by Rebecca Ross
“The queen has magic, doesn’t she?” Merei said, her eyes glistening with tears. “Ah, Bri, I have missed you so! And you are going to make me cry.”
“Don’t cry,” I rushed to say, but my own throat had grown narrow at the sight of her. She was taking me in as I was now—scarred, shorn, and yet I had never felt stronger than at that moment. “I know. I have looked better.”
“You look beautiful, Brienna.” She hugged me again, and for a moment we merely held each other, until her curls got in my mouth and I stepped on her toes. “But I’m not the only surprise for you.”
“Mer,” I said, half pleading, half warning as she gleefully approached my bedroom door. “You know that I hate being surprised.”
“And that is why all of us decided to surprise you,” Merei said, grinning. She paused, her hand on the door, purposefully drawing this moment out. “Are you ready?”
She didn’t even wait for me to say yes or no. She opened the door and Oriana came bounding out. A cry of joy escaped me as I embraced her, and then all three of us stood in a circle, arms around one another, foreheads close together, sisters reunited. I had spent seven years of my life with them at Magnalia House. Merei had studied the passion of music, Oriana the passion of art, and I had studied the passion of knowledge. And seeing them now . . . I did cry. I held them and cried, to realize how much I had missed them. And then our tears transformed to laughter, and Oriana drew us over to my hearth, where a bottle of Valenian wine was waiting with three silver chalices.
“You must both tell me why you are here,” I begged as Oriana poured us each a glass. “And how long I get to have with you.”
“We are here to celebrate the rising of the queen,” Merei replied.
“And,” Oriana added, glancing to Merei, “someone said you needed to find a musician and a calligrapher for the coronation. We are here to help you, Brienna. We know that we are Valenian, but we want to share this moment with you and Maevana.”
I could not hide my joy. It radiated from me as we toasted to the queen, as we toasted to our sisterhood and our passions. And then we sat before my fire and we talked for hours, time seeming to have no hold on us. Oriana told me of the passion House she was now instructing at, of how terrible and wonderful her pupils were, and Merei told me of her consort, where they had recently played, and all the beautiful cities she had seen.
The queen herself brought dinner to my chambers, and the four of us sat and talked of Valenia and our fondest memories and the exciting days to come. I could not have asked for a more exquisite night, sharing a meal with those I loved best, the friends of my girlhood and the queen of my future.
Isolde caught my eye from across the table. Discreetly, she lifted her chalice to me. And I knew she had reached out to Merei and Oriana for my sake, not for the coronation. She had brought my passion sisters here because she knew that I needed to see them, that my heart would be renewed by them.
I thought of the days before us, days we would carve with our hands and our minds and our words, days that would no doubt be uncertain and difficult and yet beautiful in the same breath.
Isolde drank to me, and I to her, the firelight glimmering between us, the dragon and the falcon.
THIRTY-FOUR
BETWEEN DARKNESS AND LIGHT
Mistwood, Territory of Lord Burke
Cartier
The day of Isolde Kavanagh’s coronation arrived just as the last of the leaves fell, crimson and gold and umber.
I stood with my back to the wind, in the field that spread between the royal castle and Mistwood, the very ground we had waged war on the day of rising, mere weeks ago. I watched as the tables were arranged in the grass, in preparation for a great celebratory feast. The girls set the tables with polished pewter, rivers of white candles, and petals of autumn’s final wildflowers. The boys had already marked off a designated stretch of green for games, and the women were bringing out their best dishes as the men tended to the roast pits, turning suckling pigs and freshly plucked fowl on skewers.
The air teemed with excitement, with fragrant smoke and crushed clover and harvested flowers. For Maevana was about to gain a queen after decades of darkness and decades of worthless kings.
And we all brought something, whether it was a loaf of bread or a wheel of cheese, a cask of ale or a bowl of plums. Everyone wore the colors or the sigils of their Houses, and so the field became a tapestry of color, woven together as the light began to wane.
I looked down to the doublet I wore, blue as the cornflower. For the thirtieth time, I brushed the wrinkles gathering in my garments, the wrinkles gathering in my heart, and I tried to distract myself with a group of lads who were attempting to out throw one another. And yet I could not help but search for her, for the MacQuinn lavender and golden falcon I knew she would be wearing.
“Milord! Milord, watch me!” Ewan shouted, and I smiled at the blessed distraction. I watched as Ewan hurled his three balls, not quite as far as the other lads, but still impressive for his small stature. “Did you see that, Lord Aodhan?”
I clapped and was promptly forgotten in Ewan’s excitement to show off for a group of girls who had gathered to watch.
I merged back into the crowd, where most of my people were helping with last-minute food preparations. I saw Derry the stonemason chuckling, already tasting the ale and cider. And there were my mother and Aileen, sweeping a few wayward leaves off the plates that had been set. And Seamus, taking a turn at the roasting pit, dabbing the sweat from his brow. And Cook, fussing over where to set his herb potatoes and apple tarts.
I smiled at the sight of them.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Jourdain in his lavender and gold, standing off to the side, uncertain. He waited in the grass, regarding my mother. And I thought about how he had once planned a revolution with her, one that had failed, one that made him believe she had been dead for twenty-five years.
Líle felt his stare, glanced upward. I watched the joy brighten her face as she recognized him, as she walked to him. They embraced, laughing and weeping.
I turned away to grant them a private moment.
And then I thought, If Jourdain is here, Brienna must be nearby.
I had not seen her since that morning she had summoned me to Fionn, that morning she had told me of my mother. Brienna’s hair had been shorn, her face had been bandaged, her skin pale and bruised. I had all but broken at the sight of her; what had she endured, and why had I not been able to reach her sooner?
I remembered how I had waited days for her to summon me, how I had paced the corridors and walked the meadows of Brígh, unable to think of anything but her, worried sick over why she did not want to see me. And then when she had called me to Fionn, how I moved toward her, aching to hold her, and how she had kept that distance between us with her voice and her eyes. She did not want me to touch her. And I still did not know if it was because of the news she was about to tell me, or if it was because she suddenly desired distance from me.
I walked to the forest, weaving through clusters of people, through the trees, looking for her. I knew it was almost time; it was dusk. And traditions were to be upheld; the queens were always crowned in Mistwood at dusk.
I was standing in a group of Burkes when the flutes began to play, to usher people into the woods, to prepare for the queen’s coming.
And that is when I finally saw her.
Brienna stood beneath the great oak. She was wearing a dress the color of dawn, a purple that rested between darkness and light. The Stone of Eventide hung from its chain in her fingers, and a crown of wildflowers rested on her brow. She was not wearing her passion cloak, but neither was I, both of us choosing to represent Maevana alone that night.
I saw the scar that now claimed the right side of her face, a scar that I knew matched the one in my spirit. And yet it faded away the longer I looked upon her, for I was consumed by her entirely.
I willed her to look this way, to find me in the crowd.
&nbs
p; And she almost did; her gaze was skimming the firelight when I felt Lord Burke touch my shoulder.
“Morgane! Thought you’d be with your people.”
“Ah, yes, well.” I glanced to him, hardly remembering where I was. He must have noticed that Brienna was all I could look at, because he smiled and said, “You must be very proud of her. Although she outranks you by far, lad.”
And I wanted to ask what he meant, but then I noticed the silver pin at Brienna’s breast, gleaming like a fallen star, proclaiming who she was.
And that was when I realized it, my breath leaving in a quiet rush.
Brienna was the queen’s counselor.
THIRTY-FIVE
THE QUEEN RISES
Mistwood, Territory of Lord Burke
Brienna
The light was beginning to fade, the shadows beginning to sweeten, and I knew the queen would soon arrive. I admired the forest around us, these old trees that had sheltered the queen’s coronation centuries ago. There were lanterns hanging from the boughs, trickling warm light over our shoulders. The air smelled cool and sweet. Garlands of flowers were woven from tree to tree like gossamer.
I continued to wait for her, standing beneath the great oak, the magistrate at my side.
He would crown the queen. And I would grace her with the stone.
I closed my eyes for a moment, quieting my mind. In many ways, this felt like the summer solstice five months ago, the night when I was to passion and gain a patron. And how that night had gone astray; nothing had gone according to plan.
Yet that night had inspired this one, for if I had not failed, I would not be standing here.
I opened my eyes, my gaze going straight to where my people were gathered. Neeve, Sean, Keela, Ewan, Oriana, Merei, and Luc. They were talking, laughing, enjoying this moment. And my heart swelled at the sight of them; I belonged to them, and they to me. And yet where was my father? Where was Cartier? I could not deny that I was anxious to see him. For him to see me.
No sooner had I thought such did I see Jourdain weaving through the crowd, a woman at his side. I knew it was her. It was Líle Morgane. Because Cartier was her very image, this wheat stalk grace and flaxen hair and eyes so blue they seemed to burn.
And yet I had no time to wonder over her, for the flutes began to play and Isolde and Braden finally arrived, as if the magic had brought them. Isolde had never looked so lovely, so radiant. I could not take my eyes from her as she and her father walked to stand before me and the magistrate.
“Isolde, daughter of Braden and Eilis Kavanagh, you stand before us to ascend the throne of Maevana,” the magistrate said, and even though his voice was old and weathered, it carried through the woods. “Do you accept this title?”
“Yes, sire,” Isolde replied, steady, unwavering.
“Upon receiving this crown”—I began to recite the ancient vows—“you recognize that your life is no longer your own, but that you are married to this land, to its people, that your sole responsibility is to protect them and serve them, to uphold and honor them, and above all else ensure that the magic you create is meant for good and not for harm. Can you accept this vow?”
“Yes, Lady.”
“The lords and ladies of the Houses and the men and women of Maevana gather here this evening to witness your vow,” the magistrate continued. “In return, we vow to serve you, honor you, kneel to none other but you, and trust that the decisions you make are for the good of the land. We vow to protect your life with ours and to guard the lives of your sons and daughters to come.”
The magistrate paused, unable to hide his smile. “Come, daughter, and kneel before us.”
Isolde let go of her father, planting her knees into the earth among the roots.
First came the stone.
I was careful as I lifted the necklace by the chain, to hold the Stone of Eventide up so all could see. And then I looped it over the queen’s head, and I heard the whisper of it settling, watched as the Eventide came to rest above Isolde’s heart. It did not burn her, for she held the fire within her blood. Rather, the stone shone for her, coming alive with iridescent colors. I could see the light of it on my hands, dancing crimson and turquoise and amber on my knuckles, reflecting on my dress, and I marveled at it, at her, the queen of the north, my friend.
Isolde’s crown came next.
The magistrate held it up to let the candlelight kiss the diamonds. And then he set it gently upon Isolde’s head, the silver glittering like stars among her dark auburn curls.
Last came the cloak.
The captain of Isolde’s guard brought it forward, the royal robes draped over his arm—red and gold velvet adorned with black threads, pearls, and sunstones. The warrior brought it about her shoulders, and I could smell the incense within it, clove and cardamom and vanilla, spicy yet sweet. The cloak was a beautiful display of the dragon for the queen to wear at court.
“Rise, Queen Isolde, House of Kavanagh,” I said as I turned up my hands, palms to the sky.
Isolde stood, as if she was rising from shadows, rising from the mist.
The flutes and the drums began to play a joyful melody, and Braden Kavanagh stepped back, knowing Isolde was no longer his; she was ours.
Isolde looked directly at me. A smile illuminated her face; my own face mirrored hers. When she turned, we cheered for her, raising our voices with our hands, the boys and girls tossing flowers in her path. Isolde’s six Kavanagh lasses—the girls Cartier had found in the butcher’s shop—came about her dressed in red and black, the colors of their House. And it filled me with joy to see them grinning broadly, to see the flowers in their hair and the affection they held toward the queen. Isolde had claimed them as her sisters; they would always have a place in her castle, at her side. And I looked forward to seeing the girls’ magic begin to awaken.
I stood among the oak’s roots for a moment more, lingering in the excitement, the splendor of the moment. Jourdain came to stand with me, his hands resting on my shoulders as Isolde wove through the trees, her long cloak dragging over the earth behind her.
“I never thought I would see this day,” my father murmured, and I heard the emotion in his voice.
I thought he spoke only of Isolde, so he surprised me when he dropped a kiss in my hair and said, “I am proud of you, Brienna.”
I laid my hand over his, thinking of that moment we had first met, when I had been suspicious of him, when he had been intrigued by my ancestral memories, when the two of us decided to trust each other and plot for the queen’s return. I would never have dreamt that I would be the one to partake in her coronation, that I would speak the ancient vows to her, that I would be her right hand. I was filled with both awe and rapture.
“There is an old friend of mine that I would like you to meet,” Jourdain whispered, squeezing my shoulders.
I turned to see Líle step forward. She smiled at me, and I thought I might weep, to finally come face-to-face with her.
I did not know what to say, and then I realized . . . there were no words for this. And so I embraced her; I let her hold me and for the first time in my life, I knew what it felt like to be held by a mother.
Gently, she drew back to lay her hand upon my scar, as if she knew that my pain had brought her joy. We were reflections of each other; I laughed and cried in the same breath. And when my tears fell, she wiped them away tenderly.
I do not know how long we stood there, but I suddenly became aware of the light fading. Jourdain was still at our side, but everyone else had already left the woods for the meadow, and I could hear the drums pounding in the distance.
“Come, dear ones. The celebration awaits,” Jourdain said, his arms outstretched to escort us.
I let my fingers rest on his elbow, and Líle took his other arm. We walked together, my father, Cartier’s mother, and me. Just before we reached the meadows, I looked at Jourdain and said, “This all feels like a dream, Father.”
He only smiled at me and whispered in return,
“Then let us never wake.”
THIRTY-SIX
THE BEST OF YOUR HOUSE
Mistwood, Territory of Lord Burke
Cartier
The feast officially began, and there was a mad dash to the roast pit and food tables. I was still among the Burkes, and rather than fight the current, I walked with them to the meadow. The first stars had broken the dusk, and I stood for a moment, gazing up at them until I was jostled by a group of lads. I began to weave about the tables, slipping through knots of people who were all trying to fill their plates and catch a glimpse of Isolde.
I looked for Brienna; I sought a glimpse of her lavender dress, a glimpse of her grace among the revelry. But there was no sight of her. And the longer I searched, the more worried I became.
Gradually, I drifted into the heart of the field, feeling as if I was floating in a sea of strangers until I saw Brienna standing with Merei, both of them holding long ribbons in their hands. Merei felt my stare first, meeting my eyes over Brienna’s shoulder. Her gaze flickered back to her friend, but it was apparent Merei was creating a reason to step away. She pointed to something and melted into the crowd, leaving Brienna alone. I moved forward, knowing this might be the only chance I had to speak with her.
Brienna stood quietly. But Merei must have told her I was coming, because Brienna didn’t seem to be breathing as she felt me move closer. Nor did she turn to meet me as I hoped she would. She kept her back angled to me, and it only heightened my worries that she had been avoiding me.
“Brienna.”
She finally pivoted, to stand face-to-face with me, her eyes luminous in the firelight. For a moment, she did not speak. Her gaze touched mine and then darted away, distracted by a nearby reveler. But I saw how she tilted her face so that her scar was partially hidden from me. As if she was anxious for me to see it.
My heart ached, and now I was the one who could not speak.
