by Rebecca Ross
Neeve was quiet for a moment, and then a smile emerged on her lips.
“Did you know that if we decide to marry someone beyond the MacQuinn House, we have to choose them with a ribbon?”
I was instantly intrigued. “A ribbon?”
“Or, perhaps I should say that the ribbon chooses for us,” Neeve said. “It is a test, so we may determine who is worthy beyond our House.”
I settled back in my chair, waiting for more.
“The tradition began a long time ago,” Neeve started. “I do not know if you are familiar with our tapestries or not . . .”
“I’ve heard that the MacQuinns are known to be the best weavers in Maevana.”
“Aye. So much so that we began to hide a golden ribbon in the tapestry wefts as we wove. A skilled weaver can make the ribbon melt into the design, so that it is very difficult to find.”
“Every MacQuinn tapestry holds a hidden ribbon, then?” I asked, still very confused as to how this corresponded to choosing a mate.
Neeve’s smile widened. “Yes. And this is how the tradition began. The first lord of MacQuinn had only one daughter, one that he loved so greatly he did not believe any man—MacQuinn or beyond—would ever be worthy of her. So he had the weavers hide a ribbon within a tapestry they were making, knowing that it would take the most determined, dedicated of men to find it. When the lord’s daughter came of age, man after man arrived to the hall, desperate to win her favor. But Lord MacQuinn called forth the tapestry and his daughter challenged the men to bring her the golden ribbon hidden in the wefts. And man after man could not find it. By the time the twentieth man arrived, Lord MacQuinn believed the lad would only last an hour. But the man stood in the hall for one hour searching, and then one hour turned into two, until evening stretched into dawn. By the first light of the sun, the man had pulled the ribbon from the tapestry. He was a Burke, of all people, and yet Lord MacQuinn said he was more than worthy should his daughter choose to marry him.”
“And did the daughter choose him?” I asked.
“Of course she did. And that is why to this day we MacQuinns think twice before challenging the Burkes to a competition, because they’re a stubborn old lot.”
I laughed; the sound provoked Neeve to join me, until we sat before the fire wiping our eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so lighthearted.
“I think I like that tradition,” I eventually said.
“Yes. And you should use it yourself, if you decide to take a mate outside of the MacQuinns,” Neeve stated. “Unless, that is, the handsome Lord of Morgane is already your secret beau.”
My smile widened, and I felt my cheeks warm. She must have noticed it last night, when Cartier had sat beside me at dinner. Neeve raised her brows at me, waiting.
“Lord Morgane is an old friend of mine,” I found myself saying. “He was my instructor in Valenia.”
“For the passion?” Neeve asked. “What does that mean, exactly?”
I began to explain it to her, inwardly struck with the worry that she would find the passion study frivolous. But Neeve seemed hungry to hear of it, as I had been to hear of her traditions. I would have kept talking deep into the night had we not heard voices in the hall. The sound seemed to jar her, reminding her that she was here in my chamber secretly, that she had been here for well over an hour.
“I should probably go,” Neeve said, hugging the stack of paper to her heart. “Before my absence is noted.”
We stood together, nearly the same height.
“Thank you, Mistress, for writing this for me,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome, Neeve. I shall see you tomorrow night, then?”
She nodded and quietly slipped out into the corridor as if she were nothing more than a shadow.
My body was exhausted, and yet my mind was brimming with what had just happened tonight, with all that Neeve had said to me. I knew if I lay down, sleep would evade me. So I tossed another log on the fire and sat before the hearth, my writing table still before me spread with paper and quill and ink. I found Merei’s letter and tore it open gently, the wax seal of a musical note catching beneath my nail.
Dearest Bri,
Yes, I know you’ll be surprised by this letter coming to you so soon. But didn’t someone vow they would “write me every hour of every day”? (Because I’m still waiting on that mountain of letters you promised me!)
I’m currently sitting at a lopsided table at an old leaky tavern in the city of Isotta, right by the harbor, and it smells of fish and wine and a man’s terrible cologne. If you hold your nose to this parchment, you can probably smell it—it’s that strong. There’s also a one-eyed tabby cat that keeps glaring at me, trying to lick the grease from my dinner. Despite all of this chaos, I have a moment before I’m supposed to meet up with my consort, and I wanted to write you.
I just disembarked from my ship, and it’s hard to believe I just left you behind in Maevana as a lord’s daughter, that I just saw you yesterday, that the revolution you and Cartier drew me into has done everything you dreamt it would. Ah, Bri! If only we’d known what was to come that night at the summer solstice four months ago, when we were both so worried we would fail our passion! And how long ago that time feels now. I confess, I wish you and I could go back to Magnalia, just for a day.
Old memories aside, I do have a little snippet of news that I think you will find interesting. You know how taverns attract the salt of the earth? Well, I overheard quite a few of them talking about Maevana’s revolution, about Queen Isolde returning to the throne and the Lannons being in chains awaiting trial. (It took everything within me to remain quiet and sip my wine.) Quite a few people here think it is marvelous that a queen has taken back the northern crown, but there are a few who are nervous. I think they worry unrest might spread to Valenia, that some here will dare to contemplate a coup against King Phillipe. Valenians are very curious and will be watching the north in the upcoming weeks, eager to hear how things are resolved with the Lannons. I’ve heard talk center on everything from beheadings to torture to making all of the Lannons walk over flames so that they slowly burn to death. Let me know the truth of what actually happens, and I will have to keep you abreast with such gossip and developments here in the south, but it only makes me miss you more.
I need to wrap this up, and you know I am going to ask these three vital questions (so you had better answer them all!):
First, what does your cloak look like?
Second, how good of a kisser is Cartier?
Third, when can you come visit Valenia?
Write me soon!
Love,
Merei
PS: Oh! I almost forgot. The sheet of music in this letter is for your brother. He asked me to send it to him. Please do pass it on to him, with my regards!—M
I read the letter a second time, my spirits lifting. I reached for my half-written letter I had begun that morning, and then decided to start it over. I asked Merei about her consort, where they were traveling to next, what sort of people and parties had she played her music for. I answered her three “vital” questions with as much grace as I could—my cloak is beautiful, stitched with the constellation of Aviana; I should hopefully visit Valenia sometime in the next few months when things settle here (prepare for me to bunk with you wherever you are); Cartier is a terribly good kisser—and then I told her about the grievances: that I was still struggling to fit in here, that I thought about her and Valenia nearly more than I could bear. Before I could hem my worries, I wrote them down, as smoothly as if I were speaking them to her, as if she were sitting in this room with me.
And yet I already knew what she would say to me:
You are a daughter of Maevana. You are made of ancient songs and stars and steel.
I stopped writing, staring at the words until they blurred in my weary sight. And yet I could almost hear the echo of Merei’s music, as if she were only playing down the hall, as if I were still at Magnalia with her. I closed my e
yes, homesick yet again, but then I listened to the hiss of the fire, to the sounds of laughter drifting down the corridor, the howl of the wind beyond my window, and I thought, This is my home. This is my family. And one day, I will belong here; one day, I will feel like a daughter of MacQuinn.
SIX
THE LASS WITH THE BLUE CLOAK
Lord Morgane’s Territory, Castle Brígh
Cartier
I’ve invited Lady and Lord Dermott to stay with us next week,” I said to Aileen one morning, the Lannons’ trial steadily growing closer by the day.
“Lady and Lord Dermott?” Aileen repeated, her voice a touch too shrill for my liking. “Here?”
We both glanced around to the broken windows and empty rooms.
I had written to the Dermotts, inviting them to lodge at Castle Brígh on their journey down to the trial. And I thought that I had given myself enough time to finish restoring the castle for proper visitors, as well as to get my plans in place for wooing the Dermotts into a public alliance with the queen. But by the look on Aileen’s face . . . I realized I had bitten off more than I could swallow.
“I apologize,” I said in a rush. “I realize we are not best suited for visitors at the moment.” But this alliance must be done quickly, I wanted to add but nipped it before the words could emerge, as Aileen arched her brow at me.
“Does this mean you are positioning me as the castle chamberlain?” she inquired, a faint smile in her eyes.
“Aye, Aileen.”
“Then don’t worry, Lord Aodhan,” she said, touching my arm. “We shall get this castle ready in seven days.”
Later that afternoon, I found myself standing in the office with Thane Seamus, both of us trying to decide how we would repair the hole in the roof, when Tomas came hopping into the room, his injured foot cocked back.
“Milord,” the boy said, tugging at my sleeve. “There’s a—”
“Lad, do not tug on the lord’s sleeve,” Seamus gently scolded, and Tomas’s face flushed as he jumped back to put some proper distance between us.
“It’s all right,” I said, glancing down at Tomas. The boy had made himself scarce the past two days, as if he had been overwhelmed by all the people now gathered in the castle. “Let me finish this, and then you and I can talk.”
Tomas nodded and hopped from the room. I watched him go, noticing how his shoulders were stooped.
“My lord Aodhan, you need to instruct young ones like him to respect you,” Seamus said with a sigh. “Or else he will constantly be out of line.”
“Yes, well, as far as I know, he is an orphan,” I said. “And I want him to feel at home with us.”
Seamus said nothing. And I wondered if I was wrong to think such—I knew nothing of raising children—but I did not have time to stand and ponder it. I returned to talking about roof repairs, sorting Tomas to the back of my mind.
Half an hour later, Seamus left to begin overseeing repairs to the alehouse, about a fifteen-minute ride but still on the property, after Aileen had admonished that “we cannot have Lady and Lord Dermott here without proper ale.” I could not fault her for ranking drink above proper beds and glass windows, and I departed the office in search of Tomas. The boy seemed to disappear at will, slipping into shadows and finding the best hiding places.
I went to the hall first, where some of the women were working at trestle tables around a pot of tea, sewing curtains and quilts for the guest chambers. Their laughter hushed at the sight of me, their gazes softening as they watched me approach.
“Good afternoon. Have you seen Tomas?” I asked. “He’s about yea high, with red hair.”
“Yes, we saw him, Lord Aodhan,” one of the women said, her fingers working a needle through the fabric all the while. “He’s with the lass with the blue cloak.”
Brienna.
I startled; it was like my heart was on a string, yanking through me at the mere thought of her.
“Thank you,” I said and rushed from the hall, the women’s whispers chasing my heels as I emerged into the courtyard. From there I hurried to the stables, but there was no trace of Brienna. One of the grooms informed me that she had just been there with Tomas, speaking of honey cakes, and so I returned to the castle through the kitchens, where a tray of honey cakes was cooling on the windowsill, two of them noticeably missing. . . .
I walked back toward the office, my tread quiet on the stone floors; I could hear Brienna’s voice drift into the corridor as she talked to Tomas.
“So I began to dig, just beneath the tree.”
“With your bare hands?” Tomas eagerly asked.
“No, silly boy. With a spade. I had stowed it away in my pocket, and—”
“Your pocket? Dresses have pockets?”
“Of course they do. Don’t you think women need a place to hide a thing or two?”
“I suppose so. What happened next?” Tomas insisted.
“I dug until I found the locket.”
I gently pushed the door open, almost hesitant to interrupt this moment. The door creaked, as everything in this castle did, alerting them of my arrival, and I stood on the threshold, gazing down at them.
There was no furniture in the office. Brienna and Tomas were seated on the floor in a ring of sunlight, legs outstretched as they leaned back on their hands.
Brienna quieted as she met my gaze.
“I tried to tell you, milord!” Tomas hurried to say, as if he was worried he would be in trouble. “Mistress Brienna arrived, but you sent me away before I could.”
“Yes, and I apologize, Tomas,” I said, moving to join their circle on the floor. “Next time, I will listen.”
“Are you ill, milord?” The boy frowned as he studied me. “You look like you have a fever.”
I conceded to chuckle, and wiped my brow again. “No, I am not ill. I merely chased the two of you around the property.”
“I brought her back here to you, milord.”
“Mm-hmm. I should have waited here, then.” My eyes helplessly shifted to Brienna. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and her face was flushed from the ride, her eyes bright. Her cloak was knotted at her collar; the dark blue spread around her, basking in the light.
“I was just telling Tomas the story about how I found the stone,” she said, amused.
“What happened next?” Tomas insisted, directing his attention back to her.
“Well, the Stone of Eventide was within the locket,” Brienna continued. “And I had to hide it in my . . . ah, in my dress.”
“In your pocket, you mean?” Tomas suggested, propping his chin in his palm.
“Yes. Something like that.” She glanced back to me with a wry smile.
“What does the stone look like?” he asked.
“Like a large moonstone.”
“I’ve seen a few moonstones,” the boy remarked. “What else?”
“The Eventide changes colors. I believe it reads the moods of the one who bears it.”
“But only the Kavanaghs can wear it without the locket, right?”
“Yes,” Brienna said. “It would burn people like you and me.”
Tomas finally became quiet, mulling over what we had told him. My gaze traced Brienna again, and I softly suggested, “Tomas? Why don’t you go see if Cook needs another hand in the kitchen?”
Tomas groaned. “But I want to hear the rest of Mistress Brienna’s story.”
“There will be another day for stories. Go along now.”
Tomas huffed to his feet, hobbling his way out.
“You should get him a little crutch before he tears those stitches you gave him,” Brienna said. “I had to carry him on my back.”
“You what?”
“Don’t look so surprised, Cartier. The boy’s nothing but skin and bones.”
The silence stretched between us. I felt pricked by guilt.
“I don’t know who he belongs to,” I finally said. “I discovered him the other night. I think he had been squatting here.”
/> “Maybe one day he will tell you where he comes from,” she responded.
I sighed, leaning back on my hands, regarding her once more. There was an echo of a bang, followed by Cook’s distant shouting. I could hear Tomas defiantly shouting back, and I groaned.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Brienna.” I closed my eyes, that weight coming over me again. Weight of the land, weight of the people, weight of the Dermott alliance, weight of the impending trial. Months ago, I would have never imagined myself in such a state.
Brienna moved closer to me; I listened to the whisper of her dress, felt her block the sun as she sat before me, her hands on my knees. I opened my eyes to see the light crowning her, and for a moment it was simply her and me and no one else in the world.
“There is no guidebook for this,” she said. “But your people have gathered about you, Cartier. They are wonderful and they are dedicated. They don’t expect you to have all the answers, or to settle into your role by tonight. It will take some time.”
I did not know what to say, but her words reassured me. I took her hands in mine—our palms aligned; our fingers linked. I noticed the ink stains on her right hand.
“You’ve been busy writing, I see.”
She smiled wanly. “Yes. Jourdain asked me to begin gathering grievances.”
That took me somewhat by surprise. It felt too soon to be gathering up that darkness; we had just arrived back home, becoming reacquainted with what our lives were supposed to be. But then I reminded myself that the trial was in a matter of days. Of course, I should be gathering up my people’s grievances, as well. I should begin penning my own. Which meant I needed to fully confront what had happened in detail that night. Because while I knew some truth, I did not know the whole of it. I did not know who had given the killing blow to my sister, or the full extent of violence that was done to the Morgane people.
And then there was my mother’s letter, which I continued to carry around in my pocket, uncertain what to make of it. I had Lannon blood in my veins; did I need to acknowledge this truth or conceal it?
I broke from those thoughts to see Brienna was watching me.
