by Rebecca Ross
“Do not recant the letter,” I determined, my voice rasping.
As she poured a dab of wax on the envelope, she said, “I would not take such strict precautions—I would not ask you to leave so quietly—if Lannon’s spies did not lurk about Valenia. With the tensions rising between our two countries, with publications like the Grim Quill . . . Lannon feels threatened by us. He has men and women who dwell among us, ready to whisper names of Valenians who openly oppose him.”
“Lannon has spies here?” I countered, hardly able to believe it.
“You have been very sheltered at Magnalia, dear one. King Lannon has eyes everywhere. Now you might understand why your grandfather was so adamant about sheltering you from the name of Allenach. Because he did not want you to be claimed unto their House. Because he wanted you to look and feel as Valenian as possible.”
Oh, I understood. It didn’t make it any sweeter to digest.
My father must be one of Lannon’s staunch supporters. He could be anyone, from the groom to the yeoman to the castle chamberlain. Many lords’ vassals took on his last name to show their unwavering allegiance. Which meant I was about to wage war against him; I was about to become his enemy before I even knew him. And so I leaned forward and took the edge of the Dowager’s table, until she met my gaze.
“I would ask only one thing of you, Madame.”
“Speak it, child.”
I drew in a deep breath, looked down at the dried blood on my arm. “Swear to me you will not tell Aldéric Jourdain the full name of my father.”
“Brienna . . . this is not a game.”
“As I know,” I said, keeping my voice respectful. “My patron will know I hail from Allenach’s House, that my father’s allegiance is to that House, but that does not mean my patron needs to know my father’s identity.”
The Dowager hesitated, her eyes sharpening over mine as she tried to understand my request.
“I have never seen my father,” I continued, my heart twisting deep in my chest. “My father has never seen me. We are utter strangers, and our paths most likely will never cross. But if they do, I would prefer my patron not to know who he is, since I will never know who he is.”
She was still debating.
“I have grown up here with you knowing, with my grandfather knowing, with such knowledge withheld from me,” I whispered. “Please, do not give it to another to hold over me, to judge me by.”
She finally softened. “I understand, Brienna. So I will swear to you: I will speak your father’s name to no other.”
I leaned back into the chair, shivering against the dampness of my dress.
I thought of these old, faded memories, of the patron who was very soon coming to meet me.
I thought of Grandpapa.
Merei.
My cloak.
The Dowager pressed her seal into the wax.
And I resolved to think of Cartier no more.
TWELVE
A PATRON FATHER
August 1566
Aldéric Jourdain arrived to Magnalia on a hot stormy evening a fortnight after the Dowager had sent her letter in the post. I remained in my room watching the rain streak the window, even after I heard the sounds of the grand doors opening below and the Dowager greeting him.
She had sent all of the servants away for a brief vacation, leaving behind only her faithful Thomas. This was to ensure that Jourdain and I left in utter secrecy.
As I waited for her to send word to come downstairs, I walked to my bureau. Cartier’s latest letter sat open, weighed down by the pendant’s box, his penmanship elegant in the candlelight.
Ever since the Dowager and I had made our resolution about Aldéric Jourdain, I had begun to gradually shorten my letters to Cartier, preparing for this moment when I would quietly leave. And he had felt it—my distance, my retreat, my desire to talk only of knowledge and not of life.
Are you worried about a patron? Talk to me, Brienna. Tell me what is drawing you away. . . .
So he had written to me, his words smoldering as an ember in my heart. I hated to think that he would never receive a proper response, that I had written my final letter to him days ago, claiming all was well.
There was a gentle rap on the door.
I crossed the floor, smoothing the wrinkles from my arden dress, tucking my hair behind my ears. Thomas stood on the other side of my door, holding a candle to burn away the evening shadows.
“Madame is ready for you, Brienna.”
“Thank you, I will be right down.” I waited until he had melted back into the darkened corridor before I began my descent down the stairs, my hand trailing behind me on the balustrade.
The Dowager had told me nothing of this Aldéric Jourdain. I did not know his profession, how old he was, or where he lived. So I followed the light to the Dowager’s study with a tremor of apprehension.
Pausing before the door, the place of all my eavesdropping transgressions, I listened to his voice, a rich baritone, polished around the vowels. He spoke too low for me to catch every word, but from the sound of him, I imagined he was a well-educated man in his early fifties. Perhaps he was a fellow passion.
I stepped forward into the candlelight.
He was sitting with his back to me, but he saw my entrance in the softness of the Dowager’s face as her eyes shifted to me.
“Here she is. Brienna, this is Monsieur Aldéric Jourdain.”
He immediately stood and turned to face me. I met his stare, carefully taking in his height and strong build, his russet hair streaked with gray. He was clean-shaven and handsome even with a crooked nose, although in the dim lighting I could see the scar of an angry wound along his right jaw. Despite his travel, his clothes hardly held a wrinkle. The scent of rain still hovered about him, along with the tang of a spice I did not recognize. There was no passion cloak.
“A pleasure,” he said, giving me a casual bow.
I returned it with a curtsy, moving to sit in the chair that had been set for me, adjacent to his. The Dowager was perched behind her desk, per usual.
“Now, Brienna,” Jourdain said, resuming his seat and retrieving his glass of cordial. “Madame has told me only a glimpse of what you have seen. Tell me more of your memories.”
I glanced to the Dowager, hesitant to share something so personal with an utter stranger. But she smiled and nodded at me, encouraging me to raise my voice.
I told him all that I had told to her. And I expected him to snort, to scoff, to say that I was making absurd claims. But Jourdain did nothing but quietly listen, his eyes not once leaving my face. When I was done, he set his glass down with an eager clink.
“Could you find this tree?” he asked.
“I . . . I am not sure, monsieur,” I replied. “I saw no other distinguishing landmarks. It was a very dense forest.”
“Is it possible for you return to the memories? Revisit them just as vividly?”
“I do not know. I have only experienced the shift three times, and there is little I can do as far as controlling them.”
“It seems that Brienna must make a connection to her ancestor,” the Dowager inputted. “Through one of her senses.”
“Hmm.” Jourdain crossed his legs, his finger absently stroking the scar on his chin. “And your ancestor’s name? Do you, at least, know that?”
My eyes flickered to the Dowager once more. “His first name begins with a T. As for his last name . . . I believe it was Allenach.”
Jourdain went very still. He was not looking at me, but I felt the ice of his gaze, a bitterness so cold it could sunder bone. “Allenach.” The name—my name—sounded very rough on his tongue. “I take it you hail from that House, Brienna?”
“Yes. My father is Maevan, serves beneath that House.”
“And who is your father?”
“We do not know his full name,” the Dowager lied. She lied, for me, and I could not help but sag in relief, especially after seeing Jourdain’s apparent disdain for the Allenachs. “
Brienna was raised here in Valenia, with no ties to her paternal family.”
Jourdain settled deeper in his chair and took his glass once more. He swirled the rosy liquid about, deep in his own thoughts. “Hmm,” he hummed again, a sound that must mean he was perturbed by his contemplations. And then he looked at me, and I swore there was a touch of wariness in his gaze, as if I was not nearly as innocent as I had once been upon entering, now that he knew half of my heritage.
“Do you think you could guide us to the location of the Stone of Eventide, Brienna?” he asked after what felt like a season of silence.
“I would do my best, Monsieur,” I murmured. But when I dwelled on what he was asking, I felt the weight of an uncertain territory come to rest on my shoulders. I had never seen Maevana. I hardly knew anything about the Allenachs, or their land and woods. The old oak was marked by a T.A., but there was no assurance that I could comb through a forest and find such a tree.
“I want to make myself very clear,” Jourdain said after draining the last of his cordial. “If you accept my offer of patronage, it will be nothing as you expect. Yes, I would honor the binds of patronage, and I would take you as my own daughter. I would care for you and protect you, as a good father should. But my name comes with risks. My name is a shield, and beneath it are many secrets that you might never learn but all the same must guard as if they were yours, because it could mean something as vital as life or death.”
I stared back at him steadily, and asked, “And who are you, Monsieur?”
“To you? I am merely Aldéric Jourdain. That is as far as you need to know.”
By the Dowager’s shifting, I knew that she knew. She knew who he truly was, who the man beneath Aldéric Jourdain was.
Was he refusing to tell me for my own protection? Or because he did not trust me, with my Allenach roots?
How could I accept a patron if I did not know who he truly was?
“Are you a Kavanagh?” I dared to ask. If I was about to find the Stone of Eventide, I wanted to know if my patron father had the old dragon blood. Something sat wrong in my mind when I thought about recovering the stone only to restore his magic. I was not going to take the crown from Lannon only to give it to another king.
A smile softened his face; a gleam sparked in his eyes. I could tell I had amused him when he replied, “No.”
“Good,” I responded. “If you were, I don’t think this arrangement would be wise.”
The room seemed to grow colder, the candlelight receding as my implication clearly manifested. But Aldéric Jourdain hardly flinched.
“You and I want the same thing, Brienna,” he said. “We both desire to see Lannon removed, to see a queen ascend. This cannot happen if you and I do not unite our knowledge together. I need you; you need me. But this choice is ultimately yours. If you feel that you cannot trust me, then I think it best we part ways here.”
“I need to know what will happen once I find the stone,” I insisted, worry crowding my thoughts. “I need your word that it will not be misused.”
I expected a long-winded explanation. But all he said was, “The Stone of Eventide will be given to Isolde Kavanagh, the rightful queen of Maevana, who is currently in hiding.”
I blinked, stunned. I had not expected him to give me her name; it was an extraordinary measure of trust, since I was as much a stranger to him as he was to me.
“I know what I am asking you to do is precarious,” Jourdain continued gently. “The queen knows this as well. We would not expect any more than for you to help us find the location of the stone. And afterward . . . we would pay you abundantly.”
“Do you think I want riches?” I asked, my cheeks warming.
Jourdain merely stared at me, which made my blush deepen. Then he asked, “What do you want, Brienna Allenach?”
I had never heard my first and last name vocally acknowledged, linked together as summer and winter, given to the air, musical as it was painful. And I hesitated, battling what I thought I should say and what I desired to say.
“Would you want to join your father’s House?” Jourdain asked, very carefully, as if we were standing on ice. “If you do, I would honor your wishes. We can revoke the adoption after our mission. And I would not hold any ill will toward you for it.”
I couldn’t drown the small glimmer of desire, of hope. I couldn’t deny that I did want to see my blood father, that I wanted to know who he was, that I wanted him to see me. But all the same . . . I had grown up with the belief that illegitimate children were burdens, lives no one wanted. If I did ever come across my father, he most likely would turn his back on me.
And that image drove a blade into my heart, made me pitch forward slightly in the chair.
“No, monsieur,” I said once I knew my voice was steady. “I want nothing with the Allenachs. But I do ask for one thing.”
He waited, cocked his brow.
“Whatever plans you forge,” I began, “I want a voice in them. After the Stone of Eventide is found, it remains with me. I am the one to give it to the queen.”
Jourdain seemed to hold his breath, but his eyes never broke from mine. “Your input will be needed and appreciated in the plans. As for the stone . . . we need to wait and see as to what is the wisest strategy. If it is best for it to remain with you, it will. If it is best for it to remain with another, it will. All that being said, I can promise that you will be the one to present it to the queen.”
He was crafty with words, I thought as I picked apart his response. But my greatest worries were for the plans to proceed without my input, that the stone would fail to be given to the queen. On these two matters, I had his word, so I finally nodded and said, “Very well.”
“Now,” Jourdain said, glancing back to the Dowager as if I had never doubted his intentions. “The legality of this must wait. I cannot risk putting my name or hers through the royal scribes.”
The Dowager nodded, although I could tell she did not like this. “I understand, Aldéric. As long as you hold to your word.”
“You know that I will,” he replied. And then to me, he said, “Brienna, would you accept me as your patron?”
I was to become this man’s daughter. I was to take his name as my own, without knowing what it meant, what it had bloomed from. It felt wrong; it felt right. It felt dangerous; it felt liberating. And I smiled, for I was accustomed to feeling two conflicting desires at once.
“Yes, Monsieur Jourdain.”
He nodded, not quite smiling, not quite frowning, as if he was just as disharmonized as I was. “Good, very good.”
“There is one last thing you should note, Aldéric,” the Dowager said. “Brienna has not yet received her cloak.”
Jourdain cocked his brow at me, just now realizing I wore no passion cloak at my collar. “How come?”
“I am not impassioned yet,” I responded. “My master was going to provide me with my cloak when I took a patron.”
“I see.” His fingers thrummed along the armrests. “Well, we can work around that. I take it that every precaution has been extended to this arrangement, Renee?”
The Dowager inclined her head. “Yes. No one will know Brienna has departed in your care. Not even her grandfather, or her master.”
“Well, we can replicate a cloak for you,” Jourdain said.
“No, Monsieur, I do not think that wise,” I dared to say. “For you see . . . you would have to choose a constellation to also replicate on the cloak, and that constellation would need to be registered in my name at the Astronomy Archives in Delaroche, and—”
He held up his hand in peace, a mirthful smile quirking the corners of his lips. “I understand. Forgive me, Brienna. I am not well versed in your passionate ways. We will think of an explanation for this tomorrow.”
I quieted, but a lump formed in my throat. A lump that emerged whenever I thought of my cloak, of Cartier, and what I was having to leave behind. The past fortnight, I had lain awake in bed, my room unbearably quiet without Merei�
�s snores, and wondered if I had just applied seven years of my life for nothing. Because it was very possible that Cartier might disown me in this space of time when I could not contact him.
“Are you packed, Brienna?” my new patron inquired. “We should leave at dawn.”
I did well at concealing my surprise, even though it flared in me like breathing on a flame. “No, Monsieur, but it will not take me long. I do not have much.”
“Get some rest, then. We have a two-day journey ahead of us.”
I nodded and rose, returning to my room, hardly feeling the floor beneath my feet. Kneeling, I opened my cedar chest and began to gather my belongings, but then I looked to my shelves, at all the books Cartier had given me.
I stood, let my fingers caress each of their spines. I would take as many as I could fit in my chest. The others I would place in the library, until I could return for them.
Until I could return for him.
THIRTEEN
AMADINE
“You need a new name.”
I had been riding in his coach for an hour, the dark slowly blushing into dawn, when Aldéric Jourdain finally spoke to me. I was sitting opposite him, my back already sore from the bump and jerk of the cab.
“Very well,” I conceded.
“Brienna is a very Maevan-inspired name. So you need to sound as Valenian as possible.” A pause, and then he added, “Do you have a preference?”
I shook my head. I had slept a scant two hours last night; my head was aching and my heart felt like it had tangled with my lungs. All I could think of was the Dowager, standing on the cobbles to bid me farewell, her gentle hand resting on my cheek.
Do not worry about Cartier. He will understand when all of this passes. I will do my best to ease his mind. . . .
“Brienna?”
I snapped from my reverie. “You can pick, Monsieur.”
