The Queen’s Resistance. Rebecca Ross
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show, he whistled for one of the lads, setting it into his hands.
“Run this to the quagmire, just on the other side of those woods,” Derry said. “Don’t turn it over, you hear? Give it to the bog just like that, facedown.”
The boy nodded and bolted away with a frown, awkwardly holding the stone in his hands.
I forced myself to keep walking before Derry took note of my presence, carrying the splintered chair to the fire pit. And yet I felt a darkness creeping over me, even as I stood in the broad daylight of the meadows.
I paused before the pit, the castle at my back and a mountain of old broken furniture before me, waiting for a flame. But there was a whisper in the wind, cold and sharp from the mountains. And the dark words rose up like a hiss in the rasping of the grass, like a curse in the groaning of the oaks.
Where are you, Aodhan?
I shut my eyes, focused on what was truth, what was real … the rhythm of my pulse, the solidness of earth beneath me, the distant sound of my people’s voices.
The voice came again, young yet cruel, accompanied by the stench of something burning, the overwhelming smell of refuse.
Where are you, Aodhan?
“Lord Aodhan?”
I opened my eyes and turned, relieved to see Seamus bearing pieces of a stool. I helped him toss the remains into the pit and then together we silently walked back to the courtyard, where Derry had already patched the Declan hole with a new, nameless stone.
“Aileen has been looking for you,” Seamus finally said, guiding me back into the foyer.
I noticed how quiet and empty it was, and followed the thane into the hall.
Everyone had already gathered, waiting for me to arrive.
I took one step into the hall and stopped upright, surprised by its transformation.
There was a fire burning in the hearth, and the trestle tables were arranged and set with mismatched pewter and wooden trenchers. Corogan wildflowers had been harvested from the meadows, woven together to make a blue garland for the tables. Candles cast light over the platters of food—most of it was bread and cheese and pickled vegetables, but someone had found the time to roast a couple of lambs—and the floors beneath me gleamed like a burnished coin. But what truly caught my eye was the banner that now hung over the mantel.
The Morgane sigil. It was blue as a midsummer sky, with a gray horse stitched over the center.
I stood among my people in the hall, staring at the symbol I had been born to wear, the symbol my mother and sister had been slain beneath, the symbol I had bled to reawaken.
“The swift are born for the longest night,” Seamus began, his voice resounding in the hall. These words were sacred, the motto of our House, and I watched as he turned to me, set a silver chalice of ale into my hands. “For they shall be the first to meet the light.”
I held the chalice, held on to those words, for I felt as if I was falling down some long tunnel, and I did not know when I was to meet the bottom.
“To the swift!” Derry shouted, raising his cup.
“To Lord Morgane,” Aileen added, standing on one of the benches so she could see me over the crowd.
They held their cups to me, and I held mine to theirs.
For appearances’ sake, I appeared calm and joyful, drinking to the health of this hall. But within, I was trembling from the weight of it.
I heard the whisper again, rising from the shadows in the corner. I heard it over the cheers and clamor as dinner began, as I was led to the dais.
Where are you, Aodhan?
Who are you? I inwardly growled back to it, my mind tensing as I sat in my chair.
It faded, as if it had never been. I wondered if I was hearing things, if I was beginning to lose my wits with exhaustion.
But then Aileen set the finest mutton chop on my plate, and I watched the red juices begin to pearl on the plate. And I knew.
Those words had once been spoken in this castle, twenty-five years ago. They had come from the person who had ripped this castle apart, trying to find my sister, trying to find me.
Declan Lannon.
Lord MacQuinn’s Territory, Castle Fionn
Brienna
The last thing I expected was for one of the weavers to come knocking at my door that evening.
I had managed to take down a few grievances among the women-at-arms, those who I had fought alongside during the battle. But after overhearing the conversation at the loom house, I did not approach any others. I spent the remainder of the day trying to appear useful, trying not to compare my scant list of grievances with the great tome that Luc had accumulated.
I was more than ready to retire for bed after dinner.
I sat before the fire with woolen stockings pulled up to my knees and two letters perched on my lap. One letter was from Merei, but the other was from my half brother, Sean, who I was supposed to persuade to alliance with Isolde Kavanagh. Both letters had arrived that afternoon, surprising me; Merei’s because she must have written it the day after she departed Maevana, and Sean’s because it was entirely unexpected. The question of the Allenachs’ allegiance was a constant simmer in the back of my mind, but I had not yet determined a way to address it. So why was Sean writing me, of his own accord?
October 9, 1566
Brienna,
I am sorry to be writing you so soon after the battle, because I know that you are still trying to adjust to your new home and family. But I wanted to thank you—for remaining with me when I was injured, for sitting with me despite what others might have thought of you. Your bravery to defy our father has inspired me in many measures, the first being to do my best to redeem the House of Allenach. I believe there are good people here, but I am overwhelmed with how to begin purging the corruption and cruelty that has been encouraged for decades. I do not think I can do this on my own, and I wondered if you would be willing to at least write to me for now, to pass some ideas and thoughts on how I should begin to right the wrongs committed by this House …
There was a hesitant rap on my door. Startled, I quickly folded my brother’s letter and hid it within one of my books.
So the Allenachs, as far as my brother was concerned, would not be too difficult to persuade.
I pushed the relief aside as I opened the door, perplexed to see a young girl.
“Mistress Brienna?” she whispered, and I recognized her voice. It was sweet and musical, the voice that had remarked I was pretty when I eavesdropped on the weavers’ hall.
“Yes?”
“May I come in?” She cast a glance down the corridor, as if she was worried she would be discovered here.
I took a step back, wordlessly inviting her inside. I shut the door behind her, and the two of us returned to sit before the fire, awkward and adjacent to each other.
She was wringing her pale hands, her mouth quirked to the side as she stared at the fire, as I tried not to stare at her. She was thin and angular with wispy blond hair, and her face was scarred by the pox—tiny white flecks dotted her cheeks like snow.
Just as I was drawing breath to speak, she brought her eyes to mine and said, “I must apologize for what you overhead today. I saw you through the window