy nodded and bolted away with a frown, awkwardly holding the stone in his hands.
I forced myself to keep walking before Derry took note of my presence, carrying the splintered chair to the fire pit. And yet I felt a darkness creeping over me, even as I stood in the broad daylight of the meadows.
I paused before the pit, the castle at my back and a mountain of old broken furniture before me, waiting for a flame. But there was a whisper in the wind, cold and sharp from the mountains. And the dark words rose up like a hiss in the rasping of the grass, like a curse in the groaning of the oaks.
Where are you, Aodhan?
I shut my eyes, focused on what was truth, what was real . . . the rhythm of my pulse, the solidness of earth beneath me, the distant sound of my people’s voices.
The voice came again, young yet cruel, accompanied by the stench of something burning, the overwhelming smell of refuse.
Where are you, Aodhan?
“Lord Aodhan?”
I opened my eyes and turned, relieved to see Seamus bearing pieces of a stool. I helped him toss the remains into the pit and then together we silently walked back to the courtyard, where Derry had already patched the Declan hole with a new, nameless stone.
“Aileen has been looking for you,” Seamus finally said, guiding me back into the foyer.
I noticed how quiet and empty it was, and followed the thane into the hall.
Everyone had already gathered, waiting for me to arrive.
I took one step into the hall and stopped upright, surprised by its transformation.
There was a fire burning in the hearth, and the trestle tables were arranged and set with mismatched pewter and wooden trenchers. Corogan wildflowers had been harvested from the meadows, woven together to make a blue garland for the tables. Candles cast light over the platters of food—most of it was bread and cheese and pickled vegetables, but someone had found the time to roast a couple of lambs—and the floors beneath me gleamed like a burnished coin. But what truly caught my eye was the banner that now hung over the mantel.
The Morgane sigil. It was blue as a midsummer sky, with a gray horse stitched over the center.
I stood among my people in the hall, staring at the symbol I had been born to wear, the symbol my mother and sister had been slain beneath, the symbol I had bled to reawaken.
“The swift are born for the longest night,” Seamus began, his voice resounding in the hall. These words were sacred, the motto of our House, and I watched as he turned to me, set a silver chalice of ale into my hands. “For they shall be the first to meet the light.”
I held the chalice, held on to those words, for I felt as if I was falling down some
long tunnel, and I did not know when I was to meet the bottom.
“To the swift!” Derry shouted, raising his cup.
“To Lord Morgane,” Aileen added, standing on one of the benches so she could see me over the crowd.
They held their cups to me, and I held mine to theirs.
For appearances’ sake, I appeared calm and joyful, drinking to the health of this hall. But within, I was trembling from the weight of it.
I heard the whisper again, rising from the shadows in the corner. I heard it over the cheers and clamor as dinner began, as I was led to the dais.
Where are you, Aodhan?
Who are you? I inwardly growled back to it, my mind tensing as I sat in my chair.
It faded, as if it had never been. I wondered if I was hearing things, if I was beginning to lose my wits with exhaustion.
But then Aileen set the finest mutton chop on my plate, and I watched the red juices begin to pearl on the plate. And I knew.
Those words had once been spoken in this castle, twenty-five years ago. They had come from the person who had ripped this castle apart, trying to find my sister, trying to find me.
Declan Lannon.
FIVE
CONFESSIONS BY CANDLELIGHT
Lord MacQuinn’s Territory, Castle Fionn
Brienna
The last thing I expected was for one of the weavers to come knocking at my door that evening.
I had managed to take down a few grievances among the women-at-arms, those who I had fought alongside during the battle. But after overhearing the conversation at the loom house, I did not approach any others. I spent the remainder of the day trying to appear useful, trying not to compare my scant list of grievances with the great tome that Luc had accumulated.
I was more than ready to retire for bed after dinner.
I sat before the fire with woolen stockings pulled up to my knees and two letters perched on my lap. One letter was from Merei, but the other was from my half brother, Sean, who I was supposed to persuade to alliance with Isolde Kavanagh. Both letters had arrived that afternoon, surprising me; Merei’s because she must have written it the day after she departed Maevana, and Sean’s because it was entirely unexpected. The question of the Allenachs’ allegiance was a constant simmer in the back of my mind, but I had not yet determined a way to address it. So why was Sean writing me, of his own accord?
October 9, 1566
Brienna,
I am sorry to be writing you so soon after the battle, because I know that you are still trying to adjust to your new home and family. But I wanted to thank you—for remaining with me when I was injured, for sitting with me despite what others might have thought of you. Your bravery to defy our father has inspired me in many measures, the first being to do my best to redeem the House of Allenach. I believe there are good people here, but I am overwhelmed with how to begin purging the corruption and cruelty that has been encouraged for decades. I do not think I can do this on my own, and I wondered if you would be willing to at least write to me for now, to pass some ideas and thoughts on how I should begin to right the wrongs committed by this House. . . .
There was a hesitant rap on my door. Startled, I quickly folded my brother’s letter and hid it within one of my books.
So the Allenachs, as far as my brother was concerned, would not be too difficult to persuade.
I pushed the relief aside as I opened the door, perplexed to see a young girl.
“Mistress Brienna?” she whispered, and I recognized her voice. It was sweet and musical, the voice that had remarked I was pretty when I eavesdropped on the weavers’ hall.
“Yes?”
“May I come in?” She cast a glance down the corridor, as if she was worried she would be discovered here.
I took a step back, wordlessly inviting her inside. I shut the door behind her, and the two of us returned to sit before the fire, awkward and adjacent to each other.
She was wringing her pale hands, her mouth quirked to the side as she stared at the fire, as I tried not to stare at her. She was thin and angular with wispy blond hair, and her face was scarred by the pox—tiny white flecks dotted her cheeks like snow.
Just as I was drawing breath to speak, she brought her eyes to mine and said, “I must apologize for what you overhead today. I saw you through the window leaving in a hurry. And I felt horrible that you had come to us and we were speaking of you in such a way.”
“I must be the one to apologize,” I said. “I should have announced myself. It was wrong for me to linger at the door without your knowledge.”
But the girl shook her head. “No, Mistress. That does not excuse our words.”
But you were the only one to speak well of me, and yet you are the one to come and ask for forgiveness, I thought.
“May I ask why you came to see us today?” she inquired.
I hesitated before saying, “Yes, of course. Lord MacQuinn has asked me to help gather grievances of the people. To take to the Lannon trial next week.”
“Oh.” She sounded surprised. Her hand fluttered up to her hair, and she absently wrapped the ends around her finger, a slight frown on her face. “I am sixteen, so Allenach was the only lord I ever knew. But the other women . . . they remember what it was like before Lord MacQuinn fled. Most of their grievances are held against Lord Allenach, not the Lannons.”
I looked to the fire, a poor attempt to hide how much this conversation rattled me.
“But you are not Allenach’s daughter,” she said, and I had no choice but to meet her gaze. “You are Davin MacQuinn’s daughter. I have only thought of you as such.”
“I am glad to hear that,” I said. “I know that it is difficult for others here to regard me that way.”
Again, I was overcome with the cowardly urge to flee, to leave this place, to cross the channel and sink into Valenia, where no one knew whose daughter I was. Forget about establishing a House of Knowledge here; I could easily do such in Valenia.
“My name is Neeve,” she said after a moment, extending a beacon of friendship to me.
It nearly brought tears to my eyes. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Neeve.”
“I do not have a grievance for you to write down,” Neeve said. “But there is something else. I wanted to see if you could write down a few of my memories from the dark years, so one day I can pass them down to my daughter. I want her to know the history of this land, what it was like before the queen returned.”
I smiled. “I would be more than happy to do that for you, Neeve.” I rose to gather my supplies, dragging my writing table before the fire. “What would you like me to record?”
“I suppose I should start at the beginning. My name is Neeve MacQuinn. I was born to Lara the weaver and Ian the cooper in the spring of 1550, the year of storms and darkness. . . .”
I began to transcribe, word for word, pressing her memories into ink on the page. I soaked in her stories, for I longed to understand what life had been like during “the dark years,” as the people here referred to the time of Jourdain’s absence. And I found that I was grieved as well as relieved, for while Neeve was forbidden some things, she was protected from others. Not once had Lord Allenach physically harmed her, or allowed his men to do so. In fact, he never once looked at her or spoke to her. It was the older women and men who were given the harsher punishments, to make them bend and cower and submit, to make them forget MacQuinn.
“I suppose I should stop for now,” she said after a while. “I’m sure that is more than enough for you to have written down.”
My hand was cramped and my neck was beginning to tighten from stooping over the desk. I realized she had talked beyond an hour, and we had accumulated twenty pages of her life. I set down my quill and bent my fingers back and dared to say, “Neeve? Would you like to learn how to read and write?”
She blinked, astonished. “Oh, I don’t think I would have the time, Mistress.”
“We can make time.”
She smiled, as i
f I had lit a flame within her. “Yes, yes, I would like that very much! Only . . .” Her delight faded. “Could we keep the lessons secret? At least for now?”
I couldn’t deny that I was saddened by her query, knowing that she would not want others learning of our time together. But I thought again on ways I could prove myself to the MacQuinns—I needed to be patient with them, to let them come into their trust of me in their own time—and I smiled, stacking the pages together, handing them to her. “Why don’t we begin tomorrow night? After dinner? And yes, we can keep it a secret.”
Neeve nodded. Her eyes widened as she took the pages, as she gazed down at my handwriting, tracing it with her fingertip.
And as I regarded her, I helplessly thought back to what I had overheard that morning. I believe she is part Valenian, one of the weavers had said of me. They were seeing me as either southern or as an Allenach. I worried this would always set me apart from the MacQuinns no matter how much I might attempt to prove myself to them.
“Neeve,” I said, an idea coming to mind. “Perhaps you can teach me something in return.”
She glanced up, shocked. “Oh?”
“I want to know more about the MacQuinns, about your beliefs, your folklore, and your traditions.”
I want to become one of you, I almost begged. Teach me how.
I already harbored head knowledge of the MacQuinn House, courtesy of Cartier and his teachings at Magnalia House. I knew their history, the sort that could be found in an old, dusty tome. They were given the blessing of Steadfast, their sigil was that of a falcon, their colors were lavender and gold, and their people were respected as the most skilled of weavers in all the realm. But what I lacked was knowledge of the heart, the social mores of MacQuinns. What were their courtships like? Their weddings? Their funerals? What sort of food did they serve at birthdays? Did they harbor superstitions? What was their etiquette?
“I don’t know if I am the best one to teach you such things,” Neeve said, but I could see how pleased she was that I had asked her.
“Why don’t you tell me about one of your favorite MacQuinn traditions?” I offered.