by Rebecca Ross
He did not speak, but he bowed. And then he was gone, like the rest of them.
ELEVEN
BURIED
July 1566
The next month passed quietly. I longed for Merei’s music, for Abree’s laughter. I missed Oriana’s spontaneous art, Sibylle’s games, and Ciri’s company. But even with loneliness for a companion, I was faithful to my studies; I filled my hours with books and lineages, with anatomy and herb lore, with histories and astronomy. I wanted to be able to branch any way I desired with knowledge.
Every Monday, I wrote to Cartier.
At first it was only to ask for his advice about my studies. But then my letters became longer, eager for a conversation with him, even if it was made of ink and paper.
And his letters reflected mine; at first he was succinct, giving me lists of things to study, as he had often done in the past, and then asking me for my thoughts and opinions. But I gradually began to encourage more words and stories out of him, until his letters required two pages, and then three. He wrote about his father, about growing up in Delaroche, about why he’d chosen the passion of knowledge. And soon, our letters were not so much concerned with lessons but about discovering more of each other.
It astonished me that for three years, I had sat nearly every day in his presence and there was still so much I did not know about him.
The month elapsed with letters and studies, with the Dowager sending inquiries to potential patrons, all of which were kindly rejected. But at last, in that fourth week of waiting, something finally happened.
I was walking the long drive one afternoon, beneath the oaks and the threat of a thunderstorm, waiting on the mail. When I was out of sight of the house, I chose one of the oaks to sit beneath, leaning against the trunk, closing my eyes as I thought about how much time I had left of summer. That was when the rain came, gently through the rustling branches above me. Sighing, I rose and caught my sleeve on a small branch.
I felt the sting of a cut in my arm.
The storm broke loose above me, drenching my dress and hair, as I begrudgingly examined my cut. I had torn my sleeve and blood oozed forth. Gently, I touched the wound, the blood staining my fingertips.
There was a buzzing in my ears, a shiver over my skin, the sort of premonition lightning might give before it strikes. The storm no longer smelled like sweet meadows but like bitter earth, and I watched as the hands before me widened into those of a man, crooked knuckles smudged by dirt and blood.
I glanced up, and the orderly oaks of Magnalia twisted into a dark forest of pines and alders, aspens and hickories. I felt like the woods were spreading me thin; my ears popped and my knees ached until the shift had fully overcome me.
He had cut his arm on a branch too. The same place as mine. And he had stopped to examine it, to smudge his blood on his fingertips.
He didn’t have time for this.
He continued weaving through the forest, his tread soft, his breath slightly ragged. He wasn’t out of shape; he was nervous, anxious. But he knew the tree that he wanted, and he continued to let branch after branch claw at him to get there.
At last, he reached the old oak.
It had been here long before the other trees, had sprouted upward with a massive canopy. He had often come to this tree as a boy, climbed and rested in her branches, carved his initials within her wood.
He fell to his knees before her now, the twilight dying blue and cold as he began to dig. The loam was still soft from the spring rains, and he furrowed a deep hole among the weaker roots.
Slowly, he drew the wooden locket up from beneath his tunic, away from his neck. It dangled from his fingers in a slow, burdened circle.
He had had his carpenter render it, just for this purpose, an ungainly wooden locket the size of a fist. It was a locket designed for one purpose: to hold and guard something. A casket for a stone.
His fingers were stained with soil as he flicked open the latch, just to look at it one final time.
The Stone of Eventide sat within its coffin, translucent save for a tiny flare of red. It was like watching a heart slowly cease beating, the last of the blood drip from a wound.
He latched the locket and dropped it into the darkness of the hole.
As he buried it—packed down the earth, scattered the pine straw and leaves—he doubted himself again. He had wanted to hide it in the castle—there were so many secret passages and crannies—but if it was ever found among his walls, he would lose his head. It needed to be given back to the earth.
Satisfied, he rose with a pop to his knees. But just before he turned away, he searched over the deep ridges of the trunk. And there . . . his fingers found it, traced the old carving of his initials.
T.A.
He smiled.
Only one other person knew of this tree. His brother, and he was dead.
He left the tree to the shadows, weaving through the forest just as darkness fell, until he could no longer see.
He felt his way out.
I ran the remainder of the drive, up the hill to the courtyard through sheets of rain. I was sore for breath, because—unlike him—I was not in shape, and I nearly busted my shin as I slipped on the front stairs.
I could still feel his thoughts in my own, like oil slipping over water, inspiring a sharp ache in my head; I could still feel the weight of the locket, dangling from my fingers.
The Stone of Eventide.
He had hidden it, tucked it away in the soil.
So the princess had stolen it from the queen’s neck, after all.
But more important . . . was the stone still buried there, beneath that old oak?
I burst in through the front doors, shocking the sleepy-eyed butler, and then raced down the corridor to the Dowager’s study. I knocked, slinging water all over the doors.
“Come in.”
I entered her study; she immediately rose to her feet, startled by my drenched appearance, the blood dribbling down my arm.
“Brienna? What is wrong?”
I didn’t truly know. And I didn’t even know what I was going to tell her, but I was burdened with the need to tell it to someone. Had Cartier been here, I would have told it all to him. Or Merei. But it was just the Dowager and me, and so my boots squeaked over her rug as I sat in the chair opposite her desk.
“Madame, I must tell you something.”
She slowly sank back to her seat, her eyes wide. “Did someone hurt you?”
“No, but . . .”
She waited, the whites of her eyes still showing.
“I have been . . . seeing things,” I began. “Things of the past, I believe.”
I told her of the first shift, channeled by The Book of Hours. I told her of Merei’s music, with its Maevan influences granting me a glimpse of some northern mountain. And then I told her of my wound and his wound, of the woods and the burial of the stone.
She abruptly stood, the candles on her desk trembling. “Do you know this man’s name?”
“No, but . . . I saw his initials, carved on the tree. T.A.”
She paced her study, her worry hanging in the air like smoke. I could hardly draw breath as I waited. I thought she would challenge my claim, tell me that I was slowly losing my wits. That what I had said was fantastical, improbable. I expected her to laugh, or become condescending. But the Dowager did none of those things. She was quiet, and I marveled with dread as I waited for her to speak her mind. Eventually, she came to a stop at her window. Facing the glass to watch the storm, she asked, “What do you know of your father, Brienna?”
I was not expecting this question; my heart flared with surprise as I responded, “Not much at all. Only that he is Maevan and that he wants nothing to do with me.”
“Your grandfather never told you what your paternal name is?”
“No, Madame.”
She walked back to the desk but seemed too agitated to sit. “Your grandfather told me the day he first brought you here. And I swore to him that I would nev
er reveal it to you, out of his concern and protection for you. So I am about to break my word, but only because I feel like your father’s blood is calling out to you. Because your paternal name could potentially match this . . . man’s last initial, the man you have been shifting to.”
I waited, twisted rain from my skirts.
“Your father bears the name of Allenach,” she confessed. “I will not speak his first name, so at least I will honor your grandfather on that account.”
Allenach.
The name rolled and writhed, ending with a harsh syllable.
Allenach.
It was one of the fourteen Houses of Maevana.
Allenach.
Long ago, Queen Liadan had granted them the blessing of “shrewd” when the clans united into Houses beneath her rule. Allenach the Shrewd.
And yet after all this time, learning the latter half of my father’s name didn’t affect me how I’d thought it would. It was simply another sound, one that failed to stir much emotion within me. Until I thought of T. Allenach, and how he was pulling me back. Or, now that I reflected on it, how his memories were overlaying with mine.
Cartier had mentioned this, the oddity of ancestral memory. And at the time, I had been more concerned with Lannon and the Queen’s Canon to entertain the possibility that it was happening to me.
But it began to come together. For T.A. and I had held and read the same book, had listened to a thread of the same music, and had felt the same pain amid the trees. And so I laid my hands on the armrests of the chair, looked at the Dowager, and said very calmly, “I think I have inherited this man’s memories.”
The Dowager sat.
It sounded fanciful; it sounded magical. But she listened to me as I told her of what Cartier had randomly said one day in lessons.
“If you are right, Brienna,” she said, spreading her hands over her desk, “then what you have seen might be the key to bring about reform for Maevana. What you have seen is . . . very dangerous. Something that King Lannon has ruthlessly tried to keep from happening.”
At the mention of Lannon, I stifled a shiver. “Why would this stone be dangerous?”
In my mind, it was a beautiful artifact of ancient Maevana, a channel for magic that was no more. It was a drop of history, painfully lost, which should, of course, be recovered if possible.
“I am sure Master Cartier has taught you the history of the queen’s realm,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if she was afraid we would be overheard.
“Yes, Madame.”
“And I am sure he has also taught you the current state of politics? That there is a strain between Maevana and Valenia? Our King Phillipe no longer condones King Lannon with his violent affairs, even though King Phillipe’s forefather was the very one to set Lannon House as a regal imposter to the northern throne.”
I nodded, wondering where she was guiding this conversation. . . .
But the Dowager said nothing as she opened one of her drawers and retrieved a pamphlet, bound by red thread. I recognized the emblem on the front—the unmistakable illustration of a quill that was bleeding.
“You read the Grim Quill?” I asked, surprised that she would peruse satire.
“I read everything, Brienna.” And she extended it to me. I accepted it, my heart beginning to nervously pound. “Read the first page.”
I did as she beckoned, opening the pamphlet. This was an edition I had not read before, and I took it in, word by word. . . .
HOW TO DETHRONE AN UNRIGHTEOUS NORTHERN KING:
STEP ONE. Find the Queen’s Canon.
STEP TWO. Find the Stone of Eventide.
STEP THREE. If step 1 cannot be accomplished, jump to step 2. If step 2 cannot be accomplished, proceed to . . .
STEP FOUR. Find the Queen’s Canon.
STEP FIVE. Find the Stone of Eventide. . . .
It was a set of instructions that continued to circle back upon itself, over and over. I sat quietly, staring at the page, until the Dowager cleared her throat.
“So the Canon . . . or the stone . . .” I began. “One of them is enough to remove Lannon?”
“Yes.”
By law, or by magic, a northern king would come undone.
“But magic can only be wielded by the Kavanaghs,” I whispered. “And that House has been destroyed.”
“Not destroyed,” she corrected. “Many of them, yes, have been ruthlessly hunted and killed by the Lannon kings over the years. But there are some who survived. There are some who found refuge in Valenia. And Lannon knows it. Simply another reason for him to close his borders to us, to gradually turn Valenia into his enemy.”
I thought of what she had just told me, what I had just read, what Cartier had taught me, what T.A.’s memories had illuminated. I drew in a deep breath and then said, “If I found the stone and gave it to a surviving Kavanagh . . .”
The Dowager smiled, our thoughts entwining.
Magic would return. And a magical queen could overcome Lannon.
“What am I to do?” I asked.
The Dowager folded her hands, as if in prayer, and pressed them to her lips. Her eyes closed, and I thought maybe she truly was praying, until she suddenly yanked open another drawer of her desk, a determined line creasing her brows.
She had forgone wearing her gable, now that it was just the two of us. Her hair was as a stream of silver in the candlelight, her eyes darkly lucid as she brought forth a sheet of parchment and opened her vial of ink.
“There is an old acquaintance of mine,” she began, lowering her voice. “He will find your memories extraordinary. And he will know how to wield them.” She took her quill but hesitated just before dipping it in the ink. “He would offer you ready patronage, Brienna. I would ask that he adopt you into his family, to become your patron father. But before I do this and invite him here to meet you . . . I want you to understand the cost of recovering the stone.”
She didn’t have to voice the cost; I knew that Lannon was a vicious, cruel king. I knew that he killed and maimed any who opposed him. I was silent, so the Dowager softly continued, “Just because you have seen these things does not mean you must act on them. If you desire the true life of a passion, I can find a safer patron for you.”
She was giving me a choice, a way out. I didn’t chafe at her warning. But nor did I quail.
I weighed the memories, the name of Allenach, and my own desires.
I knew that sometimes a patron would adopt a passion into their family, usually years after patronage if the bond became very deep. So what the Dowager was offering was odd; she would ask this acquaintance to readily adopt me, without a previously established relationship. This felt strange to me at first, until I began to unravel what I wanted.
What did I want?
I wanted a family. I wanted to belong, to be claimed, to be loved. Furthermore, half of me was hungry to see Maevana, the land of my father. I wanted to become impassioned; I wanted my title and my cloak, which I would not receive until I took a patron. And deep within, in some quiet corner of my heart, I wanted to see King Lannon fall; I wanted to see a queen rise from his ashes.
All of these desires could be answered, one by one, if I was brave enough to choose this path.
And so I answered her without a vestige of doubt.
“Write to him, Madame.”
I listened to her quill bite the paper as she invited him to come and meet me. Her letter was short, and as she sprinkled sand over the drying ink, I felt strangely at peace. My past failures did not seem to weigh so heavily upon me any longer. That difficult, uncertain night at the solstice suddenly felt like years ago.
“You know what this means, Brienna.”
“Madame?”
She set down the quill and looked at me. “Your grandfather cannot know of this. Cartier cannot know of this.”
My mind went blank, and my fingers tightened on the armrests. “Why?” The word scraped up my throat.
“If you choose Aldéric Jourdai
n as your patron,” the Dowager explained, “you will begin a very precarious mission to recover the stone. If Lannon so much as catches wind of this, your life is forfeit. And I cannot let you leave my protection, my House, with the fear that someone may inadvertently expose you. You must leave Magnalia House quietly, secretly. Your grandfather, your master, and your arden-sisters must not know who you are with, or where you are.”
“But Madame,” I began to protest, only to feel my arguments die, one by one, in my heart. For she was right. No one must know the patron I accepted, especially if that patron was going to use my memories to find the stone that would bring down a cruel king.
Not even Cartier.
The cut on my arm flared when I remembered what he had said to me in the garden, the day he departed. I wouldn’t dare let you leave with a patron I have not met face-to-face.
“Madame, I worry that Master Cartier . . .”
“Yes, he will be exceedingly vexed to discover you have left without word. But once all of this is resolved, it will be explained to him, and he will understand.”
“But he has my cloak.”
The Dowager began to fold the letter, preparing to address it. “I fear you will have to wait to receive it, until all this passes.”
There was no certainty that it would pass, or how long it would take. A year? A decade? I swallowed as I watched the Dowager warm her wax over a candle.
I imagined Cartier returning to Magnalia at the start of autumn, wondering why I had not written to him, wondering why he had not been summoned. I could see him step into the foyer, the leaves trailing him; I could see the blue of his cloak and the gold of his hair. Saints help me, I could hardly bear to think of him discovering that I had left without a word, without a trace. As if I did not appreciate the passion he had sparked in me, as if I did not care for him.
“Brienna?”
She must have sensed my turmoil. I blinked away the glaze of my agony and met her gentle stare.
“Do you wish for me to recant this letter? As I said, you can easily choose another path.” She held the edge of it to the flame, to burn it if I so wanted.
Recant the letter and disregard my ancestor’s memories. It was like a forbidden piece of fruit, dangling on the vine, now that I knew how many I would have to leave in the dark. My grandpapa. Merei. Cartier. I might not ever receive my cloak. Because Cartier might shred it.
