by Rebecca Ross
So I poured a little more cream into my coffee and then took up my cup and said, as vibrantly as I could, “Excellent. When do we start?”
FIFTEEN
ELUSIVE BONDS
The most obvious place to start would be music. Because I had already shifted, albeit very weakly, to the sound of a Maevan melody, and Luc was a musician.
We began right after breakfast, retreating to the library, which was bound to become our exploratory chamber. I brought him the roll of Merei’s song, her red ribbon still fastened over her perfectly inked notes. I watched as Luc sat on a stool and unrolled it, eagerly reading the notes, and I felt that lump lodge in my throat. I missed her, and this song was not going to sound the same, not even played by a fellow passion of music.
“An interesting title,” he remarked, glancing up at me.
I had not even seen the title. Frowning, I stepped closer so I could read it over his shoulder.
Brienna, Two in One.
I turned away, pretending to find something fascinating on the crowded shelves. But it was only to give me a moment to tame my emotion. I would not weep here; I would cry only once my jar of tears refilled, and that would hopefully be a long time from now.
“Why don’t you play it for me?” I suggested and sat in the chair by the spinetta again.
Luc stood and gently smoothed the pages, weighing each of the corners down with a river rock. I watched as he took his violin and his bow and leaped into the song, the notes dancing in the air about us as will-o’-the-wisps, or fireflies, or maybe even how magic might have saturated a room, had it not been dead for so long.
I closed my eyes and listened. This time, I could find those Valenian pieces—spritely, lively, something Merei called allegro—and then I found those Maevan influences—strong and deep, mellow, rising as smoke, building to a victorious crescendo. But I remained in my chair, my mind wholly my own.
I opened my eyes once he had ceased playing, the memory of the song still sweet in the air.
“Did you see anything?” he asked, unable to conceal his hope.
“No.”
“Let me play it again, then.”
He played it through two more times. But T.A.’s memories remained sheltered. Perhaps I had inherited only three of them? Perhaps a bond could be used only once?
I was beginning to feel discouraged, but Luc’s energy and determination was like a cool breeze on summer’s worst day.
“Let’s try The Book of Hours again,” he said, laying his violin safely on its side. “You said reading the passage on the Stone of Eventide inspired the first shift. Perhaps your ancestor read more of that book.”
I didn’t want to tell him that I had read many other chapters of that volume, to no avail. Because everything must be attempted again, just to ensure it was a dead end.
Time, for all her previous mockery, suddenly eased and the hours began to move with speed. An entire week passed. I hardly took notice, for Luc kept me busy trying anything he could think of.
We tested all my senses; he had me taste Maevan-inspired food, run my fingers through bolts of northern wool, listen to Maevan music, smell pine and clove and lavender. But I failed to manifest a new memory.
He eventually sat me at the table in the library and unrolled a bolt of maroon linen, a red so dark it almost looked black. In the center there was a white diamond, and in the diamond was the emblem of a stag leaping through a ring of laurels.
“What is this?” Luc asked me.
I stared at it but eventually conceded to shrug. “I don’t know.”
“You’ve never seen this?”
“No. What is it?”
He yanked his fingers through his hair, finally displaying a measure of worry. “These are the colors and the coat of arms for the House of Allenach.”
I studied it again, but I sighed. “I’m sorry. There is nothing.”
He pushed the banner to the side and then unrolled a large map of Maevana; it depicted the cities and landmarks as well as the boundaries of the fourteen territories.
“Here are the forests,” he said. “To the northwest, we have Nuala Woods. Then to the far northeast, the Osheen Forest.” He pointed to each. My eyes followed his fingertip. “Then we have the slender strip of coastal Roiswood, on the southwestern side. And last, the Mairenna Forest, in the southern heart of the land. This is the one where I think your ancestor has buried the stone, since it sprawls through the northern half of Allenach’s territory.”
I had never seen a map of Maevana divided into her fourteen territories. My gaze touched each of them before coming to rest on the land of Allenach, which claimed a vast southern territory of Maevana. It was Allenach’s land that came closest to touching Valenia; the Berach Channel was the only thing separating the two countries. But I didn’t need to be looking at the water. I shifted my eyes to the Mairenna Forest, which spread as a dark green crown over the land of my father’s birth.
“I . . . I don’t know. I don’t see anything,” I all but moaned, burying my face in my hands.
“It’s all right, Amadine,” Luc was quick to say. “Don’t worry. We’ll come up with something.” But he eased himself into a chair, as if his bones had turned to lead. And we sat at the table in the dying light of the afternoon, the map spread between us as butter, one week already gone.
There had to be an explanation for the memories I had been given. If the Allenach armorial banner had struck nothing within my mind—and my ancestor had undoubtedly looked upon that sigil countless times during his life—then there had to be a reason why I had inherited some memories but not others.
I thought back to the three shifts I had experienced—the library, the summit, and the burial beneath the oak. The library and the burial were both clearly centered on the stone. But the view from the summit . . .
I traced back through it, the weakest of the shifts, and remembered how I had felt a weight about my neck, just over my heart. How I had been searching for a place to hide . . .
My ancestor must have stood on that summit with the stone hanging about his neck, seeking the location where he would eventually bury it.
So the memories I had inherited centered only on the Stone of Eventide.
My gaze strayed to the map, taken with the path of the river Aoife, which wound through southern Maevana as an artery, and it made me think of the Cavaret River, just beyond Jourdain’s back door.
“Luc?”
“Hmm.”
“What if we found a river rock, one the size of the Stone of Eventide? Maybe holding it would manifest something. . . .”
That perked him up. “It’s worth a try.”
We rose from the table, and I followed him out into the street. I didn’t want to tell him that I was beginning to feel like a prisoner in that library, in that house; I had not walked outside since I had arrived, and I slowed my pace, tipping my head back to the sun.
It was the middle of August, a month bloated on heat and stale air. Yet I drank in the sunlight, the slight breeze that smelled of fish and wine. A part of me missed the clean meadow air of Magnalia, and I realized only then how much I had taken that place for granted.
“Are you coming, Amadine?”
I opened my eyes to see Luc waiting for me a few yards away, an amused smile on his face. I fell into stride beside him as we wound our way through the street, taking the road that led to the riverbank. We passed by the market, which was teeming with life and smells, but I didn’t give myself the luxury to be distracted. And Luc set a hardy pace; he led me to where the Cavaret River ran wide and shallow, where the currents danced over the backs of rocks.
He pulled off his shoes and rolled up his breeches, wading to the center of the rapids while I was content to search along the banks. A rock the size of a fist, I had told him. And as I continued to meander down the shore, stopping here and there to scrutinize a few rocks, I wondered if this was going to be another futile attempt. . . .
“Lady?”
I glanced up, startled to see a man watching me. He was only two arm lengths away, leaning against the trunk of a river birch. He was middle-aged with shoulder-length dark hair; his face was wrinkled and weathered, his clothes ratty and filthy, but his eyes were as two coals that had just felt breath upon them. They gleamed at the sight of me.
I halted, unsure what to do, and he pushed off the tree and took one step closer, the shade dappling his shoulders and face. He meekly extended a hand, his dirty fingers trembling.
“Lady, what is the name of the man who you live with?”
I took a step back, jarring my ankle in a deep eddy of the river. The stranger was speaking Middle Chantal—the language of Valenia—but his voice held an obvious accent, a betraying brogue. He was Maevan.
Saints, I thought, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. Was he one of Lannon’s spies?
“Please, tell me his name,” the man whispered, his voice going hoarse.
That was when I heard the splashing. Luc had finally seen him, and I cast a half glance over my shoulder to see my brother come crashing toward us, his breeches fully drenched, a dagger in his hand. So he was more like his father than I’d realized, sprouting steel and blades like weeds.
“Get away from her,” he growled, stepping between me and the stranger.
But the bedraggled man held his ground, his eyes gone wide as he stared at Luc.
“Go on! Away with you!” Luc impatiently flicked the dagger toward him.
“Lucas?” the stranger whispered.
I felt the air change, the wind pull back as if she were fleeing. Luc’s back stiffened, and a cloud stole the sunlight as the three of us stood, unmoving, uncertain.
“Lucas? Lucas Ma—”
Luc was on the stranger, snapping from his web of shock. He took the man by the collar and shook him, holding the tip of the steel to the man’s grubby neck.
“Do not dare speak such a name,” my brother ordered, so low I could hardly catch the words.
“Luc? Luc, please,” I cried, moving closer.
But Luc hardly heard me. He was staring at the man; the man stared right back, although tears were lining his eyes, dripping down his bearded cheeks.
“How long have you been here?” Luc hissed.
“Six years. But I’ve waited . . . waited twenty-five years . . .”
There was a loud splash from behind us. We turned to look, to see a group of children on the other side of the bank. Two of the boys were warily watching us, and Luc lowered his dagger, but it still remained sheathed between his fingers.
“Come, we can give you a hot meal for the night,” Luc said loudly, so the children could hear. “But you will have to go to the cathedral if you need alms.” He glanced at me, wordlessly telling me to follow close behind him as he hauled the stranger forward, keeping the blade tucked sightlessly against the man’s back.
It was an awkward, hasty walk to the house. We entered through the back door, and I remained in Luc’s shadow all the way to Jourdain’s office door, which was abruptly closed in my face. I stood in the hall, unbalanced, and listened to the rumble of Jourdain’s voice, of Luc’s, of the stranger’s, as they conversed behind the heavy door. No chance of eavesdropping, but I didn’t need to as I found a seat on the creaky stairs. Because the pieces were slowly coming together.
Cartier had once spoken to me of a revolution-turned-massacre that had happened twenty-five years ago in Maevana. I closed my eyes, remembering the cadence of my master’s voice. Twenty-five years ago, three lords tried to dethrone Lannon . . . Lord Kavanagh, Lord Morgane, and Lord MacQuinn. . . .
I dwelled on all the fragments that I had been gathering since I’d met Aldéric Jourdain. A widower with a son. A lawyer skilled with a blade. Twenty-five years, with a last name that began with M. A man who desired to see Lannon obliterated.
I finally knew who Jourdain was.
SIXTEEN
THE GRIM QUILL
I waited on the stairs, watching the afternoon light fade into dusk, an ache pounding in my head. But I wasn’t going to move, not until I could catch Jourdain and set a few things straight. So when the office door finally opened, spilling candlelight into the hall, I quickly stood, the stair creaking beneath me.
Luc and the stranger emerged first, heading down the corridor to the kitchen. And then came Jourdain. He stood on the threshold and felt my gaze, glancing up to where I stood.
“Father?”
“Another time, Amadine.” He began to follow Luc and the stranger to the kitchen, willfully ignoring me.
Ire boiled up my throat as I cleared the last stair, following him into the hall. “I know who you are,” I said, my words pelting him as rocks in the back. “You may not be Lord Kavanagh the Bright, but perhaps you are Lord Morgane the Swift?”
Jourdain halted as if I had pressed a blade to his throat. He didn’t turn around; I could not see his face, but I watched his hands curl into fists at his sides.
“Or might you be Lord MacQuinn the Steadfast?” I finished. That name had scarcely had time to leave the tip of my tongue when he rounded on me, his face pale with fury as he took my arm and pulled me into his office, slamming the door behind us.
I should be afraid. I had never seen him look so furious, not even when he took on the thieves. But there was no room for fear in my mind, because I had spoken truth—I had spoken his name to him, the one he had never wanted me to know. And I let that name sink into me, let the truth of who he was settle in my heart.
MacQuinn. One of the three Maevan lords who had boldly attempted to reclaim the throne twenty-five years ago. Whose plans to dethrone Lannon and crown Kavanagh’s oldest daughter had fallen to ashes, and as a consequence, whose wife had been slaughtered, who had fled with his son, to hide and quietly endure.
“Amadine . . .” he whispered, his voice choking on my name. The white wrath was gone, leaving exhaustion in its wake as Jourdain collapsed in his chair. “How? How did you guess?”
I sat slowly in one of the other chairs, waiting for him to look at me. “I’ve known you were Maevan ever since I saw you so effortlessly cut down the thieves.”
He finally met my gaze, his eyes bloodshot.
“It makes sense to me now, why you reacted so violently. How you will protect your family at all cost, because I now know you have lost someone very precious to you. And then this . . . stranger . . . mentioned that he had waited twenty-five years,” I continued, lacing my cold fingers together. “Twenty-five years ago, three courageous Maevan lords stormed the castle, hoping to place a rightful daughter on the throne, to reclaim it from a cruel, unrighteous king. Those lords were Kavanagh, Morgane, and MacQuinn, and though they may be hiding, their names are not forgotten—their sacrifice is not forgotten.”
A sound came from him, a tangle of laughter and weeping, and he covered his eyes. Oh, it broke my heart to hear the sound come from such a man, to realize how long he had been hiding, carrying the guilt of that massacre.
He lowered his hands, a few tears still clinging to his lashes, but he chuckled. “I should have known you would be shrewd. You are an Allenach, after all.”
My heart turned cold at the sound of that name, and I corrected him by saying, “It’s not that, but because I am a passion of knowledge, and I was taught the history of Maevana. Were you ever going to tell me the truth?”
“Not until Isolde was crowned. But it was only out of protection for you, Amadine.”
I could not believe it. I could not believe my patron father was one of the rebellious Maevan lords—that a name I had once heard Cartier merely talk about was now sitting before me in the flesh.
I glanced to the papers scattered on his desk, overwhelmed. My gaze caught on something familiar . . . a piece of parchment with a drawing of the unmistakable bleeding quill. I reached for it; Jourdain watched as I held up the illustration with a tremor in my fingers.
“You’re the Grim Quill,” I whispered, my eyes darting to his.
“Yes,�
�� he responded.
I was flooded with awe, worry. I thought back to all those pamphlets I had read, how bold and persuasive his words were. And I suddenly understood the “why” of it all . . . why he wanted to obliterate the northern king. Because he had lost his wife, his land, his people, his honor because of Lannon.
I read the words he had scrawled beneath the drawing, a messy first draft of his upcoming publication:
How to ask pardon for rightfully rebelling against a man who thinks he is king: Offer your head first, your allegiance second. . . .
“I . . . I cannot believe it,” I confessed, setting the paper down.
“Who did you think the Grim Quill was, Amadine?”
I shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. A Valenian who liked to poke fun at Lannon, at current events.”
“Did you think that I fled here to hide and cower, to sit on my hands, to try to become Valenian and forget who I was?” he asked.
I didn’t answer, but my gaze held his, my emotions still running the gamut.
“Tell me, daughter,” he said, leaning forward. “What does every revolution need?”
Again, I was quiet, because I honestly didn’t know.
“A revolution needs money, belief, and people willing to fight,” he replied. “I began writing the Grim Quill almost two decades ago, hoping that it would stir Valenians as well as Maevans. Even if the Dowager had never told me about you and what your memories could unleash . . . I would have continued writing and publishing the Grim Quill for however long it took, until I was ninety and frail, until people—Valenian, Maevan, or both united—eventually rose, with magic or without it.”
I wondered what that would feel like—he had spent over twenty years in hiding, letting his anonymous words slowly chip away at Valenian ignorance and Maevan fear. And he would spend twenty more doing it, if that’s what it required, until he had the money, the belief, and the people to make it possible.
“So without me and the promise of the stone,” I said, clearing my throat. “What were you planning to do?”
