by Rebecca Ross
“Will you join us for breakfast, Lord Aodhan?” Grainne inquired as I approached them at the table. It looked as if they were halfway through eating, and I stood on the dais stairs, feeling as if I were the visitor, and she were the hostess.
“Of course I will,” I said, even though my stomach was wound in a knot. “I trust you both slept well?”
But Grainne never had the opportunity to respond. I felt a sudden tug on my sleeve, and I watched Grainne’s gaze slide from my face to my elbow, her smile waning.
I already knew who it was. I glanced down to find Tomas at my side, propped on the wooden crutch my carpenter had made for him, a small knapsack dangling from his shoulder.
“I’m going with you, milord,” the boy insisted, his voice trembling. “You cannot leave me behind.”
My heart softened, and I knelt so I could quietly address him. “Tomas. I’m giving you an important order. I need you to stay here at Brígh, to look after the castle while I’m away.”
Before the words left my mouth, he was shaking his head, red hair tumbling into his eyes. “No. No, I cannot stay here.”
“Why, lad? Why can’t you stay?”
Tomas glanced up to Lady Grainne, finally noticing her. He grew very still before setting his eyes on me again. “Because I’m your runner.”
I was growing irritated with his behavior, with his inability to heed me. I drew in a breath, wondering what could be at the root of this insistence, and asked, “Has someone been unkind to you here, Tomas? You can tell me if they have. I will set it right before I leave.”
He shook his head again, but I noticed the tears in his eyes. “I need to go with you.”
“For the love of the gods, Tomas,” I whispered, my anger rising. “You cannot go with me this time. Do you understand?”
To my dismay, Tomas burst into tears. Embarrassed, he shoved his crutch at me and darted off before I could stop him.
I knelt there a moment more, eventually taking up Tomas’s crutch and walking to my chair at Grainne’s side. I sighed and poured myself a cup of tea, trying to think of something lighthearted to say to the Dermotts, who were both staring at me.
“Lord Aodhan?” Grainne said, her voice so low I almost didn’t hear her. “Don’t you know who that lad is?”
I dumped far too much cream in my tea, still irked. “He’s an orphan I found squatting in the castle. I apologize for his outburst.”
She was quiet. Her silence made me look at her, at the shock and dread in her eyes.
“He’s no orphan,” Grainne murmured. “His name is Ewan. And he’s Declan Lannon’s son.”
ELEVEN
HALF-MOONS
En Route to Lyonesse, MacQuinn-Morgane territory border
Brienna
“What is keeping Morgane?”
Jourdain’s impatient breath turned into clouds, the morning frost still glittering on the ground as we waited for Cartier and the Dermotts. I sat on my mare between Luc and my father, our four guards also mounted on their horses, waiting a respectful distance behind us. We were packed and ready, our thoughts anxiously bent toward the journey, toward the trial that awaited us. And as the minutes dragged onward and we remained stationed beneath the trees at the MacQuinn-Morgane border, I began to feel my worries grow. Cartier was nearly half an hour late. And he was never late.
“We did agree to meet here, did we not?” Jourdain asked, nudging his horse forward. He frowned at the road, which wound to Castle Brígh. He couldn’t see far; the fog was still heavy, shimmering like a veil in the dawn.
“Do you think something went amiss last night?” Luc asked. “With the Dermotts?”
It was the only feasible explanation I could think of, and I tried to swallow the lump of fear in my throat.
My mare’s ears pricked forward.
I set my eyes on the fog, waiting, my heart quickening as I finally heard the chorus of hooves pounding on the road. I had a sword sheathed at my back; my hand nearly went to the hilt, but Cartier broke through the fog first, the sunlight catching the golden circlet on his brow. For one moment, I did not recognize him.
His flaxen hair was braided. His face was unshaven. He was wearing leathers and a fur pelt instead of his passion cloak. He looked cold as stone, his face carefully guarded so that I had no idea what he was feeling, what he was thinking.
And then he looked at me, and I saw something in him ease just a bit, a knot coming unwound, as if he could finally breathe.
“I apologize for being late,” he said, his gelding coming to a stop.
We didn’t have a chance to respond, for the Dermotts were right behind him.
Grainne’s gaze went straight to mine, as if a sightless channel was between us.
“I have been eager to meet the woman who found the stone,” she said, smiling.
I returned her smile. “As I have been eager to meet the Lady of Dermott.”
“Ride at my side, then?”
I nodded, my mare aligning with her impressive draft horse. Jourdain was saying something, but I didn’t quite catch his words; I felt Cartier’s gaze, and I looked up to meet it.
Why were you late? I wanted to ask him.
He must have seen the question in my eyes, because he glanced away from me, as if he did not want to answer.
We began our journey, Jourdain setting a rigorous pace. The good thing about riding fast was that it did not leave room for conversation, and I could wholly sink into my own thoughts.
I tried to come up with a reason for Cartier’s coldness, and when that made my heart ache too much, I moved on to the next painful reverie. Neeve.
My sister. I have a sister.
I had hardly felt like myself since Dillon revealed who Neeve was.
I wanted to take her hand in mine, to look at her attentively, to listen to her voice. And yet I had not had the chance to speak with her since Dillon’s revelation.
I wondered if that was somehow for the best, to give me time to adjust to the fact that I was linked to Neeve through Allenach, that Neeve was mine by half. And Dillon had insisted I not reveal anything to her.
When the time is right, we will tell her she is your sister. We will tell her who her father is.
Our pace eventually slowed, to let our horses rest at a walk, and I found myself riding alone with Lady Grainne, the men slightly ahead of us.
“Your cloak is beautiful,” Grainne said, her eyes tracing my passion cloak.
“Thank you.” I scrambled to think of a compliment to give in return, but ended up deciding it was best to wait and see what Grainne truly desired to talk about, because she had pitched her voice low, as if she did not want the men to overhear us.
“Perhaps you will start a House of passion here? In the north?” she asked when Cartier glanced over his shoulder, his gaze going directly to me.
“It is my hope to do such,” I replied, my eyes meeting his again before he turned around in the saddle. He said something to Rowan Dermott, who was riding at his side.
“How long have you known Lord Aodhan?”
“Eight years,” I replied.
“So you have known him for quite some time,” Grainne commented. “Did he help you find the Stone of Eventide, then?”
“No.” I was hesitant to give too much away; I still did not know if Grainne was going to unite with us or not, and it made me slightly nervous, as if any word I said might cast her one way or another.
She smiled, sensing my hesitation. “I am making you uncomfortable. It is not my intent. I am merely curious as to how all of you rebels fit together, to get to know you better.”
I met her gaze with a smile. “You are not making me uncomfortable, Lady.” I shifted in the saddle, my legs already sore. “MacQuinn adopted me when he learned that I had knowledge of the stone’s whereabouts. Luc became my brother, and it seems as if we have always been so. Lord Aodhan was my instructor for several years. I did not discover his true identity until a few weeks ago.”
“That m
ust have come as quite a shock,” Grainne stated mirthfully.
I nearly laughed. “Yes.”
We were quiet for a moment, Luc’s voice drifting back to us as he dramatically told a story to the men.
“I just want you to know,” Grainne murmured, “that any woman who scorns Pierce Halloran is an instant ally of mine.”
Her confession surprised me. I met her gaze again, my heart soaking in the offer of comradery, and now I was the one swarming with questions.
“Ah, you’ve heard. You know him well, then?”
Grainne snorted. “Unfortunately, yes. He and his band of brigands have terrorized my people for the past couple of years.”
“I hate to hear such a thing,” I responded, sorrowful. I paused, remembering the last thing Pierce said to me—You will regret this. “May I ask you . . . Is he the sort of man to retaliate?”
Grainne was silent for a moment, but then she directed her attention to me, and I saw there were no guises or masks between us, that she was going to answer me honestly.
“He is a coward. He never strikes alone, only when he has numbers behind him. Many times, I thought of him as a puppet, and perhaps there was another man at the helm, giving him orders, pulling his strings. Because he is not the smartest beast I’ve come across, but all that being said . . . he never forgets a slight.”
I mulled on her words, my dread deepening. “I noticed a mark on his inner wrist.”
“Yes,” Grainne said. “The half-moon mark. It is a sign of the Lannons’ blessing. Those who took the mark permanently on their skin were ensured to remain in Gilroy’s good favor no matter what House they hailed from. It was given to them after they took an oath of fealty. They are the king’s staunchest of followers.”
Which Pierce must be. My stomach roiled.
“And if you study the coat of arms of the Hallorans, the Carrans, and the Allenachs . . .” She paused a moment, and I surmised she knew I was Brendan Allenach’s bastard. “They made a slight addition to their sigils. It is somewhat difficult to find, hidden in the embellishment, but I promise if you look closely, you will see the half-moon. Their way of proclaiming chief allegiance to the Lannons, even above their own House.”
“So dissenters of the queen might be easily found,” I murmured, “merely by pulling up their sleeves.”
Grainne nodded, a gleam in her dark eyes. “Aye, Brienna MacQuinn. I would start with them, if it is opposition you fear for Isolde Kavanagh.”
Our horses had nearly come to a halt in the road.
I owed her information in return. And I felt it in the air between us, the debt owed.
“Ask me anything,” I whispered. “And I shall tell it to you.”
Grainne didn’t hesitate. “The Stone of Eventide. Has it burned any of you?”
She was referencing the legendary tale of how the stone burned those who lacked magic, the simplest way to test if one was a Kavanagh or not.
“I kept it in a locket as I bore it, and I still felt its heat at moments,” I answered. “No one else attempted to touch it beyond Isolde, so I cannot answer that fully.”
She wanted to say something more, but we were interrupted by Jourdain, who had trotted back to check on us.
“Ladies? Are we ready to press onward?”
“Of course we are, Lord MacQuinn,” Grainne replied smoothly with a smile. “We will follow your lead.”
My father nodded, glancing to me before turning his horse around.
“As far as Pierce Halloran goes,” Grainne said, gathering her reins as our horses transitioned to a trot. I had to urge my mare faster, to keep stride with her gelding, to catch her final word of advice. . . . “Watch your back, Brienna.”
TWELVE
BITTER PORTIONS
The Royal Castle of Lyonesse, Lord Burke’s Territory Three Days Until the Trial
Cartier
Tomas was Declan’s son. I had Declan’s son beneath my roof. Which meant that I had been—inadvertently—harboring a Lannon.
When Grainne had told me who the boy truly was, I had bolted up from the table to call him back, unsure as to what I was going to do about it. About him. But Tomas—his real name Ewan—had vanished, darting off into castle shadows. I had been tempted to overturn every piece of furniture to find him, to speak to him. And then I had realized exactly who I was mimicking, as if this castle was cursed, and I had felt gravely ill.
Where are you, Ewan?
I let him remain hidden, and had gone to Aileen, wondering . . . did she know? Did she know Declan’s son was my runner? That Declan’s son had attached himself to me?
“Will you watch over Tomas while I’m away?” I had asked her, trying to appear at ease.
“Of course, Lord Aodhan. I’ll make sure he’s taken care of,” she had responded. “Don’t worry about him.”
Oh, I would certainly worry about him. Here I was protecting my enemy’s son. Here I was forming a fondness for the lad, pretending that he was part of my own, a young Morgane orphan who needed me. Letting him sleep in my chambers and eat at my table, letting him follow me around like a shadow. Here I was caring for him when he was supposed to be in chains with the rest of his family, locked away in the castle dungeons.
My gods.
Aileen did not know who Ewan was. I could tell she didn’t. And I do not think any of my people recognized him, most likely because all the Morganes had remained in Lord Burke’s holding, and had never gone to the royal castle, where they would have caught a glimpse of the king’s grandson.
But Grainne Dermott certainly had. And now that she knew of it, she held a dark secret over my head, one I didn’t know if she would let drop to crush me.
I went straight to my office, to sit down in private for a moment. There was still a hole in the roof. I was sprawled on the dirty floor. And I remained there for as long as I could, sorting through my thoughts. I was bound by honor to protect a child who had come to me for help—who I had promised I would protect—and yet I was held by terrible responsibility, to hand Ewan over, to take him to the dungeons to join his family, to make him stand trial with them.
What was I to do?
I weighed the options, wondering if I should, indeed, take him to Lyonesse as he was so ardently begging, if I should place him in Isolde’s hands and say, Here he is. The missing Lannon prince no one is speaking of. Chain him up with his father.
That is what I should do, what a Lord of Morgane would do.
And yet I could not.
If you cannot find him, you cannot take him.
I had summoned for the Dermotts to come into my office. No matter there was still no furniture for them to sit on, and no fire alight in the cracked hearth, and the sky was gazing in.
Grainne had taken note of all of the broken pieces of the chamber, those broken pieces I had striven to hide from her. Yet she said nothing of my disrepair or of Ewan. She stood next to Rowan and stared at me, waiting.
“I did not know it was him,” I said, my voice strained.
“I know, Lord Aodhan.” I thought she was pitying me until I relented to look at her and saw there was a measure of compassion in her eyes. “Rowan and I will not speak of this—we shall act as if we never saw him, if that is what you think is best for your House.”
I wanted to believe her. And yet I knew she could very well be tucking my ominous secret away, to draw forth at a later date, to expose me.
“How can I trust you?” I rasped, knowing the morning was getting away, that we were supposed to be on the road, meeting the MacQuinns.
“How do any of us trust anyone these days?” she countered. “Let my word be enough for you.”
Not the answer I was looking for. But then I remembered our conversation from the night before, how she had deflected my assumption that the Dermotts had recently discovered that their blood held a trace of magic. It was a wild hunch, and yet it was all that I held in terms of collateral.
Grainne knew it too. There was a stiffness in her postu
re, as she was daring me to bring it up again.
It made for a very long day of travel.
The weather had turned foul by the time we reached Lyonesse. A late-afternoon storm had rolled in from the west; we were all drenched and taciturn as we rode toward the castle, the thoroughfare nearly a swamp with all the rain and mud.
My eyes were on Brienna as we passed through the castle gates, coming to a final halt in the royal courtyard. Her passion cloak was speckled in mud, the braids in her long brown hair were dripping with rain, and yet she was smiling, laughing with Grainne.
Isolde was standing beneath the arch of the courtyard, defying the rain, dressed in a simple green dress with a woven belt of silver at her waist. The Stone of Eventide hung from her neck, luminous in the storm, and her red hair was pulled back in an array of little braids. I watched as she smiled, shaking Grainne’s and Rowan’s hands as if she were an old acquaintance and not a woman about to ascend the throne. There was a humility about her, as well as an air of mystery, which made me remember what she had been like when we were children, when she and I had learned who we truly were, that I was the heir of Morgane and she was destined to become the northern queen.
She had been quiet and gentle, the sort of child who observed far more than she let on. The sort of child no one suspects will draw her steel. Because of that, she and I had formed a quick friendship, and a tradition of eavesdropping on our fathers when they secretly met once a year, discussing strategies and plans to return home to Maevana.
“They want to make me queen, Theo,” Isolde had whispered to me, terrified.
I was eleven, she was thirteen, and we sat in a closet, listening to our fathers’ plans, their agony over our lost homeland. Luc had been with us, of course, bored to tears and complaining about the dust. But that was the moment we all realized . . . if our fathers succeeded, Isolde was going to be queen.
