by Rebecca Ross
He caught me off guard, coming directly to my room, unannounced.
All three of us startled at his sudden appearance—the door uncharacteristically banged against the wall with his entry—and then Neeve and Keela both stood and wordlessly departed, closing the door behind them.
I was still sitting at the table, storybook spread beneath my fingers, my heart pounding at the sight of him.
Cartier stood in the sunlight of my bedroom, looking at me as if we had been apart for years, not weeks. His hair was loose and tangled—there were even a few stray leaves caught within it, as if he had torn through the forest dividing our lands, as if nothing could have kept him from me. His face was flushed from the cold, and his eyes . . . his eyes rested on mine, drinking me in.
I still wore my bandage. He could not see the scar yet, and I knew I needed to show him, that I needed to tell him everything Declan had said to me. That I could not withhold this from him, even if it was false.
I rose, trying to steady my breaths. But I felt like I was about to come undone, like I was about to take a dagger in my hands and plunge it into his heart.
“Cartier, I . . . I am sorry it has taken me so long to send for you.”
“Brienna.” He only spoke my name, but he expressed so much more than that.
I glanced down at the scattering of paper and books before me, trying to remember the speech I had planned for this. The exact words I wanted to say.
I could hear his footsteps as he drew closer. And I knew if he touched me, I truly would come unraveled.
“Declan said something to me, when he held me captive.”
Those words stopped him, although his shadow was reaching for mine across the floor.
Look at him, my heart admonished. You must look at him.
I lifted my gaze to his.
Cartier’s eyes were on mine; he had not looked away from me once. And for a moment, I rested in the blue of his eyes, a blue to rival the sky.
“Declan told me that your mother is alive, Cartier,” I whispered, the revelation finally blooming from my voice, releasing me from its prison. “He told me that during the first failed rising, Gilroy Lannon cut off her hand and then dragged her into the throne room. And before the king could behead her, Declan threw himself upon Líle, to save her life. That he begged his father to let her live, because he . . . he loved your mother as if she were his own.”
Cartier continued to stare at me with an intensity that could have brought me to my knees.
“So Gilroy let your mother live,” I continued, my voice trembling. “He cast her in the dungeons, and beheaded another fair-headed woman, to put her head on the spike in the courtyard.”
Still, he said nothing. It was like I had enchanted him, like I had cast him into stone.
“And Declan . . . Declan said to me . . .” I couldn’t say it. The words melted, and I gripped the back of my chair.
“What more did he say to you?” Cartier said, his voice sharp.
I drew in a deep breath, as if I could keep the last of this revelation hidden deep in my lungs. But I could not hold this any longer.
“Just before Declan cut my face, he told me that he wanted you to have me. But when you look upon my face . . . you will see your mother in me. You will know where to find her.”
I watched my words strike him, as if they were arrows. His guard finally dropped; his face was etched with agony. And I thought, This will destroy us. This will destroy him. But then the lines in his brow eased, as if he were breathing for the first time, as if he was realizing something, coming into a light I could not see. . . .
“Brienna.” He breathed my name again, as if it was a prayer, as if he was burning from within.
I watched, my heart breaking as he turned and strode for the door, as he stopped on the threshold. He came back to me, shoving the chair out of the way, until there was nothing between us.
He hadn’t even given me time to remove my bandage, to show him my scar.
He gently cupped my face in his palms and kissed me, a soft brushing of our lips.
And then he was gone, striding from my room, leaving the door open. I listened to the beat of his footsteps, rushing, rushing down the stairs to the floor below. I walked to my window, looking through the glass to see him emerge in the courtyard, frantically requesting his horse.
I wanted to call him back to me, to ask him what he had realized.
It must be true, I thought, trembling. Declan had not lied.
And when Cartier mounted his horse, I watched him ride away. Not to the west, which would take him home. He rode south. To Lyonesse.
THIRTY-TWO
THE ACCOUNT
Lord Burke’s Territory, the Royal Castle
Cartier
I rode deep into the night, my teeth cutting the wind, my heart matching the pounding of my horse’s hooves. This cannot be, I thought, and yet I rode into Lyonesse with the stars and the moon watching above, guiding me with their silver light.
The castle gates were bolted shut. I hammered upon them, cracking my knuckles until the skin broke, bloodying the wood and the iron. But I did not cease my knocking, not until one of Burke’s men looked down from the watchtower.
“What is it? Go to bed, you drunkard,” the man snarled at me. “The gates remain bolted at night.”
“It is Aodhan Morgane. Open the gates.”
The Burke man was holding a torch, but I could see his face as he squinted down at me, trying to read my sigil in the moonlight. He disappeared back into the tower, and the gates cracked open, just enough for me and my horse to slip within them.
I rode all the way to the courtyard, dismounting and leaving my gelding to stand on the flagstones since the grooms were all asleep. And then I approached the main doors, which were also bolted shut, and I hammered upon them.
It felt like I pounded for an eternity before the peeping grate in the door slid open, and the castle chamberlain peered out at me, their eyes lit by a candle, their annoyance evident.
“What is it?”
“Open the doors,” I ordered.
“We don’t open the doors at—”
“Open the doors at once, or else I will have the queen dismiss you immediately.”
The chamberlain blanched, suddenly recognizing me. “I apologize, Lord Morgane. One moment, please.”
The doors unbolted, and I rushed into the castle, following the corridors that wound me to the dungeon entrance. It was guarded by two of Burke’s men, and I spoke the same request for the third time.
“Open the doors and let me pass.”
“We cannot do that, Lord Morgane,” one of the men said. “All entrance into the dungeons must be granted by the queen alone.”
They were right. We had established this rule after Declan had escaped, and so I turned and wound my way to the stairs, taking them two at a time, following the upper corridor until I approached the queen’s quarters. Of course, her door was heavily guarded, and I could not even reach it to knock.
“Wake her,” I requested, desperate. “Wake the queen for me.”
“Lord Morgane,” one of the women said to me, holding me back. “The queen is exhausted. Can this wait until morning?”
“No, no, this cannot wait. Wake Isolde.” I was all but shouting, hoping she would hear me. “I have ridden through the night and I must see her.”
“Lord Morgane, you must remain calm, or else we will need to escort you—”
“Let him pass.”
Isolde’s voice broke the commotion, and we all turned to regard her, standing on her threshold. She was holding a candle and a shawl was wrapped about her, and she did look exhausted. The guards parted, allowing me to approach the queen.
“Isolde, I need you to grant me entrance into the dungeons,” I whispered.
This was not at all what she was expecting of me. She blinked, parted her lips to speak but then shut them. And I saw that she would not press me for answers. She trusted me, her oldest friend. The
one who had once sat with her in a closet in a foreign land and had held her hand, telling her she would be the greatest queen of the north.
She nodded and walked with me back to the dungeon doors, the candlelight trickling over her face as she gave the guards the order.
“Let Aodhan pass into the dungeons, and wait for him to return to you.”
The guard laid his hand over his heart before withdrawing his keys, beginning to unbolt the main doors.
I was suddenly trembling, unable to draw a smooth breath.
Isolde must have heard. She reached out and squeezed my hand—her fingers were so warm in mine. She released me, and I followed the guard into the mouth of the dungeons. We each took a torch from the foyer brackets and began our descent.
I felt the bitter coldness of the dungeons, the darkness rise up around me.
“I shall wait here for you, my lord,” the guard said once we had reached the bottom of the stairs.
I nodded and began to pick my way through the tunnels, my torch throwing unsteady light upon the walls. I was bound to get lost; I did not know my way around, and yet I walked deeper into them.
Soon, I was so exhausted that I had to stop and lean against the wall. I closed my eyes and thought for the first time, maybe I am wrong. Maybe Declan had been lying, to wound me even further.
But then I heard it in the distance: the sweeping of a broom.
I pushed away from the wall and followed the sound. It grew faint, and then loud, echoing off the stone walls, and I struggled to locate it. When I thought that I was utterly turned around, that I was walking in circles, I saw light flickering from the mouth of one of the corridors.
I followed that light, coming to a tunnel that was lit by several torches in iron sconces.
And there was the bone sweeper.
I watched as they took their broom to a pile of rodent bones, sweeping them up. Their black veils fluttered in the movement; they had not seen me, not yet.
And so I spoke her name, as if I had summoned it out of the darkness of twenty-five years. “Líle.”
The bone sweeper stopped, frozen. But then they straightened, turned to regard me.
I do not know what I was expecting, now that I had come into this moment.
But I did not expect the bone sweeper to turn, to begin to limp away.
It must not be her. Declan had fooled me, had finally shattered me. I could hear his words in my mind, spinning my thoughts. You and I are bound together as brothers through her. And she lives because of me. I want you to know that before you kill me. She lives because I love her.
And my heart began to beat wildly, rising up my throat as I spoke again. “Mother.”
The bone sweeper halted. I watched that right hand, the one that had once been shackled in Declan’s cell, reach to touch the wall, to find balance.
I approached her, whispering it again, again. “Mother.”
A muffled sound emerged from her, beneath her veil. She was weeping.
I held out my hands, my arms, yearning for her to fill them. She remained against the wall, but her hand had risen now, to rest upon her veiled face.
“It is Aodhan,” I whispered. “Your son.”
And I will wait however long it takes with my arms open wide, I thought. I will wait here until she is ready to step into them.
The bone sweeper took that first step to me. She reached out her hand to mine, and our fingers laced, entwined. She stepped into my arms, and I held her to my heart. I could feel a hard mass of scars on her back through the veils. I could feel how thin she was. That is what made my tears rise.
She leaned back in my embrace, and I watched as her hand rose to take a fistful of her veils, to pull them away.
My father had been right. Líle Morgane was beautiful.
Her hair was like corn silk, falling to her collar, a few threads of silver shining within it. Her eyes were strikingly blue. Her skin was pale, almost translucent from years and years of being in the dungeons. There were long scars on her cheek, on her brow, and I knew Declan had given them to her.
Her hand rose again, gracefully forming motions. I realized they were letters. She was spelling my name.
Aodhan, she signed.
And I thought, Declan might have kept her alive in captivity and Gilroy might have severed her left hand and beaten her, but neither of them have taken her voice or her strength.
Aodhan, she said again, smiling up at me.
I pulled her close and wept into her hair.
It was like something spun from a dream, the day I brought my mother home to Morgane lands. I had written a letter to Aileen, the chamberlain, to tell her the news and request that she keep the people calm when I arrived. But of course, I should have known there would be a celebration awaiting us. The Morganes, who were not known to be the most sentimental of people, fell to their knees at the sight of her emerging from the coach. They wept and laughed and reached for her hand, which certainly startled her. I could see that my mother was one breath away from panic, and I had to corral the people into the hall, to request they sit quietly at the tables, that I would bring her to them. Even Ewan seemed very emotional, clinging to me until I told him to go with Derry and the stonemasons.
“Tell me if this is too much for you,” I whispered to Líle, who was still standing in the courtyard, staring up at Castle Brígh. I wondered what was passing through her mind, if she was thinking of my father, my sister.
She spoke to me through her hand, a long graceful chain of movements that I could not yet understand. I thought she might be expressing how overwhelmed she was, that she did not want to see the people in the hall.
“I can take you to your rooms right away,” I said gently, but she shook her head and formed the words again with her fingers. “You do desire to go to the hall, then?”
She nodded, but I felt that I was still missing the heart of what she was trying to say.
I took her hand and guided her into Brígh. Aileen was waiting for us in the foyer, hardly able to contain herself at the sight of Líle.
She bowed and said, “My lady.” And I could tell she was trying her best not to sob.
Líle reached out, smiling fondly at Aileen, and the two women embraced. I cast my eyes away, giving them a private moment.
We entered the hall together, and the Morganes did their best to remain quiet and calm. But they still stood at the sight of her, their eyes following her all the way to the dais, where I gave her my chair at the table.
I sat at my mother’s side and watched her carefully, looking for distress. But she only looked out to the hall, her face soft with affection as she recognized old friends.
She made the writing motion to me.
Aileen darted away for paper, quill, and ink before I could so much as rise from my chair to fetch them. The chamberlain promptly returned and set them before Líle, and my mother began to write. I now knew why her handwriting was so poor. She had been left-handed, the hand that Gilroy had severed. She took her time, writing out a paragraph before shifting the paper to me, beckoning me to read it for her.
I took the parchment and rose, willing my voice to remain steady.
“‘To the Morganes. It fills me with joy to see you once more, and I want to express my admiration of you, that you have endured through a dark time, that you remained faithful to your lord. I cannot speak with my mouth, but I can speak with my hand, and I hope to speak with each of you in the coming days. But I only ask for one thing: that you do not address me as Lady. I am no longer the Lady of Morgane. I am only Líle.’”
I set down the paper, swallowing the lump in my throat. The Morganes lifted their cups to her, nodding in agreement although a few of them had puzzled looks on their faces, as if they could not break the title from her name.
And I realized with a pang that is what she had been trying to say to me, in the courtyard.
I am no longer the Lady of Morgane. I am only Líle.
The following week was one made o
f challenges and small victories.
I wanted to give my mother her chambers back—the ones that she had once shared with my father. But she would not even step within them.
She wanted Ashling’s rooms. The walls that she had once painted a magical forest upon; the walls that had once held her daughter. Aileen and I worked to furnish the rooms, which had been swept clean and empty since we had repaired Brígh. I had my carpenter fashion a beautiful bed frame, and Aileen had the women quickly work to fill a mattress with feathers. We had clothes made for my mother, and hung drapes along the windows, and stretched rugs and sheepskin on the floors. I filled the shelves with books and stocked her desk with as much paper and ink and quills as she could want.
Líle was pleased with the rooms, and I could not explain how much this relieved me.
But then Aileen came to me one morning and said, “Lord Aodhan, your mother is not sleeping on the bed. She is sleeping on the floor, before the hearth.”
And I was humbled by this. Of course, Líle had been sleeping on the floor the past twenty-five years. “Let her sleep where she wants, Aileen.”
“But, my lord, I cannot—”
I only took her arm and squeezed it, to remind her that we did not understand—we might not ever understand—all that my mother endured. That if Líle wanted to wear veils again and sleep on the floor, then that was what I wanted.
The next challenge was that Líle wanted to work. She wanted to sweep, she wanted to clean, she wanted to uproot weeds from the herb gardens, to knead dough with the bakers, to curry the horses with the grooms. She wore simple homespun and covered her hair with a shawl, shunning the finer dresses Aileen had tailored for her, and she worked alongside the Morganes. The first time this occurred, the women cleaning the hall had come to me in a panic.
“She wants to sweep and knock down cobwebs and clean the ash from the hearths,” one of the women had said to me, wringing her hands. “We cannot allow this. She is our lady.”
“She is Líle, and if she wants to work shoulder to shoulder with you, let her and welcome her,” I replied, hoping my temper wasn’t showing.
