by Rebecca Ross
“Fetch his sword, lad,” Declan said, shoving Ewan forward.
Ewan tripped, his left boot slipping off his foot. But he abandoned it, crawling to where I had surrendered my sword. More than anything, I wanted the boy to look at me, to see the order in my eyes.
Bring the sword to me, Ewan. Not to him.
But Ewan was whimpering as he took hold of the hilt; the sword was too heavy for him. The tip of the blade dragged as he walked it back to Declan, scattering a few marbles he must have been playing with hours ago.
“Ah, what a good lad,” Declan said, taking my sword in his hand. “You truly are a Lannon, then, Ewan. Go sit on the bed now. I’m going to show you how to kill a man.”
“Da, Da, please don’t,” Ewan sobbed.
“Quit crying! You’re worse than your sister.”
Ewan hurried to obey, sitting on the bed, covering his face with his hands.
I kept my breaths measured, drinking in as much air as I could to ready myself. But my eyes never left Declan’s face.
“I tried to tell you, Aodhan,” Declan continued, rising to his impressive height. He was taller than me by an entire head. “Once a Lannon, always a Lannon. And that includes your mother.”
I did not respond; I let his derision slide off my back, knowing Declan was going to strike as soon as I talked, as soon as I let down my guard by speaking.
“How did you find me here?” the prince droned on.
Still, I did not speak. I began to count the steps it would take for me to reach that stool. . . .
“I wish I could witness it,” Declan murmured, finally coming to a stop an arm’s length away. The shadows crept over his face, twining like wraiths. “The moment you see what I did to Brienna.”
He knew my weakness.
And my strength splintered. I could not breathe, the agony filling me like water as my greatest fear came to life. He had tortured Brienna.
I managed to lunge by reflex alone as Declan swung the sword. The prince caught me in the side, in the chink of my breastplate. But I didn’t even feel the bite of the blade; my eyes were focused on what lay before me: the marbles on the floor, Ewan’s discarded boot. The stool, the stool, the stool . . .
I took it in my hands and whirled, using it as a shield as Declan tried to cut me again. The sword sliced cleanly through the wood legs, and it fell into pieces. But I finally found my voice long enough to shout, “Run, Ewan!” Because even in this fray, I did not want Ewan to see me kill his father.
“Ewan, stay!” Declan countered, but the lad had already dashed out of the room.
I was filled with glee, to see the rage on Declan’s face. I took a fragment of wood in my hand and drove it into Declan’s thigh, trying to sever his artery. It gave me a moment to duck and run from the room, back into the main chamber.
I all but flew down the steps to where Fechin lay dead, my hands shaking as I took up the guard’s long-sword. I turned just in time to miss the bottle Declan hurled at me. It shattered on the wall, raining glass and wine on the floor. It cracked under my boots as I answered, overturning the table, letting the food and the pewter scatter at Declan’s feet.
He kicked it furiously out of his way, and we met in the center of the room, in a clash of blades.
I blocked blow after blow, the steel screeching. I was weakening, I could feel it, my exhaustion like a rope binding my ankles, slowing me down. I remained on the defense, trying to direct Declan backward to the steps. My hands went numb, and I finally felt the sting in my side, realizing I had left a trail of blood behind me.
Declan didn’t forget about the stairs, as I was hoping. He walked up them, that splintered wood still lodged in his thigh. Our blood mixed on the floor as we continued to turn and strike, turn and block, orbiting like the earth around the sun. I finally claimed the offense, lashing him with a cut on the shoulder.
Declan bellowed, and I found myself on the defense again, struggling to guard myself against his quick and steady strikes. And I thought, This realm cannot hold the both of us. I could not live in a land where men like Declan thrived.
It will be me, or it will be him. And that vow kept me together, kept me moving, kept me blocking long enough to reach the moment I was waiting for.
It finally came: one slender gap when Declan stumbled, when Declan lowered his guard.
And I rose to fill that moment.
I pierced him, drove the steel deep into the prince’s chest. There was a crack of bone and the thunder of a heart being divided, and Declan shouted, his sword glancing off my breastplate just before it tumbled from his fingers.
I wasn’t done, though. I thought of my mother, the silver that should be in her hair, the laughter that should be in her eyes. I thought of my sister, the land she should have inherited, the smiles I should have shared with her. And I thought of Brienna, the other half of my soul. Brienna.
I took hold of Declan’s shirt and hurled him through the balcony doors. The glass shattered into hundreds of iridescent pieces, broken stars and dreams and life that could never be because of this man and his family.
Declan sprawled on his back in the darkness, coated in glass and blood, wheezing.
I stood above him, watching his life begin to wane, until there was only a dim glimmer left in his hard eyes. The prince grimaced, the blood bubbling between his teeth as he tried to speak.
I spoke over him, my voice drowning his as I crouched at his side and claimed, “Here falls the House of Lannon. They are no longer fierce. In fact, they never were. Rather, they were cowards, and they will be turned into dust; they will be reviled. And Declan Lannon’s children will become Morganes. Once a Lannon? Never again. Your offspring will become the very thing old Gilroy tried to destroy, and failed. Because the light always overcomes the darkness.”
Declan sputtered. It sounded like he was trying to say, “Ask her,” but the words crumbled in his mouth.
He died like that, with a sword in his heart, with his eyes on me, with half-spoken words in his throat.
I slowly rose. The wound in my side was throbbing; there was glass pressed into my knees. Every muscle ached as I stumbled back into the chamber.
I felt like collapsing, the excitement ebbing away from me, leaving behind a will of embers.
“Lord Aodhan.”
I looked up to see Ewan standing amid the scattered pewter, amid the bones of their interrupted dinner.
“Ewan,” I whispered, and the boy broke into a painful sob.
I knelt and opened my arms. Ewan ran to me, threw his thin arms around me, and buried his face in my neck.
“I will do anything, Lord Aodhan,” he sobbed, his words hardly coherent. “Just please, please don’t send me away! Let me stay with you.”
I felt my eyes smart with tears, to hear Ewan’s desperate plea. That Ewan believed he did not deserve to live with me, that he was worried I would not accept him. I held him until he had let out the worst of his tears, and then I stood, lifting Ewan with me.
“Ewan,” I said, smiling at him through my own quiet tears. “You may stay with me for as long as you like. And I will pay you to be my runner.”
Ewan wiped his cheeks and snotty nose on his sleeve. “Really, milord? And my sister?”
“Keela too.”
He smiled at me, brilliant as the sun.
And I carried him, walking us both out of that bloodied chamber.
THIRTY-ONE
REVELATIONS
Lord MacQuinn’s Territory, Castle Fionn
Brienna
There were only a few moments of the journey home that I remembered.
I remembered Jourdain holding me in the back of a wagon, the sound of his breaths coming and going as he prayed.
I remembered Neeve beside me, the musical cadence of her voice as she hummed, keeping me awake.
I remembered Isolde’s voice, sharp yet determined as she looked at my wound by candlelight. This is going to take me some time. I need to have her in a calm, clean plac
e where she can relax. We need to get her home swiftly.
They were my three borders—father, sister, queen. At some point, I knew that I drifted into sleep in the crook of Jourdain’s arm, the good side of my face pressed to his chest, to his heart, because the pain flared bright and unbearable again.
“She’s falling asleep. Should I wake her?” Neeve asked worriedly. She sounded so far away, even though I still felt the loving trace of her fingers on my hand.
“No,” Isolde responded. “Let her sleep.”
When I fully woke again, I was lying in my bed, and sunlight was streaming through my windows. I was clean, the stench and the blood washed from my body, and I was covered with a soft quilt. But more than anything . . . I felt a bandage on my face.
I stirred—slowly, fearfully. I lifted my hand to graze the linen that covered my right cheek.
“Good morning.”
I turned, surprised to see Isolde sitting beside me. The sunlight transformed her dark auburn hair into curls of tamed fire, and she smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Are you thirsty?” She rose from her chair to pour me a cup of water. And then, very gently, she sat beside me on the bed and eased me up, propping several pillows behind my back.
I drank three cups of water before I felt like my voice could be found. “What happened at Castle Lerah?”
“Well, after I healed Liam, we planned an assault against the Hallorans.” She told me the details—how their plans came together, how Lady Grainne led the assault, how Cartier, Sean, Luc, Neeve, and Betha snuck into the fortress under disguise. “The Halloran half-moons have been flushed out by the Dermotts’ sword. Pierce has fallen. So have Fechin and Declan Lannon.”
I took a moment to let this news fully sink into me. Pierce and Declan both dead. I couldn’t stifle the shudder that racked me at the mere thought of them, and Isolde laid her hand over mine.
“They cannot hurt you—or anyone else—anymore, Brienna.”
I nodded, blinking back my tears. “What of Ewan and Keela?”
“The children are both safe. Keela has been staying here, at Castle Fionn with Neeve, and Ewan is with Aodhan at Brígh.”
“And the MacQuinns have been kind to Keela?” I asked, worried over how they might receive her.
“Yes. Lord MacQuinn has been very adamant about how the children saved your life. By my word, Keela is now a ward of MacQuinn, and Ewan a ward of Morgane. There is enough evidence for me to seek a pardon for both children.”
“And what about Thorn?” I rambled on. “He’s a half-moon.”
“So Aodhan discovered,” Isolde replied. “Thorn is currently in the keep, but he will face death too.”
We fell silent, and I could hear the sounds of the hall, the sounds of home. Of laughter and merry shouts and the clinking of dishes. And yet I could not seem to relax; I tried to lean deeper into my pillows, to bask in the sunlight, but there was a restless song in my blood, one that I could not ignore.
I knew what it was, this thorn in my spirit. I knew it was the doubt over Cartier’s mother.
“Brienna? Is something hurting you?” Isolde asked, her brow wrinkling with concern.
“No, Lady.” I thought about telling her. Perhaps the restlessness would ease if I shared the words Declan had said to me. Perhaps I could find confirmation; Isolde would tell me Declan had lied to distress me further, to cast a net of suspicion in my mind. That Declan had been playing a game with me, to inflict further pain upon Cartier. Because if I told Cartier . . . if I told him what Declan had said, Cartier would all but lose his mind. He would not rest until he had found Líle Morgane. And if Líle was truly dead, then he would be seeking a ghost.
“Well, if you come across any discomfort, even if it seems minor, you should tell me,” the queen said gently. “It took three days for my magic to fully heal you. I can imagine you feel quite hungry.”
I smiled, which instantly reminded me of my wound. My cheek tugged strangely, and I knew it must be the scar beneath the linen. “I am ravenous.”
There was a sudden whine, and I frowned, leaning over to see Nessie was lying on the floor beside the bed, blinking up at me.
“Ah, yes,” Isolde said. “We found her muzzled and locked up in one of the old storerooms.”
I invited Nessie up on the bed, relieved that Thorn had not hurt her. She curled up in a ball at my side, demurely, as if she knew I was still recovering.
“Now, let me summon breakfast for you,” Isolde said, rising. “Although I believe your brother already mentioned that he wanted to be the first to see you upon waking. I’ll send him with some porridge and tea.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, and Isolde smiled at me before departing my chamber.
I waited a moment, my gaze somewhat blurry as it swept my room, my hand absently stroking Nessie’s fur. But there on my bureau was my hand mirror.
I gingerly crawled out of bed, my legs tingling. It felt odd to walk, to feel the cold smoothness of the floor beneath my feet. I took my time, arriving at my bureau with a seed of worry in my stomach.
I wanted to look at myself, and yet I didn’t.
Eventually, though, I unwound the bandage about my face and took the stem of my mirror in my hand, holding it up to my face.
Isolde had done her best to heal me, to bring my gaping face back together. But there was a scar, a line of silvery pink, running from my forehead down to my jawline. And my hair. It was gone, cut away in violent tufts.
I looked away. But my eyes were drawn to my new reflection, and I studied myself again.
I want Aodhan to have you, after all. But when he looks upon your face, he will see his mother in you. He will know where to find her.
I set the mirror down, my heart pounding.
What had Declan meant? Was he simply trying to cause me agony, to make me pull away from Cartier? Did he truly think that he could cut my face and make me cower, that all of my worth was based off of such things?
It filled me with rage that he had left his venom in my mind. And I took up my mirror and slammed it against the corner of my bureau. It shattered into fragments, pieces that caught the light as they fell, tumbling with prisms down to the floor.
It gave me some relief to break the mirror, as if it was merely the beginning of things I needed to break in order to see. Because I saw myself without it, not as a girl who had been chained and shorn and scarred, but as a woman who had survived.
I was calm as I picked up my bandage, rewrapping my face. And then I knelt and cleaned up the glass, hiding it in my drawer just as my brother knocked on the door.
I walked to answer it, greeting him with a smile, as if this were any other day. Because I did not want pity; I did not want weeping and sadness.
Luc was carrying a tray of tea and porridge, and I was grateful that he was not melancholy or worried or teary-eyed over me.
“Someone said you were ravenous and that war might break out if I don’t feed you,” he said mirthfully, and I waved him into my room with a laugh.
We sat in the chairs before my hearth, my stomach growling so loudly that he snickered as he poured me a cup of tea. While I ate honeyed porridge, trying to adjust to the odd pull of my scar every time I opened my mouth, my brother retold me everything. I noticed his storytelling was quite exaggerated, especially when he recounted the adventure of lowering Castle Lerah’s drawbridge, but I did not care. I soaked it in.
“So you took out four Halloran guards with one mighty swing of your sword,” I said passionately. “And then you stepped on the pile of bodies to reach the iron lever to lower the bridge. Extraordinary, Luc.”
His face flushed, all the way to the tips of his ears. “All right, you are making me sound like a mighty warrior when I am only a humble musician.”
“Why can’t you be both, brother?”
Luc met my gaze, smiling. And there it was, the first gleam of emotion in his eyes as he regarded me.
Don’t cry, I secretly begged him.
Please don’t weep over me.
Another rap on my door sounded, breaking the moment. Luc patted my knee and jumped up to answer it, sniffing back his tears. I heard Isolde’s voice, a dark murmur, and Luc whispering in response.
I was pouring myself a third cup of tea by the time Luc returned to sit beside me.
“What was that about?” I asked.
“That was Isolde,” Luc said. “Aodhan Morgane is here. He would like to see you.”
I froze, uncertain. “Oh.” I wanted to see Cartier so much that my heart began to ache. And yet I had not determined my mind. I had not decided what I would say to him, if I should say anything at all. I did not want to break his peace, to spread Declan’s venom to him. I need another day, perhaps more, to find the path I needed to take. And so I said, “I feel like I need to rest today.”
Luc was not expecting that. His brows rose, but he swiftly nodded. “Very well. I’ll tell him to come back tomorrow.”
My brother was up, out of his chair before I could stop him, before I could tell him that I would most likely avoid seeing Cartier tomorrow as well. I did not want him to come every morning, eager to see me, only to have me turn him away while I tried to determine what was best to tell him.
I stood and walked to my writing desk, finding my parchment, my quill, my ink. I kept the letter brief, and yet it seemed like my entire heart was breaking within those words I set down.
Cartier,
I feel as if I need to recover for a few more days. I will send for you when I am ready to see you.
—Brienna
I let four days pass before I finally sent for him.
It was midmorning, and Keela and Neeve were sitting with me in my chambers, the three of us gathered around a book of ancient Maevan legends, improving Neeve’s reading skills. Isolde had been pleased with the progression of my healing and had returned to Lyonesse to prepare for the Lannon executions. I didn’t expect Cartier to arrive so soon after I had sent my letter of invitation, that he would drop everything he was doing at Castle Brígh to come to me. But he did.
