The Queen's Rising

by Rebecca Ross

  “That is fine. I shall get another,” I stated as my hands rushed down my dress, wiping the perspiration away. It was a warm evening; I could feel every bit of underclothing swelter against my skin. “Why did you have to pick such a heavy dress?”

  He drank the remainder of my cordial before responding. “All I chose was the color. And your flowers . . . and that your hair remain down.”

  I decided not to answer, and my pause provoked him to look at me. I felt his blue gaze touch the crown of my head, my flowers, then along my jaw, down my neck to my aching waist. I imagined he thought me beautiful and then reprimanded myself for entertaining such an absurd fancy.

  “Now then,” Cartier said, his eyes returning to mine. “Are you going to stand out here with me all night, or find yourself a patron?”

  I glared at him before I finally mustered the courage to step into the tent, leaving him behind to the night.

  I felt four sets of eyes rest on me and my sudden entrance. There was Ciri, sitting in a navy gown, her hair curled into ringlets with a wreath of red flowers crowning her head, her cheeks romantically flushed from her high spirits. Beside her sat a woman, dark-skinned and handsomely middle-aged, dressed in a splendid array of yellow silk. And opposite them sat two men in chairs, cordial sparkling in their hands. One was older, his auburn hair streaked through with silver, his nose and chin pointedly sharp as if he had been chiseled from pale marble. The other was younger, with a dark beard, ruddy skin, and jaunty posture.

  Ciri rose to greet me. “Brienna, let me introduce you to our guests. This is Mistress Monique Lavoie.” The woman in yellow smiled. “And then we have Master Brice Mathieu.” The haughty bearded man stood and raised his cordial with a half bow. “And Master Nicolas Babineaux.” The stoic, auburn-haired man also stood with a curt bow. All three of the patrons had blue cloaks fastened at their collars; all three of them were passions of knowledge.

  “A pleasure,” I said, giving them my deepest curtsy. Despite Ciri’s seamless introductions, I felt like my bones had come out of their sockets, that I was an imposter in this silk gown.

  “Perhaps I might steal you first,” Monique Lavoie said to me.

  “Of course,” Ciri responded, but I saw the reservation in her eyes as she stepped away so I could take her place on the divan. This was the patron she wanted. And so I decided that I would tread gently.

  I sat beside Monique as Ciri stood between the two masters, engaging them in a conversation that had them both chuckling.

  “So, Brienna,” Monique began, and I let all other noise fade to the background. “Tell me about yourself.”

  I had several points of introductory conversation prepared. One was my dual citizenship, one was learning beneath Master Cartier, one was the splendor of Magnalia. I decided to choose the first thread.

  “I am an arden of knowledge, Mistress. My father is Maevan, my mother Valenian. I was raised in Colbert’s orphanage until I was brought here my tenth summer. . . .” And so my words flowed, short and pinched as if I could not draw a proper breath. But she was kind, her eyes interested in all that I said, encouraging me to tell her more of my lessons, of Magnalia, of my favorite branch of knowledge.

  Finally, after what felt like days of me rambling about myself, she opened up.

  “I am a physician on the island of Bascune,” Monique said, accepting a fresh glass of cordial from a server. “I grew up on the island, but I passioned when I was eighteen and became an assistant to a physician. I have had my own infirmary and apothecary for ten years now, and I am seeking to gain a new aide.”

  So she belonged to the physician branch of knowledge, and she was seeking a passion to assist her. She was offering a partnership. And no sooner did I let her offer tempt me than I felt Ciri’s concerned gaze drift to us.

  “Perhaps I should ask you first how you respond to blood,” Monique said, sipping her cordial with a smile. “For I see it quite often.”

  “Blood does not affect me, thankfully,” I responded, and here was my chance to integrate my story, as Cartier had told me to do.

  I told her about Abree’s wounded forehead, an injury she had acquired after tripping off the practice stage during her rehearsal. Instead of calling the physician, Cartier had allowed Ciri and me to stitch our friend’s wound, walking us through the motions as he looked over our shoulders and Abree had remained—amazingly—calm.

  “Ah, Ciri has told me the same story,” Monique said, and I felt my face warm. I hadn’t thought to check my story against Ciri’s. “How wonderful, that the two of you could work together to mend your friend.”

  Ciri was trying not to stare at me, but she had heard my duplicate story and Monique’s response. The air crackled with tension, and there was only one way I could think to smooth it.

  “Yes, indeed, Mistress Monique. But Ciri is far more skilled than I with needles. We compared our stitches afterward, and mine were not as cleanly placed as hers.”

  Monique smiled sadly, knowing what I was doing, that I was withdrawing myself from her contention. That she should choose Ciri, and not me.

  A shadow tumbled over my skirts as I realized the young bearded patron had come to stand at my side. He was dressed in clean-cut black and silver; he smelled of cardamom and peppermint as he extended a pale, manicured hand to me.

  “Might I steal you now?”

  “Yes, Master Brice,” I responded, thanking Monique for her time as I let my fingers rest in his, as I let him draw me up from the divan.

  I could not remember the last time I had touched the opposite sex.

  No, wait, I did remember. The autumn my grandpapa had surrendered me to Magnalia, seven years ago. He had hugged me, kissed my cheek. But since that moment, the only affection I had ever felt had come from my arden-sisters, when we laced fingers or hugged or danced.

  I couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable as Brice continued to hold my hand, leading me over to a quieter corner of the tent where two chairs were arranged in tender candlelight.

  I sat and resisted the urge to wipe my palm on my skirts as he brought me a tumbler of cordial. That was when I saw Cartier had finally returned to the tent. He had taken Brice’s abandoned seat and was talking to the red-haired patron, my master appearing at ease as he crossed his legs.

  “I hear you are quite the historian,” Brice stated, settling into the chair at my side.

  I withdrew my eyes from Cartier and said, “May I ask how you came to know such, Master Brice?”

  “Ciri said such of you,” he answered. I tried to guess his age, casting him in his early thirties. He was attractive, his eyes bright and friendly; his voice was polished, as if he had only attended the nicest of schools, ate at the richest of tables, danced with the loveliest of women. “Which, I confess, interests me because I am a historian myself.”

  Ciri had called me one. As had Cartier, who had confessed that he aligned himself with this branch, even though he had chosen to teach. Helplessly, my eyes drifted to Cartier again.

  He was already looking at me, regarding me with absolutely no expression in his face as I sat in this corner with Brice Mathieu. It was as if I was a stranger to Cartier, until I realized that auburn-haired Nicolas was saying something, and Cartier didn’t hear a word of it.

  Brice was saying something to me as well.

  I turned back to the patron, my skin soaking in the heat of the night. “Forgive me, Master Brice. I did not hear what you said.”

  “Oh.” He blinked. He was not accustomed to being ignored, I could tell. “I asked if you would like to talk of your favorite lineage. I am currently employed by the royal scribes, ensuring their historical records are accurate. And I need an assistant, one who is just as sharp and keen as me, who knows genealogy as the lines on her palm.”

  Another partnership.

  This interested me. And so I pretended like Cartier was not in that tent, and smiled at Brice Mathieu.

  “Of course, Master. I am fond of Edmond Fabre’s lineage.” />
  So we began to talk of Edmond Fabre and his three sons, who in turn had had three more sons. I was keeping up well, despite the sweat that began to trace down my back, despite the corset that ate all my comfort, despite the way Cartier’s gaze continued to touch me.

  But then I misspoke. I didn’t even realize I had said the wrong name until I watched Brice Mathieu frown, as if he had smelled something distasteful.

  “Surely you mean Frederique, not Jacques.”

  I hung in that moment, trying to reconcile what I had said to what he was saying. “No, Master Brice. I believe it was Jacques.”

  “No, no, it was Frederique,” Brice countered. “Jacques was not born until two generations later.”

  Had I honestly skipped generations? But, more important, did I honestly care?

  My memory went limp, and I chose to laugh, to cover it up. “Of course, I misspoke.” I drained the cordial before I could make a further fool of myself.

  I was saved by the entrance of a servant, who announced dinner was now being served in the grand central tent.

  I rose on shaky legs, my nerves strung so tight I seriously considered bolting back to the house until the third patron arrived at my side, his lean, great height nearly brushing the wisp of tent.

  “Might I escort you to dinner, Brienna?” the auburn-haired master asked. His voice was very soft and delicate, but I was not fooled; there was steel in this one. I recognized it, because Cartier was very similar.

  “Yes, Master Nicolas. I would be honored.”

  He offered me his arm and I took it, once more feeling hesitant about touching a strange man. But he was older, perhaps the age my father would be. So this touch felt proper, not as dangerous as holding Brice Mathieu’s hand.

  We left before the others, heading for the central tent.

  There were three round tables, nine chairs per circle, and no seating chart. A dinner intended to let the passions mingle, I thought with renewed dread as Nicolas chose a place for us to sit. I eased into my chair, my gaze roaming the tent as my arden-sisters, their patrons, and their arials wandered in.

  The tables were draped with white linens, their centers blossomed with candles and wreaths of roses and glossy leaves. The plates, flatware, and chalices were all spun from the finest silver, set in wait to be touched, gleaming as a dragon’s hoard. Above us, lanterns hung, their panels fashioned from delicately pierced tin, and the light cascaded on us as little stars.

  Nicolas did not speak a word to me, not until the rest of our table was filled and introductions had been exchanged. Ciri, naturally, had chosen not to sit at my table. She had drawn Monique with her, and Brice Mathieu had decided to be sociable and sit among the cluster of dramatics. My table was filled by Sibylle (which reassured me as she could keep the conversation flowing), two of her patrons, Mistress Evelina, Mistress Therese (to my dismay), a patron of art, and a patron of music. An odd, mismatched table, I thought as the wine was poured and the first course set down.

  “Your master speaks very highly of you, Brienna,” Nicolas said, his voice so muted I could hardly hear him over Sibylle’s chatter.

  “Master Cartier has been a very good instructor,” I responded, and realized I had no idea where he was.

  My eyes flickered about the other two tables, and found him almost instantly, as if a channel had been forged between us.

  He had sat beside Ciri.

  I wanted to be hurt by this, that he had chosen to sit with her instead of me. But then I realized his decision had been brilliant, for Ciri was enthused by his choice; indeed, she seemed to glow as she sat between Cartier and Monique. And if he had sat beside me, it would have heightened my reservations; I would not feel the freedom to talk to Nicolas Babineaux, who was likely the final hope I had of securing a patron.

  “Tell me more about yourself, Brienna,” Nicolas said, dicing his salad.

  And so I did, relying on the same conversation thread I had done before with Monique. He listened as he ate; I wondered who he was, what he wanted, and if I would be a good match for him.

  Was he too a physician? A historian? A teacher?

  By the time the main course came, pheasant and duck drowning in apricot sauce, Nicolas finally revealed himself.

  “I am the headmaster of a House of knowledge,” he said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “I was thrilled when the Dowager extended her invitation to me, for I am currently in need of an arial to teach my ardens.”

  I should have expected this. Nevertheless, my heart plummeted at the revelation.

  This was, perhaps, the one source of patronage that made me the most anxious. For I had only been applying myself to knowledge for three years, and how could I be expected to quickly turn around and teach it to others? I felt like I needed more time, time to expand my mastery, time to gain my confidence. If I had just chosen Cartier from the very first year, if I had not been so foolish to claim I was art . . . then I could easily see myself as a teacher, pouring my passion into others.

  “Tell me more of your House,” I said, hoping my hesitations were not evident in my voice, in my expression.

  Nicolas began to illustrate it for me, a House he had founded west of here, near the city of Adalene. It was a House that instructed only knowledge, a six-year program, teaching girls and boys alike.

  I was pondering all of this, wondering if I was being unreasonable by considering myself unprepared for such a task, when I heard my name on Sibylle’s tongue.

  “Oh, Brienna is excellent at wit, even if she claims she is not!”

  My fingers tightened on my fork as I stared at her across the table.

  “And how is that?” one of her patrons asked, smiling at me.

  “Why, she spent an entire year studying wit alongside me, and I wish she had stayed!” Sibylle had drunk one too many cordials. She was glassy-eyed, unable to read the darts my gaze was trying to send her.

  Nicolas turned to me, a frown creasing his brow. “You studied wit?”

  “Ah yes, Master Nicolas,” I responded, trying to keep my voice low so no one else could hear, for an awkward lull had frosted our table. Even Mistress Therese appeared concerned for me.

  In vain, I tried to wear my confidence instead of my worry, but my treacherous heart started to hammer, breaking my mask to pieces.

  “And why is that? I thought you were knowledge,” he remarked.

  The solstice began to unravel around me, as if it were a spool of midnight, and I could not catch it. Nicolas looked perplexed, as if I had lied to him. It was no secret that I had studied all of the passions, but he apparently had not known. I suddenly realized how I must appear to him.

  “I began my time at Magnalia studying art,” I said, keeping my voice level, but the shame was there, in the undercurrent of my words. “Then a year in dramatics, then one in music, and one in wit before I began to study knowledge.”

  “A well-rounded arden!” one of Sibylle’s patrons cried, lifting his wine goblet to me.

  I ignored him, my gaze on Nicolas, willing him to understand.

  “So how many years have you been applying yourself to knowledge?” he asked.

  “Three.”

  It was not the answer he wanted. I was not the passion he wanted.

  The night ended for me then.

  I continued to sit at Nicolas’s side through the remainder of courses served, but his interest had wilted. We talked with those gathered about our table, and after the marzipan confections were served for dessert, I forced myself to mingle with the others. I forced myself to talk and laugh until it was well past midnight and half of the patrons had retired to bed, and only a few of us remained in Merei’s tent, listening to her play song after song.

  Only then did I slip from the tents and stare at the gardens, drenched in quiet moonlight. I needed a moment alone, to process what had just happened.

  I walked along the paths, letting the hedges and roses and ivy swallow me until the night felt peaceful and gentle again. I was standing
before the reflection pond, kicking a few pebbles into the dark water, when I heard him.

  “Brienna?”

  I turned. Cartier stood a good distance away, smudged in the shadows like he was unsure if I wanted him here or not.

  “Master Cartier.”

  He walked to my side, and I had just determined not to tell him anything when he asked, “What happened?”

  I sighed, my hands resting on the rigid bones of my corset. “Ah, Master, am I so easy to read?”

  “Something happened at dinner. I could see it in your face.”

  I had never heard regret in his tone, until that moment. I could taste the sorrow in his voice, like sugar melting on my tongue, sorrow that he had not sat beside me. And if he had, perhaps it might have been different. Perhaps he would have been able to keep Nicolas Babineaux’s interest piqued.

  But most likely not.

  “I look uneducated to Mathieu, and inexperienced to Babineaux,” I finally confessed.

  “How so?” His words were sharp, angry.

  I tilted my head, my hair pouring over my shoulder as I mournfully smiled at him in the moonlight. “Do not take it personally, Master.”

  “I take everything personally when it comes to you and Ciri. Tell me, what did they say?”

  “Well, I forgot two entire generations in my genealogy. Brice Mathieu was much alarmed by this.”

  “I do not care for Brice Mathieu,” Cartier swiftly retorted. I wondered if he was the slightest bit jealous. “What of Nicolas Babineaux? He is the patron I want for you.”

  I realized now that he had wanted me to become an arial. And he must have also known Ciri was going to branch to the physician. He had read her effortlessly, but me? I shivered despite the warmth, feeling like he did not know me at all. And it wasn’t supposed to be what he desired; it was what I wanted for myself.

  We had two different images in mind, and I wasn’t sure if it was possible to align them into something beautiful.

  “I thought you said I was a historian, not a teacher,” I remarked.

  “I did,” he replied. “All that being said, you and I are very much alike, Brienna. And I feel as if all historians should begin as teachers. My time here at Magnalia has in no way stanched my love of history. Rather, it has breathed upon it, as if my mind was a mere ember before.”