by Rebecca Ross
“Don’t worry, Father,” I replied, but I was smiling, and he gave me a pointed look that said I had better not go off and handfast without his knowing.
Nessie sat obediently at his side, as if she knew I needed to take this ride alone.
The mare and I took to the fields, chasing after the sun in the west, following the promise of blue wildflowers.
THIRTY-FOUR
AVIANA
Lord Morgane’s Territory, Castle Brígh
Castle Brígh stood in a grove of oaks, a beautiful crumbling estate built in the foothills of the Killough Mountains. My mare slowed as I approached the trees, as I realized that Cartier’s homecoming had been nothing like Jourdain and Luc’s.
It was quiet, dilapidated. For twenty-five years, the Morgane holding had been left to fall apart, abandoned, given back to the earth.
I slid from the horse and left her tethered in the shade of one of the oaks, next to Cartier’s gelding. And then I began to walk to the courtyard, my fingers brushing over the tips of the long grass, where the Corogan faithfully bloomed in a glory of cold-loving petals. I followed the narrow trail that Cartier had blazed through the thicket, stopping to pick several of the flowers, careful to avoid the thorns on their stems.
I remembered how he liked my hair down and loose, how he had once crowned me with wildflowers. So I took out my braids and let my tresses fall wild and free, tucking a few of the Corogan flowers in my windblown hair.
I looked down at my breeches, my boots, the loose draws of my linen shirt, the pendant that gleamed silver over my heart. This is who I am, all I have to give him.
I ascended the broken steps of his courtyard.
It was quiet. Nature had gradually regained much of the terrace; vines weaved down walls, through the broken windowpanes. An assortment of weeds worked their way up to fearsome bullies through the cracks in the stones, provoking me to sneeze when I passed them. But I could see the path Cartier had taken. He had chopped and beaten his way through the tangling greenery to the twin front doors, which hung at sad angles from their iron hinges.
The shadows of the interior were refreshing to my face—which would undeniably gain a sunburn come evening—and I walked carefully through the foyer, taking heed of the vines and plants that had claimed shattered pieces of the floor. Somehow, the disaster was beautiful to me. The furniture still stood, coated with dust and taken by cobwebs. I stopped at a chair in the foyer, and as my fingers touched a pattern in the dust, I imagined Cartier had once sat in it as a child.
“I wondered when I would see you again.”
His voice startled me. I jumped upright, my hand pressed to my heart as I turned to see him standing halfway down the grand staircase, watching me with a hint of a smile.
“You know better than to startle me like that!” I scolded.
He continued descending the stairs, through streams of sunlight that illumined the arched windows.
“Welcome,” he greeted. “Would you like the grand tour?”
“Yes, Lord Morgane.”
He wordlessly held his hand out for me, and my fingers wove among his. “Let me show you the second floor,” Cartier offered, guiding me back up the stairs, pointing to broken stones I should avoid.
“Do you remember living here?” I asked, my voice filling the corridor as I let him pull me through cobwebs and dust, through the places where he had once lived.
“Sometimes I think I do,” he replied, pausing. “But honestly, no. I was just a child when my father and I fled. Here, this is my favorite room.”
We walked into a wide chamber, open and full of light. Dropping his hand, I passed through the room, taking in the marble bookshelves built into the walls which still held an impressive collection of books, the cracked mirror that hung upon the rose-stoned hearth, the furniture that sat exactly as it had been left over two decades ago. I went directly to the wall of large mullioned windows, pieces of broken glass remaining as jagged little teeth, admiring the view of the pastures.
“Where are your people, Cartier?” I asked, unable to hold my curiosity.
“They will arrive tomorrow. I wanted to see the castle for myself, alone.”
And I could understand. I appreciated solemn, private moments, ones where I could reflect and think. But perhaps more than that, I realized that he had wanted to see his parents’ room, his sister’s room, without an audience.
Before the melancholy could creep upon us, I stated, “I think I could look at this view every day and be content.”
“You missed the best part of the room,” Cartier remarked, and I frowned and turned on my heel.
“What? The books?”
“No, the floor.”
I glanced down. Through the marks our boots had made in the dirt, I saw the amazing pattern of the tiles. I knelt beside him, and we both used our hands to smooth away the years of dust. The colors still thrived, each tile intricate and unique, beauty spilling from one square to the next.
“My father told me that he had many arguments with my mother about these floors,” Cartier explained, sitting back on his heels.
“Why?”
“Well, he had them laid for her, because she loved art. And she had always told him that floors were sorely unappreciated. But the conflict lay in that she wanted to be able to admire them, and he wanted rugs. Stone and tile floors are miserably cold during autumn and winter in Maevana.”
“Yes, I can imagine,” I said.
“So they argued about the floors. To cover them with rugs, or to suffer cold feet for half of the year.”
“I imagine your mother won?”
“You imagine right.” Cartier smiled. He brushed the dirt from his hands and stood. “So, my little passion. I surmise you have come to my lovely home because I still have something of yours?”
I stood, feeling my muscles pull sore and tight from the ride. I walked to the bookcases, suddenly needing something solid to lean on. My pulse was skipping, anxious, hungry, as I leaned against the wall, as I turned and looked at him, through sunlight and dust motes.
“Yes, Master Cartier,” I said, knowing it was the last time I would ever address him as such.
I watched as he moved to the other side of the room, where his satchel rested on a desk. My fingers spread behind me on the cold marble of the shelves as I waited for him. When I saw the color of blue in his hands, I closed my eyes, listened to my heart dance steady and slow.
“Open your eyes, Brienna.”
When I did, the cloak unfolded in his hands, rippling to brush the floor as the tide of the ocean.
“Aviana,” I whispered, my fingers moving to catch the rich tumble of the cloak that was mine. He had chosen Aviana for me, the constellation that accompanied his own. They were stars that, like his Verene, bespoke of bravery in darkness, of triumph. Of steadfastness.
“Yes,” he said. “And we both know that Verene would have no hope of light without Aviana.”
I stepped forward as he brought the cloak about my shoulders, as he fastened the draws at my collar. Then his hands gently gathered my hair, lifting it up and letting it fall down my back, the Corogan flowers casting a sweet fragrance between us.
A master and his passion. A passion and her master.
I met his gaze and breathed, “This is all that I am, all that I can offer you . . .”
I am broken and treacherous, I am divided . . .
But the words faded when he touched me, when his fingertips traced my cheek, down my neck, stopping when he reached my cloak strings, the very knot he had made.
For once, he gave me no words, this master of knowledge, this lord of the Swift. But he answered me. He kissed the left corner of my mouth, the girl I had once been who he had first loved, Valenian grace and passion. And then he kissed the right corner of my lips, the woman I had become, who had risen from ashes and steel, courage and fire.
“I will take and love all of you, Brienna MacQuinn, your shadows and your light, for you have challenged me;
you have captivated me. And I desire no other but you,” he whispered, his fingers tangling in my hair, in my wildflowers, as he drew me close to him.
He kissed me in the quiet shadows of his house, in the sweetest hour of afternoon, when light desires to surrender to evening. His fingers trailed down my back, touching every star he had given me. And I let the wonder cascade around us as I tasted each of his promises, as I woke the fire that he had long tempered in wait for me.
Time became luminous, as if the moon had married the sun, the minutes eventually tugging on my heart to make me see how late it was, that night had almost fallen. And I remembered that I had someplace to be, that I had a father and a brother who would be watching the door for my return. Only then did I break our kiss, although Cartier’s hands pressed to my back, keeping me close.
I laid my finger over his lips and said, “My father has invited you to dinner in our hall. We had better leave now, or else he will think the worst.”
Cartier dared to steal one more kiss and then he let me go, gathering his cloak and his satchel. We stepped out into the dusk together, weaving back through the weeds; the nightingales sang for his return, the crickets chirped one final melody before the frost could officially silence them.
I mounted my horse and waited as Cartier saddled his gelding, looking up as first star winked in the fading sunset. And that was when I stated, “I am going to build a House of knowledge here.”
This was what I had told Merei before she left Maevana, hoping it would draw her back, hoping she would unite her passion with mine.
I felt Cartier’s gaze shift to me, and I turned in the saddle to meet it.
“I only want the very best of arials to teach my ardens,” I continued. “Do you know where I may find one?”
The wind tousled his hair as he smiled at me, a gleam of midnight in his eyes as he rose to my challenge. “I know of one.”
“Tell him to apply at once.”
“Don’t worry. He will.”
I smiled and nudged my horse forward, leaving Cartier behind to catch me on the road.
I wondered if I could truly do this, if I could build the first House of knowledge in Maevana, if I could inspire the passions in a land of warriors. When it felt daunting, when it felt like I was pressing against immovable stone, I imagined a group of bright-eyed Maevan girls becoming passions of knowledge, girls who wore swords at their sides beneath blue cloaks. I imagined picking their constellations from the sky, and realized that Cartier had been right at the solstice; I was a historian as I was a teacher, and I was about to carve my path.
I will raise this House. I breathed my promise to the wind just as I heard Cartier’s horse cantering behind me, closing the distance between us.
I eased, just a bit, to let him catch me.
Above us, the stars burned, slow and steady. Their light guided me home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Aly H.
REBECCA ROSS received her bachelor’s degree in English from the University of Georgia. In the past, she has worked at a Colorado dude ranch, as a school librarian, and as a live-time captionist for a college. She resides in northeast Georgia with her husband and her dog. The Queen’s Rising is her debut novel. Visit her on the web at www.rebeccarossauthor.com or on Twitter @_RebeccaRoss.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
BOOKS BY REBECCA ROSS
The Queen’s Rising
BACK AD
DISCOVER
your next favorite read
MEET
new authors to love
WIN
free books
SHARE
infographics, playlists, quizzes, and more
WATCH
the latest videos
www.epicreads.com
COPYRIGHT
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THE QUEEN’S RISING. Copyright © 2018 by Rebecca Ross LLC. Map illustration by Virginia Allyn. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.epicreads.com
Cover image by Jonathan Barkat
Cover illustration by Virginia Allyn
Wood texture by Shutterstock/Ammak
Cover design by Aurora Parlagreco
* * *
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017939005
Digital Edition FEBRUARY 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-247137-6
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-247134-5
* * *
17 18 19 20 21 CG/LSCH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON M4W 1A8, Canada
www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com
* Denotes a fallen House
