The Queen's Rising

by Rebecca Ross

  Jourdain steepled his fingers, propped his chin on them. “We currently have persuaded three Valenian nobles to our cause, who have provided funds, who have promised men to fight. Based on that, we project that we could successfully revolt in four years’ time.”

  In twenty-five years, he had only garnered the support of three Valenian nobles. I shifted in my chair. “Wouldn’t that spark a war, Father?”

  “It would. A war that has been one hundred and thirty-six years in the making.”

  We stared at each other. I kept my face carefully guarded, even though the image of war made my heart wither. And suddenly, I was besieged with fear of conflict, of battles and spilled blood and death.

  “What if you asked Lannon to pardon you?” I dared to ask. “Would he be open to change? To negotiations?”

  “No.”

  “Surely he has advisers there? At least one person who would listen to you?”

  He sighed. “Let me tell you a little story. Thirty years ago, I used to attend the royal hearings. Once a week, Lannon would sit on his throne and listen to the people’s complaints and requests. I stood among the crowd, bearing witness with the other lords. And I cannot tell you how many times I saw men and women—children—cut to pieces at the footstool of the throne, fingers and tongues and eyes and heads. All because they dared to ask something of him. And I watched it, afraid to speak out. We were all afraid to speak out.”

  I struggled to imagine his story, struggled to fathom that such violence was happening north of here. “There is no peaceful way to do this?”

  He finally understood my questions, the glaze in my eyes. “Amadine . . . your procuring the stone and reviving magic is the most peaceful route to justice. I cannot promise there will not be conflict or a battle. But I do want you to know that without you, war would eventually come.”

  I broke our gaze, glancing down to the pleats of my dress. He was silent, giving me time to process the revelations that had begun to unfold, knowing I was simmering with more questions.

  “How do you know the Dowager?” I asked.

  Jourdain drew in a deep breath, and then poured himself a glass of cordial. He poured one for me as well. I saw it as a long-awaited invitation, that he was about to tell me some dark things, and I graciously accepted the drink.

  “Twenty-five years ago,” he began. “I joined Lord Morgane and Lord Kavanagh in their plans to upset Lannon, to place Kavanagh’s eldest daughter on the throne. She had a trace of that ancient, magical blood, according to their lineage, which distantly draws from the first queen, Liadan, but more than that . . . we were finished with serving a wicked king such as Lannon, who manipulated us, who oppressed our women, who slayed anyone, even a child, should they look at him the wrong way. You know that we failed, that the other lords would not unite behind us because we lacked the Stone of Eventide, and we lacked the Queen’s Canon. If we had possessed just one of those artifacts, I have no doubt the other Houses would have rallied behind us.”

  He took a sip of cordial, turning the glass tumbler in his hands. I did the same, preparing for the hardest part of the story.

  “We were betrayed by one of the other lords who had promised to join us. If not for his treachery, we might have overpowered Lannon, for our plans were contingent on surprising him. We had quietly gathered the forces of our three Houses, our men and our women, and were planning to storm the castle, to do things as peaceably as we were able, to give Lannon a proper trial. But he caught wind of it and sent his forces out to meet us in the field. What ensued was a bloody battle, one that saw our wives cut down, our daughters slaughtered. Yet he wanted us to live, his rebelling lords, to be brought to him for torturous punishment. And if not for Luc . . . if I did not have my son, who I had sworn to protect as my wife died in my arms . . . I would have let them capture me.

  “But I took Luc and fled, as did Lord Kavanagh and his youngest daughter, as did Lord Morgane and his son. We had lost everything else: our wives, our lands, our Houses. And yet we lived. And yet our Houses were not dead, because of our sons and daughter. We fled south, to Valenia, knowing we might start a war by fleeing into another country, that Lannon would never cease looking for us, because Lannon is no fool. He knows one day we will return for him, to avenge the blood of our women.”

  He drained the cordial. I drained mine, feeling the fire flow through every bend and corner of my body. A righteous anger was stirring, the thirst for revenge.

  “We pressed as far south into Valenia as we could, keeping to the forests, to the pastures, to the land,” Jourdain continued, his voice rasping. “But Luc fell ill. He was only one year old, and I watched him slowly get weaker and weaker in my arms. So on a stormy night, we dared to knock on the door of a beautiful estate in the center of a field. It was Magnalia.”

  I felt the tears line my eyes as he looked at me, as I realized what he was about to say.

  “The Dowager took us in, without question,” he said. “She must have known we were fleeing, that we might bring trouble upon her. The news of the massacre had not crossed the channel yet, but we told her who we were, what the cost would be to shelter us. And she let us sleep in safety; she clothed us, fed us, and sent for a physician to heal my son. And then she gave us each a purse of coins, and told us to split up and set down Valenian roots, that the day of reckoning would come soon if we played our cards wisely, patiently.”

  He poured another cup of cordial and rubbed his temples. “We did as she advised. We took Valenian names and went our separate ways. I settled in Beaumont, became a reclusive lawyer, hired a master of music to instruct my son to become a passion, to make Luc appear as Valenian as possible. Morgane settled in Delaroche, and Kavanagh went south, to Perrine. But we never lost contact. And I never forgot the kindness of the Dowager. I repaid her, wrote to her, let her know that I owed her a mighty debt.” His eyes flickered to mine. “So it looks as if she was right; the cards have finally aligned.”

  I helped myself to the decanter of cordial, only because I felt the weight of that hope. He needed me to find the stone. And what if I couldn’t do it? What if the plans fell to ashes again?

  “Father,” I breathed, meeting his gaze. “I promise you that I will do all that I can to recover the stone, that I will help you achieve justice.”

  He drew his hand through his auburn hair, the gray gleaming as silver in the candlelight. “Amadine . . . I do not plan to send you to Maevana.”

  I all but spurted on my cordial. “What? I am supposed to retrieve the stone, am I not?”

  “Yes and no. You will tell us how to find it. I will send Luc to retrieve it.”

  This did not please me. At all. But rather than fight with him, after he’d so generously opened his painful past, I sat back in the chair. One battle at a time, I told myself.

  “We had an agreement,” I calmly reminded him.

  He hesitated. I knew it was because he was terrified of seeing something happen to me, of sending me to my death, or perhaps something worse. His wife had died in his arms, on a blood-soaked field of failure. And I knew he was determined that my fate would not follow hers. Hadn’t I already seen him respond violently when I was threatened? And I was not even his daughter by blood.

  This must be the Maevan in him, which I had also seen in Luc. Maevan men did not tolerate any threat toward their women.

  Which meant I needed to become more Maevan. I needed to learn how to wield a sword, how to set these stubborn men in order.

  “Our agreement was for you to have a voice in the plans, which I fully intend to see done, and for you to bestow the stone to the queen,” Jourdain replied. “We said nothing of you going to Maevana and retrieving the stone.”

  He was right.

  I choked back a retort, washed it all the way down with cordial, and then said, “So who is that man? The stranger?”

  “One of my faithful thanes,” Jourdain responded. “He served me when I was lord.”

  My eyes widened. “Does it alarm
you that he found you here?”

  “Yes and no. It means I am not as hidden as I once thought,” he said. “But he has been searching for years. And he knew me very well. He knew how I would think, how I would hide and act far better than Lannon’s cronies would.”

  There was a soft rap on the door. A moment later, Luc peered in, saw me sitting before Jourdain, the cordial in our hands, the emotion still bright in our eyes.

  “Dinner at Laurents’,” he announced, gaze roving from Jourdain to me, back to Jourdain with countless questions.

  “Amadine will accompany us,” Jourdain said.

  “Excellent,” Luc stated. “Liam is in the kitchen, having his fill of Pierre’s cooking.”

  I took it that Liam was the thane. But who was Laurent?

  Before the inquiry could even flicker over my face, Jourdain said, “The Laurents are the Kavanaghs.”

  There were a lot of names to keep up—Maevan names hidden within Valenian names—but I began to draw a lineage in my mind, a tree with long branches. One branch was MacQuinn, who I would continue to call Jourdain for protection. One branch was Laurent, who were the long-hidden Kavanaghs. And the last branch was for Lord Morgane, who I had yet to meet and learn his alias.

  “Do you need to freshen up before we depart, Amadine?” Jourdain asked, and I nodded and slowly rose.

  I was about to pass Luc on the threshold when I paused, helplessly turned back around. “I thought the Laurents had settled in another town.”

  “They did,” Jourdain responded. “They moved here not long ago. To be closer.”

  Closer to the heart of the plans that had unexpectedly changed with my arrival.

  I mulled on all of this, the excitement threading through my heart, my stomach, my mind. I washed my face, changed my dress—Jourdain had been true to his word and procured me new clothes—and then tamed my hair in a braided crown.

  Jourdain and Luc were waiting for me in the foyer, and wordlessly, we stepped out into the night and walked to the Laurents’ town house.

  They lived three streets east on the edge of town, a quiet sector, far from the market and from curious eyes. Jourdain didn’t bother with the bell; he knocked, four times fast. The door opened at once, and an older woman with a linen wimple and a ruddy face let us in, her gaze hovering on me as if I might be dangerous.

  “She is one of us,” Jourdain said to the chamberlain, who stiffly nodded and then led us down a narrow corridor to the dining room.

  A long, oaken table was lined with candles and scattered with lavender, the plates and pewter glasses glistening as morning dew. An older man was sitting at the head of the table, waiting for us. He stood when we entered, a welcoming smile on his face.

  He was white-haired and tall, broad-shouldered and clean-cut. He might have been pressing late sixties, but sometimes it is difficult to tell with Maevan men. They age faster than Valenians, with their love of the outdoors. His eyes were dark, gentle, and they found me at once.

  “Ah, this must be your passion daughter, Jourdain,” he said, extending his large, scar-ridden hand to me.

  That’s right; Maevan men shook hands. It went back to fiercer days, to ensure your guests were not hiding blades up their sleeves.

  I smiled and let my hand rest in his. “I am Amadine Jourdain.”

  “Hector Laurent,” the man replied with a bow of his head. “In another time, I was Braden Kavanagh.”

  To hear the name come from his lips gave me chills, made the past suddenly seem closer and clearer, like the days of queens were gathering in my shadow.

  But I didn’t have time to respond to him. A soft tread came up behind me; a lithe figure brushed my shoulder to stand beside Hector Laurent. A young woman, not much older than me, her hair a wild tumble of dark red curls, her freckles as stars across her cheeks. She had doe eyes—large and brown—and they crinkled at the edges as she tentatively smiled at me.

  “Yseult, this is my daughter Amadine,” Jourdain introduced. “Amadine, allow me to introduce you to Yseult Laurent—Isolde Kavanagh—the future queen of Maevana.”

  SEVENTEEN

  A SWORD LESSON

  How did one greet a Maevan queen?

  I didn’t know, and so I fell back to my Valenian upbringing and curtsied, my heart pounding wildly.

  “I have heard so many wonderful things about you, Amadine,” Yseult said, her hands reaching for mine as I straightened.

  Our fingers linked, both pale and cold, a passion and a queen. For one moment, I imagined she was a sister, for here we stood among a room of men, daughters of Maevana who had been raised in Valenia.

  I vowed in that moment that I would do everything I could to see her reclaim the throne.

  “Lady Queen,” I said with a smile, knowing the Maevans didn’t bother with “highness” and “majesty.” “I . . . I am honored to meet you.”

  “Please call me Yseult,” she insisted, squeezing my fingers just before she let go. “And sit beside me at dinner?”

  I nodded and followed to a chair beside hers. The men filled the spaces around us, and the ale was poured and the dinner platters set along the spine of the table. Again, I was surprised by the sentiments of a Maevan dinner—there were no courses set down and taken away before us in orderly fashion. Rather, the platters were passed about, and we filled our plates all at once to overflowing. It was a casual, intimate, natural way to partake in a dinner.

  As I ate, listening to the men speak, I marveled at how well they had forced their accents into hiding, how Valenian they truly seemed. Until I saw little glimpses of their heritage—I heard a slight brogue emerge in Jourdain’s voice; I saw Laurent draw forth a dagger from his doublet to cut his meat, instead of using the table knife.

  But for all the Maevan air that had settled about the table, one thing I could not help but notice: Yseult and Luc still maintained the strict posture, the correct handling of their forks and knives. For, yes, they had been born in Maevana, but they had both been very young when their fathers fled with them. Valenia, with her passion and her grace and etiquette, was the only way of life they knew.

  No sooner had I thought such did I glance down to see a dagger belted to Yseult’s side, nearly hidden in the deep pleats of her simple dress. She felt my stare and glanced at me, a smile hovering just over the edge of her goblet as she prepared to take a sip of ale.

  “Do you fancy blades, Amadine?”

  “Never held one,” I confessed. “You?”

  The men were too absorbed in their conversation to hear us. All the same, Yseult lowered her voice as she responded, “Yes, of course. My father insisted I learn the art of swordsmanship from an early age.”

  I hesitated, unsure if I had the right to ask such of her. Yseult seemed to read my thoughts though, for she offered, “Would you like to learn? I could give you a few lessons.”

  “I would love to,” I answered, feeling Luc’s gaze shift over to us, as if he knew we were making plans without him.

  “Come tomorrow, at noon,” Yseult murmured and winked, for she felt Luc’s interest as well. “And leave your brother at home,” she said loudly, only to rile him.

  “And what are you two planning?” Luc drawled. “Knitting and embroidery?”

  “How did you ever guess, Luc?” Yseult smiled demurely and returned to her dinner.

  No plans or strategies for recovering the throne were discussed that night. This was merely a reunion, a pleasant gathering before a storm. The Laurents—Kavanaghs—did not ask me at all about my memories, about the stone, although I could sense that they knew every single detail. I felt it every time Yseult looked at me, a hoard of curiosities and intrigue in her eyes. Jourdain had said she had a trace of magic in her blood; I was about to recover the stone of her ancestors, set it about her neck. Which meant I was about to bring forth her magic.

  It was my all-consuming thought as we prepared to leave, bidding the Laurents good-bye in the foyer.

  “I shall see you tomorrow,” Yseult wh
ispered to me, folding me in an embrace.

  I wondered if I would ever feel comfortable hugging her, the future queen. It went against every Valenian sentiment in me, to touch a royal. But if there was any time to shed my mother’s heritage, it was now.

  “Tomorrow,” I said with a nod, bidding her farewell as I followed Jourdain and Luc into the night.

  The following day, I returned to the Laurents’ a few minutes shy of noon, Luc on my heels.

  “I am not opposed to this,” my brother insisted as we stood on the front door and rang the bell. “I only think it best that we focus on other things. Hmm?”

  I had told him about the sword lessons but not that my foremost motivation was to convince Jourdain that I could protect myself, that I could be sent to Maevana for the stone’s retrieval.

  “Amadine?” Luc pressed, wanting an answer from me.

  “Hmm?” I lazily returned the hum, to his amused annoyance, as Yseult opened the door.

  “Welcome,” she greeted, letting us inside.

  The first thing I noticed was she was wearing a long-sleeved linen shirt and breeches. I had never seen a woman wear pants, nor look so natural in them. It made me envious that she could move so freely while I was still encumbered by a flurry of skirts.

  Luc hung his passion cloak in the foyer, and then we followed her down the hallway into an antechamber at the back of the house, a room with a stone floor, mullioned windows, and a great oaken chest. Atop the chest were two wooden long-swords, which Yseult gathered.

  “I must confess,” the queen said, blowing a stray tendril of her dark red hair from her eyes, “I have always been the student, never the teacher.”

  I smiled and accepted the scuffed training sword that she extended to me. “Don’t worry; I am a very good pupil.”

  Yseult returned the smile and opened a back door. It led into a square courtyard enclosed by high brick walls, sheltered overhead by woven wooden rafters that were thickly knotted by vines and creeping plants. It was a very private space, only a few splotches of sunlight caressing the hard-packed ground.