The Queen's Resistance

by Rebecca Ross

  He hesitated; he knew exactly who she was. How could he not? The queen who had overthrown his family was kneeling before him. I held my breath, held down the reassuring words I wanted to give to him to trust her, knowing he needed to make this decision on his own.

  He eventually relented, nodding his consent.

  I stood beside the fire and watched as Isolde eased off his boots, her hands gently accessing the cut on his foot. “Ah, it looks like you have pulled out your stitches,” she said. “It’s bleeding quite a bit. I can heal this for you, Tomas.”

  “You . . . how?” Tomas asked, his nose scrunching. “With more stitches?”

  “Not with stitches. With my magic.”

  “No.” He eased away from her. “No, no. My da . . . my da says magic is evil.”

  Isolde was still on her knees before him. But I knew she was feeling the shock of his words, as if he had thrown mud in her face.

  “Does your da know much about magic?” she carefully asked.

  Tomas crossed his arms, looking to me, like I was his way out of this. I stepped closer, sitting beside him on the divan, to take his cold hand in mine. I noticed his foot was dripping blood on the floor, had dripped blood on Isolde’s dress.

  “A few weeks ago,” I began softly. “I was hurt too. I had a wound on my arm.” Of course I did not mention this wound had come from an arrow Gilroy Lannon had ordered to be rained down on me, at the beginning of our rising battle. “Isolde used her magic to heal me. And you know what? It didn’t hurt one bit. It felt like sunlight on my skin. And I was very grateful for it, or else my arm would still be weak, and I would be in pain.”

  Tomas stared down at his clothes, my shirt nearly reaching his knees. There were a few bruises on his legs, slowly healing, and a cross-hatching of scars on his skin. Isolde saw them too, and the resentment that had been in her eyes moments ago faded into sorrow.

  “If the lady heals me,” Tomas said, lifting his gaze to mine, “would I be tainted?”

  “No, not at all,” I responded, wondering what he meant by “tainted.” “But if you are worried about that . . . look at me. Do you think I am tainted?”

  Tomas shook his head. “No, Mistress. I like you.”

  I smiled. “And I like you, Tomas.”

  He chewed his lip, glancing back to Isolde. “I . . . I would like for you to heal me, Lady.”

  Isolde held out her hands, and Tomas carefully set his heel into her fingers. His grip on my hand tightened; I felt the tension in his body, his breaths skipping like a rock over water as he watched her lay her palm against the arch of his foot. He must have been expecting pain, because Isolde lowered her hands and he blinked at her, surprised.

  “Did you do it?” he asked.

  Isolde smiled at his wonder. “Yes. Your foot is healed.”

  He let go of me to grab his foot, to turn it inward so he could examine it. There was no trace of blood, no trace of his stitches. There was only the pink of a scar as evidence that it had once been there.

  “But I didn’t even feel anything!” he exclaimed.

  “I told you it wouldn’t hurt,” I said, tucking a stray thread of his hair behind his ear.

  The three of us fell quiet, Tomas and I still seated side by side, Isolde still kneeling before us, the storm still raging beyond the windows. While Tomas continued to touch his foot, amazed, I met Isolde’s gaze.

  I wanted to know what she was thinking, what she was going to do.

  She looked down at the pattern of blood on her dress, betraying a moment of bewilderment.

  We were not wholly certain this was Declan’s son. Although something in my heart told me it was.

  “Mistress Brienna?” Tomas broke the quiet. “Is that the stone you were telling me about? The one you dug out from beneath a tree?” He shyly pointed to the Stone of Eventide, and I was partly relieved for the distraction.

  “Yes. That’s the one,” I replied just as a knock sounded on the door.

  Isolde was up on her feet before I could even think of moving. “I bet that is your supper, Tomas,” she said as cheerfully as she could manage, but I saw the warning in her eyes.

  Do not let anyone see him, her glance said to me as she strode to the door.

  “Here, let’s take you to the bedroom,” I murmured to Tomas. “You can eat in bed.” I nonchalantly guided him into the next chamber, out of sight from the main door, pulling back a heap of quilts.

  “But this is your bed,” he objected.

  “I’ll sleep in the other room. Come now, Tomas. Into bed.” I all but lifted him and plopped him on the mattress.

  “I’ve never slept in a bed this big,” he said, wiggling around. “It’s so soft!”

  His innocence about made me cry. I wanted to ask him what sort of beds he had been sleeping in. If he had been a prince, shouldn’t he have had the very best?

  Maybe we were wrong. Maybe he was truly just an orphan with no drop of Lannon in him.

  I willed that it was so.

  Isolde returned with a tray laden with soup, buttered bread, and a tin cup of cider. She set it carefully before him, and Tomas’s eyes went wide at the generous portion of it. He began to stuff his mouth, too intent on eating to pay Isolde and me any heed.

  I followed the queen to the receiving chamber, just out of Tomas’s sight. We stood facing each other; she was like a flame with her auburn hair and gleaming stone, and I was like a shadow, with my dark braids and my rising dread.

  “I need to know what he is doing here, if he is truly who we believe him to be,” Isolde whispered. “Can you speak more with him, to get affirmation from him?”

  “Yes, of course,” I responded.

  “You must keep him hidden, Brienna. If he is discovered . . . I will have no other choice but to chain him in the dungeons.”

  I nodded, but there was a catch in my thoughts. I took a moment to steady my voice before asking her, “What of Cartier?”

  Isolde sighed, rubbing her brow. “What of Aodhan?”

  “Cartier has been caring for him at Castle Brígh, thinking he was a Morgane orphan.”

  The queen was quiet for a moment, her hands on her waist, her posture beginning to stoop, like I had just laid a boulder on her shoulders. “Has he grown fond of the boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you think Aodhan is going to struggle with my ultimate decision, then keep this from him.”

  I tried to imagine what the trial would be like, how it would unfold. I tried to imagine what Cartier would do if Tomas was unexpectedly brought forth on the scaffold, after all this time believing Tomas was safe at Brígh. That Cartier would have to weigh if Tomas deserved to live, and even then . . . it would not be enough if the people of Maevana wanted the boy executed.

  “Am I asking too much of you, Brienna?” the queen whispered gently.

  I met her gaze. “No, Lady.”

  She had to come first. And I had to support her, no matter her decision.

  “Find out the lad’s true identity,” she said. “Tonight, if possible. And then bring me the truth tomorrow morning.”

  I nodded; I bowed to her, my hand over my heart, to show my utter submission.

  But Isolde touched my face; she took my chin beneath her fingertips, to lift my eyes back up to the light, to her. I wondered if the Stone of Eventide was reflecting in my gaze, reflecting in my expression. “I trust you, Brienna, more than I trust any other.”

  Her confession moved me, and yet I swallowed the emotion, let it settle somewhere deeper in me, where it would not grow into pride.

  It was then I knew what she was shaping me into, that I was becoming her right hand, that I was becoming her counselor, a position Brendan Allenach had once held for Gilroy Lannon.

  The irony of it all stole my breath.

  Isolde’s fingers fell away and she departed, quiet and swift as the last bit of sunlight at dusk.

  It was just me and Tomas now, and a vast ocean of questions between us.

 
Tomas had scraped the bowl of soup dry, licking the butter from his fingers as I moved back into the bedroom, bringing a second candelabra with me. I sat beside him on the edge of the bed, mulling over questions.

  “Are you going to tell Lord Aodhan that I’m here?” he asked somberly.

  I smoothed the wrinkles from the quilt, tracing the threads with my fingertips. “I think I need to know why you are here, Tomas.” I paused and stared at him, waiting for him to look at me. “I’m sure Lord Aodhan told you to stay at Brígh. So right now, I’m trying to understand why you came to Lyonesse regardless of what he said. Why you crawled up a castle wall and snuck in through a window.”

  He was silent, unable to hold my stare.

  I began to feel sweat trickle down my back. But I did not look away from him; my eyes were on his face, slowly finding similarities with the Lannons in his features. . . . He had auburn hair, which was unusual, but his eyes were sky blue like all the Lannons I had ever confronted, and his features were aristocratic in shape.

  Tomas was about to speak when I heard a distant knocking at my door. I knew who it was, and it filled me with such sorrow and desire that I felt like a battle was raging in my heart.

  “Tomas?” I whispered. “I want you to stay here. Do not move. Do not make a sound, do you understand?”

  He only nodded, his face blanching.

  I rose from the mattress and pulled the bedroom door shut behind me. I was trembling as I walked, the hem of my dress dragging over the floor.

  The door creaked beneath my hand; I only opened it a sliver, the cool air of the corridors rising to my face.

  There stood Cartier, his shoulder leaning on my lintel, his gaze on mine, his face nearly concealed in shadows. But I saw the gleam in his eyes, like embers smoldering in darkness at the sight of me.

  “May I come in?” he asked.

  I should tell him to return later. I should tell him that I was exhausted. I should do everything to keep him from stepping into my chambers.

  And yet the way he was standing, the way he was breathing . . . it was as if he had a wound beneath his clothes.

  I opened the door wide, and he walked to the fire. He waited until I had closed and bolted the door, joining him in the light.

  “Is everything well with the queen?” he asked, searching my face.

  “Yes.”

  He stared at me a moment more, as if the truth would shift my expression.

  Slowly, I reached up, tracing the gold of his beard with my knuckles, surprised by its roughness. “Are you angry with me?” I whispered.

  He shut his eyes, as if my touch was hurting him. “How could you think such?”

  “You scarcely looked at me the entire journey.”

  Cartier’s eyes opened. My hand was about to drop, but he caught it with his own, holding my hand against his face. “Brienna. I could scarcely keep my eyes from you. Why do you think I forced myself to ride ahead of you?”

  His hand moved away from holding mine. His fingers trailed the length of my arm, up to my shoulder, then down, down my back to rest on my waist; I could hear the silk of my dress whisper beneath his touch, and now I was the one to close my eyes.

  “Although it seems as if you are averse to look at me now,” he said.

  “I am not averse,” I responded, my voice nothing more than a rasp. But my eyes were still shut, and I was still trembling from the weight of this night. He could feel it; his fingers fanned over my waist, over my ribs.

  “Brienna. Is something troubling you?”

  “Why were you late this morning?” The question shot forth like an arrow, much sharper than I intended.

  When he was silent, I opened my eyes.

  “I was late,” Cartier said, his hand falling away from me. “Because I finally discovered who Tomas belongs to. And that is why I have come to you tonight. Because I cannot bear this on my own.”

  I stood there gaping at him, my heart doing a somersault. This was the last thing I expected him to say.

  I finally understood his coldness, the hollowness in his eyes. He knew Tomas was a Lannon, that he had been ignorantly hiding him. I didn’t know if I should be relieved of this, that Cartier knew the brunt of the revelation.

  “Who does he belong to?” I forced myself to ask, my hand rubbing my collar, as if I could calm the wildness of my pulse.

  There was a clatter behind my bedroom door, the sound of a bowl overturning. Tomas must have been eavesdropping. I had to swallow a curse, the misfortunate quandary that this night had become.

  Cartier stiffened, his eyes flickering to my door.

  And I could only stand there, feeling as if I had just been caught in a web.

  “Is the queen still here?” he asked carefully, his gaze returning to mine. He asked, but he knew it was not Isolde. And I could not lie to him.

  “No.”

  “Who is in your bedroom?” Cartier whispered.

  Fate must have decided this encounter needed to happen. I drew in a deep breath and laid my hands over his chest. I could feel his heart pounding just as wildly as mine. The wound that was within him—I understood it now, and I despised myself, that I was about to drive it deeper.

  “You’re going to be angry, Cartier,” I began. “You must swear that you will not express it, that you will be calm.”

  His hands were like ice as he took hold of my fingers, drawing them away from his heart.

  “Who is in your bedroom, Brienna?”

  I could not answer with my voice. I laced my fingers with his and guided him to my bedroom, opening the door.

  There was Tomas, crouched on the floor. He had been going for the window, his dinner tray overturned.

  Cartier halted at the sight of him. “Tomas?”

  “Milord, please don’t be angry with me!” Tomas stammered. “I had to come. I tried to tell you I needed to come, and you wouldn’t listen to me.”

  I widened my eyes at Tomas, to warn him. This was not the way to soften Cartier’s heart. Tomas glanced from Cartier to me, and then back to Cartier, as if he wasn’t sure which one of us would be his salvation.

  And while I could feel the stiffness in Cartier, the shock and anger, he stepped forward with a sigh, sitting on the edge of my bed.

  “Come here, lad.”

  Tomas shuffled back to the bedside, defeated as he sat next to Cartier. I continued to stand on the threshold, like I was straddling two different worlds that were about to collide.

  “Why did you need to come with me?” Cartier quietly asked.

  Tomas hesitated and then said, “Because I’m your runner.”

  “Is there another reason, Tomas? One you are afraid to tell me?”

  “Noooo.”

  Cartier shifted, and I knew he was agonizing over this. “Tomas, I want you to trust me. Please, lad. Tell me the truth so I know how to help you.”

  Tomas was quiet. He picked at the quilt and then mumbled, “But you won’t like me anymore.”

  “Tomas,” Cartier said, so gently that I knew the words hurt him, “there is nothing you could ever do to make me dislike you.”

  “Can I still be your runner if I tell you the truth?”

  Cartier met my gaze. He didn’t know that Isolde knew Tomas was here. And if Cartier said yes, he would be lying to Tomas. He was not the one to ensure Tomas’s life, which was what Tomas was asking in a roundabout manner. But if Cartier said no, Tomas would most likely refuse to confide in him.

  “I promise, Tomas,” he said, looking to the boy. I could hardly breathe, listening to him make this vow. “You will always be my runner for however long you wish to be.”

  Cartier wanted Tomas to live, to slip through the trial.

  And if he asked me to help conceal Tomas from the queen . . . I would have to oppose him. I felt torn betwixt the two of them, and I had to step deeper into the room and sit in a chair, unable to stand.

  “I wanted to come with you because my sister is here,” Tomas confessed in a whisper.


  “Your sister?”

  “Yes, milord. When the battle happened, he . . . I mean I tried to tell her, to get her to come with me. Because I knew that we might be in trouble. Our da and grandda.”

  “Who are your father and grandfather, Tomas?” Cartier asked.

  I quietly braced myself, my hands on the armrests, my fingernails sinking into the wood.

  “My grandda is—was—the king,” Tomas replied, downcast. “My father is Prince Declan. And my name is not Tomas. It is Ewan.”

  I felt chilled, and I couldn’t stifle the shiver. Ewan looked at me with large, mournful eyes.

  “Do you hate me now, Mistress Brienna?”

  I stood and moved to sit on his other side, taking his hand in mine. “No, not at all, Ewan. You are my friend, and I think you are a brave boy.”

  That seemed to console him, and he looked back to Cartier. “My sister is in the dungeons. I need to get her out.”

  Cartier rushed his hand through his hair. I knew he was struggling to keep his composure, to remain calm. His jaw was set, which meant he was sifting through his responses.

  “What is your sister’s name?” I gently asked, to give Cartier a little more time to craft his answer.

  “Keela. She’s two years older than me. And I bet you Tomas can help you, milord.”

  “And who is this true Tomas, Ewan?” Cartier asked.

  “He’s a thane of my grandda’s, but he has always been kind to me,” Ewan replied. “He was the one to help me escape during the battle. He gave me some coppers and told me where to go, to go north to Castle Brígh and say my name was his, so no one would know who I truly was.”

  “Where can I find Tomas, then?”

  Ewan shrugged. “I don’t know, milord. I suppose he could be dead, killed during the battle.”

  I exchanged a wary glance with Cartier. If Thane Tomas had fought against us, he was indeed either dead or in the dungeons.

  “I can make you no promises, Ewan,” Cartier said at last, his voice tight. “Your sister is being held in the dungeons with your family. I do not know how much I can do—”

  “Please, milord!” Ewan cried. “Please help her! I don’t want them to kill her!”

  “Shh.” I tried to calm him, but Ewan shoved away from my arms to kneel before Cartier.