by Rebecca Ross
“Quickly,” I said. “Drive the wagon into the trees, Betha. Sean, grab the Halloran horses.”
I dragged my Halloran guard into the woods, Luc trailing me with the other.
Once we were sheltered by the trees, we gagged and bound the guards, wondering what we were to do with them.
But then I thought . . . why must we hide in the wagon when two of us could don their armor and ride their horses?
Luc shared the same thought, because he approached me and whispered, “We should just ride into Lerah.”
Before I could respond, Sean had knocked both the guards unconscious. We worked to unbolt their armor, and then Luc and I dressed ourselves. We looked just like Hallorans, in our navy tunics, yellow cloaks, and bronze armor with the ibex etched at the breast.
“Luc and I will act as your escort,” I murmured to the women as I slid the guard’s helm on my head. “As soon as we reach the castle courtyard, we’ll help Sean exit from the wagon unnoticed.”
Betha nodded, climbing back onto the wagon bench while Neeve hid Sean beneath the linen again. Luc and I tied the unconscious guards to the trees.
Our entourage emerged back into the sunlight, taking the road beneath us. All of this happened so quickly—within minutes. And while I now wanted to urge Betha to drive the wagon faster, I knew this slight delay was going to work in our favor.
We reached the iron drawbridge of Castle Lerah at sundown, the dusk like a protective veil around us as we came to a stop before the moat’s roundhouse.
It was just as Sean had described: a formidable fortress on a summit, protected by a wide moat. My eyes traced the four towers, lingering at last on the southern one, the one gilded in sunset, the one that held Brienna.
And to the east, I could see the orchards in the distance, where Isolde and Jourdain and his forces would wait, and I could smell the forest at my back, a tangle of oak and moss and damp loam. I resisted the temptation to look behind at those woods, knowing Lady Grainne and her warriors were hiding within the shadows, watching, waiting.
A guard appeared on the roundhouse threshold, torch in his hand, peering at us. Neeve and Betha were both wearing shawls over their hair, but a sudden flare of panic shot through me.
The guard stepped back into the roundhouse, giving the signal to the gatehouse.
I watched as the drawbridge was lowered, the iron chains clanging until the bridge was fully lowered, stretching before us with dark invitation. Betha snapped the reins, and the wagon began to rumble over the wood and the iron. Luc and I followed, our horses’ hooves sounding hollow, the water dappled with starlight beneath us.
I did not dare to hope. Not yet. And not even when we cleared the portcullis, which hovered above us like the rusted teeth of a giant. Not even when we passed the grassy stretch of the middle ward, or passed the gatehouse. I did not hope yet, even as Betha brought the wagon into the inner ward, a vast courtyard alight with torches.
It was just as Sean described. I could faintly see the gardens ahead; I could smell the yeast of the bake house somewhere to my right. I could hear the pounding of a distant forge, most likely to the east, and the horses whickering from the stables. I could feel the height of the walls around us, red stone carved by arched doors and tiny slits of windows, glistening with mullioned glass.
I exchanged a glance with Luc, just barely able to discern his eyes in the firelight.
He dismounted first, just as the groom emerged from the stables to take our horses. The stables were behind us, nestled in the base of the southern tower. The prison tower. And I craned my neck to look at it once more, assessing it.
“I’ll take your horse, sire.”
I slid from my saddle, my knees throbbing from the impact, and handed my horse to the lad. Neeve had already jumped down from the wagon, preparing to shift the textiles so Sean could discreetly emerge. I walked to her side, holding one of the bolts up. Sean soundlessly dropped to the flagstones, wrapping a navy shawl about his head, to shadow his face.
“The southern tower is right here, at our backs,” I whispered to Neeve.
She looked over my shoulder at it, suddenly sensing the impossibility of this. She was about to break into a tower and then escape with a prisoner.
“Can you do this?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied, almost harshly.
“Quick, take a bolt and let’s walk in here,” Sean rasped, interrupting us. He and Betha already had a bundle of wool in their arms. Neeve and I hurried to also take up the linen, and we followed Sean to an open archway, just to the edge of the stables.
It led us to a corridor that ran from the southern tower to the eastern one, the torchlights hissing in their iron sconces. I needed to work my way over to the other side of the castle, to the west–north corridors. And yet when Sean and Luc departed, heading to the gatehouse, I found that I could not abandon Neeve and Betha.
“You should go, milord,” Neeve whispered.
“Let me at least help you get into the tower,” I replied.
Neeve looked like she wanted to protest. “Hurry, someone is coming.”
We fumbled for the closest door, slipping into the back door of the bake house. At first, I blanched, thinking we had just made a grave error, that the three of us would expose ourselves. But we had chanced upon an empty chamber. There was a long table dusted with flour, loaves rising on a heated stone, shelves of earthenware bowls, and sacks of flour. No one was here, even though I could hear the bakers laughing in the adjoining room.
There was a tray of rolls, just baked and buttered. I set down my linen and reached for a wooden trencher, setting three rolls upon it. I also grabbed a small honey pot and someone’s forgotten cup of ale, placing it among the rolls.
“What are you doing?” Betha hissed.
“Trust me,” I said, opening the door back into the corridor.
Betha huffed, grabbing my dropped bundle of linen, and the three of us began to walk south. The corridor eventually split, one-half rising in a curled stairwell.
I began to ascend, the women in my shadow, my plate of spontaneous dinner rattling in my hands.
We reached the landing, which opened up into the parapet walk, just as Sean had described. The door to the tower should be somewhere near, and I stepped into the open, the air reeking of the stables below. The smell of manure made me think of how I had once been hidden within it, how the muck pile had saved my life. I walked to the edge of the parapet, following the stench, and found the muckpile situated in the middle ward, the ground between walls.
“If you must jump from this wall,” I said to Neeve. “Aim for that.”
Neeve nodded. “And there is the door.” She pointed to the tower, where a door latticed with iron was etched in the wall, draped in shadows. It was not guarded, which surprised me. Until I saw that there was a patrol walking along the parapet, and that he was about to chance upon us.
“Gods have mercy,” Betha murmured, and I thought she spoke of the guard approaching us until I heard a trickle of loose pebbles.
I looked up the tower to see none other than Keela Lannon scaling the wall. She was following a vine that had cracked the mortar between stones, crawling from the battlements up to the one window in the wall of the prison tower. And I knew in that moment that Keela must be going to Brienna, that Keela was the beacon for us to follow.
“That is your way in,” I said to Neeve. “Hurry and follow her.”
Neeve didn’t hesitate. She tossed her linen over the side of the parapet, down to the muck pile, and rushed to follow Keela’s path. Betha was the one to make a sound of shock.
“I will not be able to scale that,” the weaver stated, her ruddy face going pale as she watched Neeve struggle to gain her first foothold.
“No, so you must be waiting here, to offer a distraction,” I said, handing her the tray of dinner rolls while taking her linen and her wool.
I dropped the textiles below to the muck pile, just as Neeve had done, and then watched as
Betha relented to walk with the dinner toward the guard. And then I remained in a shadow, watching as Neeve continued to climb. Keela had already vanished into the window, unaware that we were here, that we were following her.
I waited until Neeve herself reached the stone casement, grappling to haul herself into the tower corridor. The window seemed to swallow her until I saw her face, pale as the moon, as she waved to me.
Only then did I hope, did I move.
I took the southern corridor, following it to the western quarter of the castle. When I heard the familiar clanging of the drawbridge being lowered, I broke into a run, my boots pounding over the stones, through the shadows. I could hear the first shouts of alarm, and I stopped long enough to look out the closest window, which afforded me a view of the drawbridge.
The drawbridge was fully down, and Grainne and her forces were coming, the moonlight glancing off their steel breastplates, the stars catching on their swords. They were quiet; they moved as one, like a serpent slithering over the bridge.
I reached the western tower just as the screams began to rise from the gatehouse. I could feel it in the stones—the shock, the tremble of the assault unfolding.
I drew my sword and began to ascend the tower stairs, seeking Declan Lannon.
TWENTY-NINE
TO HOLD FAST
Lady Halloran’s Territory, Castle Lerah
Brienna
“Mistress? Mistress Brienna, wake up. Please, please wake up.”
A small, quivering voice that I wanted to cup in my hand, to cherish, to watch bloom into a rose. It was the voice of a frightened girl, her words like sunlight breaking a storm.
“I want to see her, Keela. Keela!”
An indignant, heated response, the voice of a determined and brave boy, his words like rain falling into a river.
“No, Ewan. Do not look. Stay. There.”
“She’s my lady, and I can do what I want.”
I could hear the scuffing of boots, then silence, dark, painful silence, a void to drown in. The boy began to weep, weep, weep. . . .
“Shh, they will hear you, Ewan. I told you not to look!” But then she cried too.
“He killed her! He killed her!” the boy moaned, his voice smudged with fury.
“No, brother. She’s alive. We have to get her down before Da returns. We have to hide her.”
“But where? There’s nowhere to hide!”
“I’ll get the key, and you find a place to hide her.”
Their voices dissipated, and all I could hear was a hum, a wheeze, the sound of something that wanted to melt into dusk.
When I opened my eyes, I realized that it was the sound of my breaths, shallow and labored.
I was still hanging by my wrists, by arms I could no longer feel.
I thought of Tristan, that final memory he had passed down to me still echoing in my heart, our pain linked over centuries of time. He had believed the curse that the last Kavanagh princess had set upon him—that a daughter would rise from his line and steal his memories; he had known I would descend from his blood, that I would right his wrongs.
My toes scraped the floor. A pile of hair. Whose hair was that? It was so pretty, they should never have cut it off like that.
And then the blood. I followed its trail in reverse, from the ground, up my leg, up my chemise, up to where it had dried in the hollow of my collarbone.
It was mine. My blood.
I shifted, desperate to feel my arms, only to brush the side of my face.
And I remembered. The sting of a blade. The words Declan had planted into my wound . . . I want Aodhan to have you, after all. But when he looks upon your face, he will see his mother in you. He will know where to find her.
I gasped, I flailed in the chains, until the pain in my face made the bitter stars return, as if I were spinning beneath a sky overwhelmed with constellations, blurred and dizzy. I wanted that dark mist again, the unconscious state of being.
Líle Morgane is dead. He is lying to me. She cannot be alive. . . .
And yet Líle Morgane was all I could think of.
I drifted, unsure of how much time had passed.
When I heard the iron door scraping open, I startled, bumping my face yet again. The pain shot through my bones until I choked and coughed, retching down the front of my dress.
I waited to hear Declan’s menacing laugh, feel the hardness of his hands as he decided where to maim me next. But I was encircled by something delicate. I felt someone align themselves to me gently, lovingly. Hands moved up my arms, finding the hook.
“I’m here, sister.”
I opened my eyes. Neeve. Neeve with her body pressed against mine to keep me steady, her hands working to set me free. There were tears streaming down her face, but she smiled at me.
I knew that I must be dreaming.
“Neeve?” I mumbled. “I’ve never dreamt of you before.”
“You are not dreaming, sister.”
She finally loosened my shackles from the hook. I collapsed, falling into her, and then there was Keela, her arms around us both. We stood in a circle, Neeve and Keela bearing my weight.
It was only then that I realized what Neeve had called me.
Sister.
“Who told you?” I rasped as Keela knelt to unbuckle the chains at my ankles.
“I will tell you as soon as we get home,” Neeve promised. “Can you walk with me?” She laced her fingers with mine and tugged gently. I struggled to take a step.
“I think we need to hide her,” Keela said, worried. “My father knows something is amiss. He’ll come looking for her.”
“We do not have time. We need to run,” Neeve said. “Brienna, can you follow me?”
I tried to lift my hand, to feel the wound in my face. Neeve quickly caught my fingers.
“My face, Neeve,” I whispered. It was difficult to speak, because every word tugged on my cheek. “How bad—?”
“Nothing Lady Isolde cannot heal,” Neeve responded firmly. But I saw it: the horror, the sadness, the anger in her eyes.
“Sister,” Neeve said, sensing my despair. She drew me close. “Sister, you must run with me. Lady Isolde waits for you beyond the orchard, to take you home. I will guide you to her.”
“Isolde?”
“Yes. Are you ready?”
I nodded, squeezing tightly to her hand.
“Keela, take her other hand,” Neeve beckoned, and I felt Keela’s small, cold fingers weave with mine. “Hold fast to me, Brienna.”
I let them draw me from the cell, out into the corridor. I was dizzy; the walls felt like they were beginning to narrow, to close in on us, as if they were a living creature, scaled as a dragon, inhaling, exhaling. We walked around and around, descending in a tight circle.
I could hear a distant shout. And then the shouts grew more urgent and louder, sounds of pain.
“I do not think we can leave by a window,” Neeve said, stopping on the stairs, her breath ragged. “We will need to walk out the door.”
“But someone might see us,” Keela whispered.
We were quiet, listening to the sounds of a battle unfolding beyond the walls.
“I think there is enough bedlam for us to walk out,” Neeve continued. “Can you hand me the keys, Keela?”
“What is happening?” Keela questioned, her voice trembling as she passed the ring of keys. “Is there about to be a battle? What about my brother? I don’t know where he is. He was supposed to meet me back in our rooms, to hide her.”
“Lord Aodhan will find him,” Neeve replied. “We need to get out.”
After a moment of tortured silence, she pulled me along with her, and I pulled Keela, still bound to both of their hands. We continued our descent, my legs trembling. I felt fever brush hot feathers down my face and neck. My teeth chattered as I tugged on Neeve.
“Neeve, I . . . I don’t think I . . . can run.”
“We’re almost there,” Neeve said, pulling me faster.
&nbs
p; We reached the foyer of the tower, a room of simplicity. There was the Halloran sigil on the wall, the only color in this drab place, and a table and a chair. The guard who was supposed to be stationed here was gone, although his half-eaten supper was still on his plate.
“Listen, this is our plan,” Neeve said, drawing Keela and me close. “We are going to take the stairs of the parapet, down to the middle ward. That will keep us away from the brunt of the battle. We’ll run along the wall to the eastern tower, where the forges are. There should be a small entrance there for us to slip into the moat.” She unwound the shawl she had tied about her waist, gently bringing it over my head. “All you must do is follow me, all right, sister?”
I nodded, even though I did not believe I had the strength for this.
“Then let us go.”
She turned and approached the door, laboring to unbolt the locks. At last, she tossed open the door, and we were promptly greeted by a wash of night air and the clash of two men fighting on the battlement.
For a moment, the three of us merely stood on the threshold, watching the warriors cut and parry, one a Halloran, the other a Dermott. That’s when I understood what was happening: Lady Grainne had led an assault on the castle.
No sooner did such hope bloom in my chest did the Halloran shove his sword into the Dermott’s breast, nearly to the hilt.
“Hurry,” Neeve said, as if the imminent death had woken her. She dragged me along before the Halloran could stop us, the chaos nipping at our heels as she tried to reach the parapet stairs. An entire slew of Hallorans were coming up them, rising from the shadows, swords drawn. They were coming in our direction, and Neeve abruptly halted, sending Keela crashing into my back.
“Quick. We must jump,” my sister said tersely, backtracking to the wall.