by Rebecca Ross
“I am going to approach Lord Burke,” Isolde replied. “He fought with us on the rising day; he should have no shortage of capable men and women, and should hopefully keep his mouth shut about why I am requesting them.”
“Another thought about taking Declan down,” Braden Kavanagh said, who had been silent up to this point. “I think we should employ a poisoned arrow. Appoint an archer whose sole purpose is to shoot him in the thigh, to render him unconscious. It will give us the ability to bind and transport him.”
“I think that is wise,” the queen said. “Aodhan, can you locate a poison capable of this, to stun but not kill a man of Declan’s size?”
I nodded, but I was wondering about the time frame for this plan. I had an incessant urge to move quickly, to don my armor and go now, before Declan had time to move.
“We’re going to have to wait until nightfall,” Isolde said, to my keen disappointment. “If our efforts prove futile tonight, I will make an announcement tomorrow that the executions have been postponed. Above all, I do not want the news to spread about Declan’s escape, so we need to be as discreet as possible. Darkness will be our greatest ally. In the meantime, Jourdain and I will address Lord Burke for the warriors. Aodhan will locate the poison for the arrow. Brienna and Luc will prepare to infiltrate the tavern and the hostel. My father will continue the search for the traitorous dungeon guard. We will meet once more under the guise of having dinner in my private quarters, so the other nobles do not become suspicious.”
We were quiet, soaking in her orders.
“Are we in agreement?” Isolde asked.
One by one, we laid our hands over our hearts, to express submission.
“Good,” the queen said, draining the rest of her tea. She tucked a stray tangle of red hair from her eyes and set her palms on the table. “Then let us go and prepare for tonight, and hope that by moonrise, Declan Lannon is back in the dungeons.”
NINETEEN
AT THE MARK OF THE HALF-MOON
Brienna
I was nervous as Luc and I approached the tavern that night, a sagging brick building wedged in between two alehouses. The roof was overgrown with lichens and moss, and the windows were narrow, winking with leery candlelight as my brother and I drew close, black cloaks fastened at our collars with hoods drawn over our heads. We had inked a temporary half-moon on our inner wrists. We also had two concealed blades on us, per Isolde’s order. We were not to enter the tavern or the hostel unarmed, nor were we supposed to draw our steel and cause commotion. If we could help it.
One street over, Jourdain and Cartier waited in a covered carriage, in sight of the tavern door. And one street behind them was a troop of Lord Burke’s warriors. They would wait to see if Jourdain gave them the sign to pursue, and Jourdain would wait to see if Luc and I gave the signal of Declan’s presence, which we would indicate by lighting a bundle of firebelle.
Both Luc and I carried the small bouquet of herbs in our jerkin pockets. Cartier had chosen this particular plant since it was highly flammable and set off blue sparks once ignited. It would be difficult for the men to miss should we need to light it in the street.
I resisted the urge to glance behind at the coach, knowing my father and Cartier were watching my entrance. Luc took hold of my arm for solidarity, and we entered the tavern as one does a murky pond.
It was a low-lit place, the air reeking of unwashed men and spilled, cheap ale. Mismatched tables were scattered across the room, men gathered about them playing cards and nursing tankards. I was one of the few women in the room, and I sat beside Luc at a far-strung table, nervously laying my hands on the sticky tabletop before I shifted them into my lap.
We had drawn stares; we didn’t belong here, and we appeared suspicious with our hoods still drawn.
“Lower your hood,” I whispered to him, daring to draw mine back and expose my face. I had taken pains to kohl my eyes and rogue my cheeks. I also had chosen to unbraid my hair, to let it cascade over the right side of my face.
Luc slowly mimicked me, perching his chin in his palm, his eyes half-lidded as if he was bored. But I saw the way he studied every person in that tavern.
A young girl brought us some sour ale, and I pretended to drink it, my eyes sweeping the place. There was a bear of a man behind the counter, leaning on the polished wood, staring at me with suspicion.
On the inside of his wrist was a dark tattoo. My heart skipped when I recognized it as the half-moon.
My assumptions had been correct. This was a lair of Gilroy’s. But if Declan was here, where would he be? It was one great room with only one rounded door at the back, leading to what I assumed was the cellar.
The tavern keeper caught me staring at the back door. He turned, flicking his fingers in the air, as if in some sort of ominous signal.
“I think we should leave,” I whispered to Luc.
“I think you’re right,” my brother whispered back just as a tall, lanky man with a jagged scar across his brow approached us.
“Houses?” the man asked, setting his fists on our table, rattling our full tankards.
“Lannon,” Luc said without hesitation. “Same as you.”
His eyes roamed both of us, but settled on me. “You don’t look Lannon.”
Luc and I were both dark-headed. But I had seen Lannons with all shades of hair, such as Ewan with his auburn tresses and Declan with his tawny-colored hair.
“We only wanted a drink,” I said, reaching for my ale, so my sleeve would ride up my arm, just a bit. The beginning of my moon showed, and his eyes went to it, like a dog to a bone. “But we can leave, if that is what you want.”
He smiled at me, his teeth yellow and rotting at the gums. “Forgive my rudeness. We have never seen the two of you before. And I know most of our kind.”
To my horror, he pulled out a chair and joined us at the table. Luc stiffened in response; I felt his foot touch mine in warning.
“Tell me . . . are you north or south?” he asked, waving for the servant girl to bring him a tankard.
It took everything within me not to look at Luc. “North, of course.”
I couldn’t tell if this pleased our Lannon companion or not. He continued to stare at me and completely ignore Luc. “I should have figured such. You have that look about you.”
The girl brought his ale, which gave me a slight moment of reprieve from his gaze. But then he set his eyes on me again, even as he drank, and said, “Did the Red Horn send you, then?”
Red Horn . . . Red Horn . . .
I grappled with this strange code name, trying to come up with who he might mean. Oona Lannon had auburn hair, like Ewan. Did he speak of her? Was she conveying messages from the dungeons, somehow?
“Although he does like to keep the pretty ones close,” he rambled on, disgruntled.
Red Horn was a he, then.
“He actually did not send us,” I dared to say, sipping my ale to hide the tremble in my voice.
Luc’s foot pressed harder against mine. He wanted us to leave, before we were exposed.
“Oh?” Our Lannon friend sniffed and scratched at his beard. “That’s surprising. We’re expecting word from him. I thought you might be carrying it.”
Surely the Red Horn wasn’t Declan. . . .
But if it was, then Declan was not here.
Either way, my dramatics had nearly reached its full capacity. I could feel the trembling in my face, from trying to keep myself composed.
“I’m sorry to say that we bear no message. We only wanted to enjoy ale with our own kind,” Luc said.
The Lannon gave Luc an annoyed glance before looking to me again. The shirt beneath my jerkin was nearly soaked in sweat by this point. I was trying to scheme a way out of this, a way that would not appear rude. . . .
The tavern keeper whistled, and the Lannon at our table turned. More hand motions between them, and then our revolting friend spun back around and said, “He wants to know your names.”
Luc took a
long draft of ale, to try to give him time to muster one up. Which meant I needed to speak. . . .
“Rose,” I said on the fly, altering my mother’s name of Rosalie. “And this is my husband, Kirk.”
At the mention of “husband,” the Lannon sagged a bit, his interest in me dimming.
“Well, take your time and enjoy your ale, Rose,” he said. “This round is on me.”
“Thank you,” I said, thinking there would certainly not be a second round.
He raised his tankard to me, and I forced myself to lift mine, to clink it against his. He finally left us alone, and I made us sit there for another ten minutes.
“All right, let’s go,” I whispered to Luc after we had pretended to enjoy ourselves.
Luc followed my lead. We nodded to our Lannon friend who was playing a game of cards at one of the tables, and I went so far as to lift my hand to the tavern keeper, to flash my half-moon.
Luc and I stepped out into the blanket of night with shaking knees, and we didn’t stop walking until the shadows had covered us.
“My gods,” Luc panted, leaning against the closest building. “How did you get us out of that?”
“I studied the passion of dramatics for a year,” I said, my own voice hoarse. I could not seem to catch my breath. “I had horrible stage fright at the time, but I will have to let Master Xavier and Abree know my skill has drastically improved.”
Luc chuckled, a bit delirious.
I leaned into the wall beside him, to laugh into the stones, to let the tension ease from my bones.
“All right,” my brother said after he had calmed. “Shall we move on to the next?”
The hostel was not far, just two streets over, and was even less inviting on the exterior. It seemed to sink into the ground, and Luc and I descended a string of worn stairs to the main door, which was guarded by a heavily armed man.
I flashed my wrist at him. My heart hammered as I waited, the guard lifting my hood to peer into my face.
“Any blades on you?” he asked me, his eyes roving my body.
I hesitated a beat too long. If I lied, he would know it. “Yes. Two dirks.”
He held out his palm. I had the feeling that he only asked for weapons of those he did not recognize.
“Surely you will allow my wife to keep her blades,” Luc said, his voice brushing my hair as he stood directly behind me.
I knew what he implied. I was a woman, about to step into a tavern most likely overflowing with drunken men. If anyone deserved to keep their blades, it was me. And the guard studied me a moment longer, but finally acquiesced. He jerked his head to the door, letting me in.
I tarried on the threshold, trying to drink in as much clean air as I could before I descended into smoke and ale fumes, watching as Luc flashed his wrist. But just before he could join me, the guard took his collar and held him back.
“Either she goes in with her blades, or with you. Not both, lad.”
I met Luc’s gaze. He was trying not to panic, because we both knew that Isolde had given us a strict order to carry concealed blades.
And I watched his worry rise when I said, “I’ll be along shortly, love.”
The guard chuckled, amused that I had chosen blades over a husband, and I entered the tavern before Luc could ruin our cover.
The hostel was bigger than I thought. From the main hall were offshoots of other rooms, some closed off with curtains of hanging beads and colored glass. There were clinks of pewter and laughter and smears of voices as I began to walk about the tables, trying to decide where to go, where to sit. There were also more women here, and I realized I was not dressed appropriately. I looked more like an assassin than the female patrons gathered about the tables, with their low-cut silks and black lace.
A few of them noticed me, but they only smiled, welcoming my presence.
I walked to the bar, to set down a copper for a tankard of more disgusting ale, and then meandered through the rooms, parting a curtain of beads. I finally chose a bench in a corner, where I had easy vantage of two different connecting rooms, leaning back to observe the occupants.
I didn’t recognize him at first.
His back was to me, his brown hair loose to drag into his face as he stood from one of the tables. There was a leather satchel slung across his shoulder, and the only reason why it attracted my attention was because it made me think of Cartier. He had one very similar.
The man turned, eyes languidly coasting the room until they touched me. He had a narrow jaw, with a mole on the ridge of his cheekbone. Our gazes locked before I could shelter my face, before I could hide myself from him.
He stood frozen, staring at me through the curls of smoke, wide-eyed with horror. It was the guard who had led me into the dungeons a few days ago, when I went to speak to Keela Lannon. The master guard who had moved through the castle dungeons with ease and prowess.
The traitor who had set Declan loose.
Fechin.
I sat like a statue, white-knuckled as I returned his stare. I could think of nothing else to do but smile at him and lift my tankard, saluting him as if I were one of his own.
The guard all but vanished, he moved so quickly.
I lurched up in knee-jerk pursuit, spilling my entire tankard of ale as I wove around tables and chairs, from one room into another. I caught sight of his hair just as he bounded into the adjoining chamber, and I furiously cut through the beaded curtain, chasing him. I had attracted attention by this point, but all I could think of were my blades and the beat of my heart and the traitor I was chasing, deep into the veins of the tavern.
My reckless half insisted that I follow him before I lost his trail. My logical half begged me to adhere to the original plan, which would be to leave the tavern and light the firebelle in the street, to let Cartier and Lord Burke’s men swarm.
In that split second, I chose the former, because I knew that Ewan and Keela were somewhere nearby.
I lost sight of Fechin just as the corridor narrowed, doors carved into the wall on either side, closed and dark. My breathing was heavy as I reached behind me to withdraw one of my dirks. My eyes traced every door; some had light flickering around their edges, seeping through to nibble the darkness.
I was trembling, anticipating, when I heard the crash.
I followed the sound to the room at the end of the corridor, kicking the door open.
It was a small chamber, empty. There was a narrow bed with rumpled blankets, a tray of half-eaten food. But more than anything . . . there was a torn piece of paper on the floor. I knelt and took it in my fingers. It was half of the princess illustration, the very one Ewan had asked me to give Keela in the dungeons.
They had just been here. Declan and the children. I could feel the lingering shadows that man had cast on the walls; I could smell the salt of the ocean and the filth of the dungeons.
There was one window, gaping open into the night, the candles flickering wildly in the sudden gust.
I rushed to it, slipping out into a narrow alley littered with trash, nearly twisting my ankles in my haste. My eyes peeled the darkness to the right, until I heard him.
“Mistress Brienna!” Ewan screamed, and I jerked my gaze to the left just in time to see Declan etched in moonlight a stone’s throw away, bearing both Keela and Ewan in his arms.
My eyes locked with the prince’s as he paused. He laughed, taunting me to chase him before vanishing into one of the branching alleys, into utter darkness, Ewan’s muffled screams and Keela’s sobs an echo for me to follow.
“Luc!” I shouted, hoping he could hear me from the front of the tavern as I broke into a run after Declan. The prince was a large, strong man—I was not fool enough to believe I could challenge him with my blades—but running with two children would inevitably slow him. My one and only desire was to recover Keela and Ewan. If Declan got away tonight, so be it.
But in the fray of my pursuit, I had forgotten about Fechin.
The guard loomed out of the d
arkness before me, his arm catching my neck. I landed on my back, my larynx stunned, the air snatched from my lungs.
He hovered over me. I rasped, desperate to breathe, unable to speak as he crouched low, to draw his grimy finger down my arm, exposing my now-melting half-moon.
“You’re a shrewd one,” he said. “We’ll take better care with you next time.”
He stood to leave me floundering in the alley. But he had forgotten that I was wielding a dirk.
I lunged for his retreating form, sinking my blade into his calf and dragging it down with a vicious cut, slicing his muscle to the bone. He screamed and spun, returning my favor with a boot to my face. I heard my nose crunch as I flew backward once again, pain exploding down my cheeks. I landed on cobblestones slick with dirt and refuse, and there I lay, unable to draw a full breath, choking on my blood.
“Brienna! Brienna!”
I didn’t even realize I was fading into unconsciousness until Luc shook me so hard my teeth rattled and the pain in my nose sharpened my attention.
I cracked my eyes open, struggling to discern my brother’s frantic face in the darkness. “Chil— The child—” My voice was nothing more than dust in my throat. Luc gathered me into his arms and began to carry me through the alley, to the coach where Jourdain and Cartier waited. The jump in his gait made my stomach rise up my throat, and I closed my eyes, fighting the urge to be sick on his shirt.
“Brienna? Brienna, what happened?” Jourdain murmured, supporting me with his arms.
“I—” Again, my voice came out as a wheeze of painful air. I was slumped beside my father, and Cartier was kneeling between my knees in the cab, his eyes mercilessly dark as he stared up at me. My blood was on his hands.
“Did Declan do this?” Cartier murmured.
I shook my head.
“But you saw him?”
I nodded and took hold of the front of his shirt, to push him away, to urge him to go.
The coach wasn’t in motion; we were still parked in the alley. And Cartier laid his hands over mine, because he understood what I was telling him. He was the one who was supposed to lead Burke’s men, and I could hear them shouting and calling as they searched every winding street around us, searching for the prince who had gotten away, yet again.
