by Rebecca Ross
“Would you be willing to write something down for me as well?”
His request caught me off guard. At first, I didn’t know what to say, and a cold burst of wind came between us, flirting with the end of my cloak.
“Never mind,” he said and began to walk away.
“I would be honored to write for you as well,” I stated, and the groom stopped. “But I wonder why you have come to me rather than my brother.”
He turned, regarding me again. “I prefer that you scribe for me, Mistress.”
His words perplexed me, but I nodded. “Where?”
He pointed farther down the stable wall, rough-hewn stones and mortar, where a narrow door sat between two stall windows.
“That’s the little tack room. No one will be in there tonight. Meet me there in an hour?”
“Very well.” We parted ways; he returned to the stables while I continued on to the castle. But I wondered . . . why was he coming to me instead of Luc?
An hour later, night had fallen and I found my way to the little tack room, my writing supplies packed away in my leather satchel. The groom was waiting inside for me, a lantern lit on a lopsided table before him.
He stood when I entered, the door creaking shut behind me.
I set my satchel on the table and sat on the pile of grain sacks he had prepared for me in lieu of a chair, unpacking my paper, my ink, my quill by the trickle of candlelight. When I was ready, I looked across the table at him, breathing in the earthy tang of horse and leather and grain, waiting.
“I don’t know where to begin,” he said, resuming his seat.
“Perhaps you could begin by giving me your name,” I said.
“I’m Dillon. Named after my father.”
“Dillon MacQuinn?”
“Yes,” he replied. “We’ve always had the lord’s last name as our own.”
I wrote down the date, followed by his name. Again, Dillon seemed to be hindered by something. But I held my tongue; I let him sort through his thoughts. After a while, he began to talk. And I began to transcribe.
My name is Dillon MacQuinn. I was born in the first dark year, a year after Lord MacQuinn fled and Lady MacQuinn was slain. I don’t remember a time when Allenach wasn’t ruling us and our lands. But I’ve always been in the stables, even before I could walk, and so I heard plenty of gossip, and I knew what Allenach was like.
He was good to those of us who knelt before him, who praised him, who followed his every order. My father was one of those people, the horse master of the stables. When Allenach said to eat, my father ate. When he said to weep, my father wept. When he said to jump, my father jumped. And when he said for my father to hand over his wife, he did that too.
I paused, trying to keep my hand steady. For a moment, my throat grew so narrow I didn’t think I could swallow, and I realized I had mistaken my courage. I wanted to help, to write down stories and grievances, to let Jourdain’s people purge their minds and hearts from the dark years. But this . . . it only made me despise my blood even more.
“Mistress Brienna,” Dillon whispered.
I struggled to meet his gaze, the words on the page rising like smoke to burn my eyes.
“I promise, Mistress, that you will want to hear the end of this tale.”
I drew in a deep breath. I had to trust him, that there was something within this story that I needed to hear. Slowly, I dipped my quill into the ink, ready to transcribe again.
My mother was beautiful. She caught Allenach’s eye from the beginning, and it all but broke my father to know she was being forced into the lord’s bed. I was only three years old; I had no inkling as to why my mother was no longer around as much.
My mother served the lord for two years as his mistress. By the time Allenach realized she was not conceiving, he had her killed, quietly. My father went shortly afterward, a man so shattered there was no chance of healing him.
But in the year 1547 . . . something odd happened. Allenach spent more time at Damhan, on his own lands, and left us be. Our women began to relax, thinking he would not choose them next. For the rumor was that Allenach wanted a daughter, even an illegitimate one. Because all he had were two sons, and a lord without a daughter is considered cursed, indeed.
A different sort of rumor reached us that following autumn. Allenach had a daughter with a Valenian woman, a woman named Rosalie Paquet, and he was planning to eventually reclaim that daughter. But then three years after that, something must have gone wrong with his plans. For he returned to Fionn and chose another woman as his mistress, determined to have a daughter of his own.
He chose the most beautiful of the weavers. It broke all of us to see her taken by him. Lara delivered him a child. Yes, it was a girl, as Allenach so greedily wanted. Yet the little girl contracted the pox when she was one year, which left her face scarred and claimed Lara’s life. The little girl should have died, followed Lara to the edge of the realm, but she fought to live. She wanted to live. And when Allenach realized his daughter was not going to die, but wear her scars as a proud banner, he suddenly acted as if the child was not his, leaving her to the weavers to raise as their own.
My hand was shaking. I couldn’t write any more, for the tears that blurred my gaze.
But Dillon kept speaking. He spoke for me to listen, not to write.
“The weavers loved her, took her as their own daughter. And they named her Neeve, and decided in that moment they would never reveal to her who her blood father was, that they would tell Neeve her father had been a good cooper.
“And once again, we began to wonder why Allenach left our women alone after that. He didn’t touch another one of them after Neeve’s birth. But I can now imagine why—our women were protected by the life of someone else, by the promise of the other daughter across the channel.”
Dillon rose and leaned over the table, to take my hands. I was weeping as if I had been pierced, like I would never recover from this.
Neeve was my half sister. My sister.
“I know they resent you now, Brienna,” Dillon whispered. “But one day, when time heals their wounds, they will love you as they love Neeve.”
TEN
ORPHAN NO MORE
Lord Morgane’s Territory, Castle Brígh
Cartier
Lady and Lord Dermott arrived just before dusk with a guard of seven men. I was not in the best frame of mind that night after Aileen’s tale, and yet I had an alliance to seal for the queen. I went through the motions of a lord, hoping it would stir something in me; I washed in the river and left my beard untouched; I plaited my hair and took the golden circlet upon my head; I donned the new clothes the tailors had crafted—black breeks and a blue jerkin with a gray horse stitched at the breast; I made sure the table in the hall was resplendent with wildflowers and polished pewter and that a lamb was slaughtered and a cask of our best ale was ready.
Then I waited for the Dermotts in the courtyard.
This was what I knew about the Dermott House: they were reclusive, avoiding the other noble families. They had no alliance; they had no open rivalry either. They were known for their minerals; their land was rich in salt mines and quarries. But perhaps more than any of this . . . they were a House of ruling women. I knew their noble lineage, and their firstborn was always a daughter. And in Maevana, the firstborn child was the one to inherit.
Needless to say, I was very curious to meet this Lady Grainne of Dermott and her lord consort.
She rode into Brígh’s courtyard on a draft horse, dressed in leathers and dark red velvet emblazoned with her sigil—an osprey with a full sun crowning the tip of its wings. A baldric was buckled across her chest, hosting a broad sword sheathed at her back. Her long, black hair was curled beneath her circlet, and her eyes were bright yet cautious as she regarded me. For a moment, we merely stared at each other—I was surprised by how young she was, perhaps only a few years younger than me—and then her husband came to a stop at her side.
“So this is the lord o
f the Swift, returned from the dead,” Grainne said, and she finally smiled, the last of the light gleaming on her teeth. “I must say, Lord Aodhan, I am grateful for your invitation.”
“It is my pleasure to welcome you here to Castle Brígh,” I said, almost bowing to her as I would have done in Valenia. But then Grainne dismounted and held out her hand, and I shook it, a proper Maevan greeting.
“My husband, Lord Rowan,” she said, turning to the lord standing slightly behind her.
I extended my hand to him as well. “Please, come to the hall,” I said, guiding them into the warmth and firelight.
Dinner began somewhat awkwardly. I did not want to ask too many personal questions of them, and it seemed they felt the same. But once Aileen set down a spice cake and hot tea, I overcame my politeness.
“How have your House and people fared lately?” I asked.
“Do you mean how did the Dermotts survive the past twenty-five years?” Grainne countered wryly. “I only just inherited the House from my late mother, who passed this spring. She was wise, and remained out of the Lannons’ sight. Our people rarely left our borders, and my mother only attended court once a season, largely due to the fact that she was a woman, and she made Gilroy uneasy. She sent him salt and spices; he left us alone for the most part.”
“Our positioning in the far north helped,” Rowan added, glancing to his wife. “Lannon’s stronghold was in the south, although we did have the Hallorans to deal with.”
Grainne nodded. “Aye. The Hallorans were our greatest problem over the past few decades, not the Lannons.”
“What did the Hallorans do?” I asked.
“Raids, mainly,” she replied. “It was easy for them, since we share a territory border. They stole livestock from our paddocks and food from our storehouses. They would burn our villages if we resisted them. On a few occasions, they raped our women. There were quite a few winters when we were on the brink of starvation. We made it through such times because of the MacCareys, who shared their supplies with us.”
“You are close with the MacCareys, then?” I asked, to which Grainne chuckled.
“Ah, Lord Aodhan, you might as well ask me outright.”
“Do you have an alliance with them?”
“Yes,” she answered. “An alliance of only five years. But one that is not going to be easily broken.” I wondered if she was trying to tell me that it might be difficult for an alliance to be formed between us, since MacQuinn and MacCarey were still historically at odds.
I shifted in my chair, pushing my dessert plate aside. “I would not deign to ask you to break an alliance that has kept you and your people alive, Lady Grainne.”
“Then what do you ask, Lord Aodhan?”
“That you would publicly swear allegiance to Isolde Kavanagh, that you would support her as the rightful queen of this realm.”
Grainne merely stared at me for a moment, but a smile was at the corners of her lips. “Isolde Kavanagh. How I have longed to speak her name the past few years.” She looked to her husband, who was carefully regarding her. They seemed to hold a conversation in their minds, in their gazes. “I cannot swear anything yet, Lord Aodhan.” She directed her attention back to me. “What I ask for is a private conversation with Isolde Kavanagh. Then I will declare my support, should I grant it.”
“Then I will see to it that you speak with the queen.”
“You already call her such?” There was no mockery in her tone, only curiosity.
“I have always seen her as such,” I replied. “Ever since we were children.”
“And you trust her . . . and her magic?”
I was struck by Grainne’s question. “I trust Isolde with my life,” I replied honestly. “Although, may I ask what about her magic concerns you?”
Grainne was quiet. But she glanced to Rowan again.
The candlelight flickered although there was no draft. The shadows began to creep across the table, as if they were coming to life. From the corner of my eye, the light and darkness twined and moved, as if in a dance. And hair on my arms rose; I got the sudden feeling that the Dermotts were speaking, mind to mind. That there was an unseen current between them, and the only other experience I could liken it to was the moment Brienna had set the Stone of Eventide around Isolde’s neck, the moment when magic had awakened.
“Perhaps you inquire about magic because you have noticed an odd occurrence in the past two weeks,” I murmured, and Grainne’s gaze narrowed on mine. “That when Isolde Kavanagh began wearing the Stone of Eventide . . . you felt something as well.”
Grainne laughed, but I noticed that Rowan’s hand went to the dagger at his belt.
“You presume an outlandish theory, Lord Aodhan,” the lady said. “One that I would caution you against speaking so openly.”
“What is there to caution against speaking of it?” I asked, my arms outstretched. “The Lannons are in prison.”
“But the Lannons are not dead yet,” Grainne corrected, which gave me a pause of apprehension. “And the Hallorans are still running amok. I heard that they were trying to get in bed with the MacQuinns.”
She turned the conversation so rapidly that I could not shift it back to the topic of magic and my suspicions that the Dermotts might have a trace within them. But I knew exactly what she implied. Jourdain had written to me the previous day, describing Pierce Halloran’s disastrous proposal to Brienna.
“The MacQuinns are not going to align with the Hallorans,” I said, to ease her mind.
“Then what is to become of the Hallorans? Do they get to continue onward beneath a new queen, unpunished?”
I wanted to say to her, you and I desire the same things. We desired justice, we desired the protection of a queen, we desired answers concerning magic. And yet I could not promise her this; there was still too much uncertainty in the air.
“The Hallorans’ fate, as well as the Carrans’ and Allenachs’, will be decided soon. After the Lannons’ trial,” I replied.
Grainne’s eyes moved to the hall, to the Morgane banner above the hearth. She was silent for a beat, and then whispered, “I am sorry to know that your House has suffered so greatly.”
I was quiet, inevitably thinking of my sister. I felt agony any time Ashling’s fate came to mind. This castle, these lands, should have been hers. She would have been just like Grainne, a ruling Lady of Morgane.
Grainne sighed and looked at me, her hand reaching for Rowan’s beneath the table, to discreetly take his hand from his dagger. “I do hope that you and your people find full restoration.” She stood before I could make a proper response. Rowan and I rose alongside her, the candlelight wavering. “Thank you for dinner, Lord Aodhan. I am rather exhausted from the journey. I think we shall retire.”
“Of course.”
Aileen stepped forward to escort the Dermotts to their chambers.
“We shall see you in the morning,” Grainne said, taking Rowan’s arm.
“Good night to you both.” I waited a few moments before retiring to my own chambers, exhausted and feeling as if I had accomplished nothing.
Tomas was already there, sitting on his cot before the hearth, playing with a deck of cards. The lad had been insistent on sleeping in my room, no matter how adamant I was about him bunking with the other boys. He was not building friendships with the Morgane lads, which had me somewhat concerned.
“Is Mistress Brienna here?” he asked eagerly.
“No, lad,” I replied, unlacing the draws of my jerkin. I collapsed in my chair, groaning as I removed my boots.
“Are you going to marry Mistress Brienna?”
I sat there for a moment, trying to decide how to answer this. Tomas, of course, was impatient.
“Are you, milord?”
“Perhaps. Now, in case you forgot, I am traveling to Lyonesse tomorrow. I do not know when I will return to Brígh, but Aileen said she would keep a close eye on you.” I glanced up to see Tomas sitting on his cot, scowling at me.
�
�What is this look for?” I asked.
“You said I could go to Lyonesse with you, milord!”
“I never promised such, Tomas.”
“Yes, you did! Three nights ago at dinner.” To his credit, the lad could bluff well. I momentarily panicked, thinking maybe I had promised him such, and sorted through my memory.
But then I thought, of course I would not take a child on this trip, and I leveled my gaze at him. “No, I did not. I need you to remain here, with Aileen and the others, and—”
“But I’m your runner, milord!” Tomas protested. “You cannot leave without your runner.”
My self-appointed runner. I sighed, feeling defeated on so many counts, and shifted to sit on the edge of my bed.
“One day, you will be my runner, my very best runner, no doubt,” I told him gently. “But your foot needs to heal, Tomas. You cannot go running errands on it right now for me. I need you to stay here, where I know you will be safe.”
The boy glared a moment longer before wrapping himself in his blanket and plopping down on his squeaky cot, angling his back to me.
Gods help me, I am not cut out for this, I thought as I lay down, drawing my quilts up to my chin. I watched the firelight dance on the ceiling, trying to quiet my mind.
“Is Mistress Brienna going to be in Lyonesse?” Tomas asked groggily.
“Yes.”
Silence. There was only the lament of the wind beyond the boarded windows, the crackle of the fire, and then I heard Tomas wiggle around on the cot.
“She is supposed to finish telling me the story.” He yawned. “About how she found the stone.”
“I promise that she will tell you the ending, lad. But you will have to wait a little while longer.”
“But when will I see her again?”
I closed my eyes, seeking the last scrap of my patience. “You’ll see her again very soon, Tomas. Now go to sleep.”
The boy grumbled but finally quieted. Soon, I could hear his snores filling the chamber. And surprisingly, I found a bit of comfort in the sound.
I was up early the next morning, preparing for my departure to Lyonesse. I packed my own bags, taking care to wrap the Morgane grievances in a sheet of waxed leather and binding it with twine before dressing for a brisk ride. It was just under a day’s journey to the royal city, and I ensured enough provisions were packed for me and the Dermotts, who greeted me with polite smiles in the hall.