The Queen’s Rising. Rebecca Ross
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armor, the flower crown, and the sword back to Abree and left my sisters’ laughter and conversation behind in the studio, seeking out the quiet shadows of Merei’s and my room.
Traditionally, Magnalia’s arden of music was the one student privileged with a private bedchamber, to accommodate the instruments. The other four ardens were paired as roommates. But since the Dowager had done the unexpected and accepted me as her sixth student, the arden of music’s bedchamber had become a shared space.
As I swung the door open, the smell of parchment and books greeted me as loyal friends. Merei and I were messy, but I would blame it upon our passions. She had reams of music scattered in all places. I once found a bundle of music in her quilts, and she claimed she had fallen asleep with it in hand. She told me she could hear the music in her head when she silently read the notes; such was the depth of her passion.
As for my part, I was books and journals and loose papers. Shelves were carved in the wall next to my bed, crowded with volumes I had brought up from the library. Cartier’s books also had several shelves, and as I looked upon their soft- and hard-bound spines, I wondered what it would feel like to return all of them back to his possession. And realized that I owned not one book.
I bent to retrieve my discarded dress on the floor, still drenched, and found Francis’s letter. It was smeared into unintelligible ink.
“Did I miss it?” Merei declared from the doorway.
I turned to look at her standing with her violin tucked beneath her arm, the bow extending from her long fingers, the storm spilling lavender light over her brown complexion, over her rosin-smeared dress.
“Saint LeGrand, what did they do to your face?” She moved forward, wide-eyed with intrigue.
My fingers traced my profile, feeling the cracked trail of blue paint. I had forgotten all about that. “If you had been there, this would never have happened,” I teased her.
She set her instrument aside and then took my chin in her fingers, admiring Oriana’s handiwork. “Well, let me guess. They dressed you up as a Maevan queen fresh off the battlefield.”
“Do I look that Maevan?”
Merei led me over to our commode, where a pitcher of water sat before the mullioned window. I tucked Francis’s letter back in my pocket as she poured water into a waiting porcelain bowl and took a washcloth. “No, you look and act very Valenian. Didn’t your grandfather claim you were the image of your mother?”
“Yes, but he could be lying.”
Merei’s dark eyes quietly scolded me for my lack of faith. And then she began to wipe away the paint with the washcloth.
“How are your lessons coming, Bri?”
This was the one question we continued to ask each other, over and over, as the solstice grew closer. I groaned and shut my eyes as she began to vigorously scrub. “I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?” She paused in her washings until I relented to open my eyes again. She gazed at me with an expression trapped somewhere between alarm and confusion. “There are only two more official days of lessons.”
“As I know. But do you want to know what Master Cartier asked me today? He asked, ‘What is passion?’ as if I were ten and not seventeen.” I sighed and took the washcloth from her, dunking it back into the water.
I had told Merei my suspicions. I had told her how I believed the Dowager had accepted me for some mysterious reason, not because I held potential. And Merei had witnessed firsthand that second year I had struggled in music. She had sat beside me and tried to help coach me when Mistress Evelina seemed overwhelmed by how poorly I played. Never had a violin sounded like it wanted to die.
“Why didn’t he refuse me when I asked him to take me on as his arden?” I continued, scrubbing my face. “He should have said that three years was not enough time for me to master this. And if I had been smart, I should have chosen knowledge from the very beginning, when I was ten and had plenty of time to learn all these wretched lineages.” The blue paint was not coming off. I tossed the washcloth aside, feeling like I had peeled half of my face away, revealing the true bones of who I was: inept.
“Need I remind you, Bri, that Master Cartier hardly makes mistakes?”
I cast my gaze to the window, watching the rain streak as tears on the glass, knowing that she was right.
“Need I remind you that Master Cartier would not have accepted you as his arden if he thought for one moment that you could not passion?” She took my hand, to draw my attention back to her. She smiled, half of her curly black hair caught by a ribbon, the rest loose about her shoulders. “If Master Cartier believes you can passion in three years, then you can. And so you will.”
I squeezed her fingers in silent gratitude. And now it was my turn to ask after her passion. “How is your latest composition coming? I heard a bit from the Art Studio …”
Merei dropped my fingers and groaned. I knew from the sound that she felt as I did … overwhelmed and worried. She turned and walked back to her bed and sat, propping her chin in her palm.
“It’s horrible, Bri.”
“It sounded lovely to me,” I said, remembering how her music had trickled down the halls.
“It’s horrible,” she insisted. “Mistress Evelina wants me to have it ready in time for the solstice. I don’t think it’s possible …”
I knew from my seven years of rooming with Merei that she was a perfectionist when it came to her music. Every note had to be exquisitely placed, every song must be played with fervor and rapture. If her fingers or bow so much as let a screech slip over the strings, she was irritated by her performance.
“Do you know what this means?” I asked, smiling as I reached for the elaborately carved box on one of her shelves.
Merei lay back on her bed, overly dramatic as she claimed, “I am too tired to play.”
“We have a pact,” I reminded her as I opened the box on our communal table, drawing forth the checkered board and the marble pawns.
Her father had sent this game of cheques and marques for both of us, a game Merei adored and had grown up playing on the island of Bascune. As the years had gone by at Magnalia, as Merei and I had become progressively more preoccupied with our impassionment, we hardly had time to play anymore. Save for the evenings when we were both overwhelmed and worried. We had vowed to bring forth the game then, as a way to remind ourselves that the impending solstice wasn’t everything.
“All right.” She relented, as I knew she would. She rose from the bed and walked to our table, gathering a few loose sheets of music and setting them aside.
We sat across from each other, our colorful pawns gleaming as I lit the candles and Merei flipped a ducat to see who had the first move.
“You start, Bri,” she said.
I stared at my pawns, lined up obediently. Cheques and marques was a game of strategy, the goal being to remove all three of the opponent’s red pawns. I decided to begin on the edge, shifting my yellow pawn forward to the first marque.
We always started the game quietly, granting ourselves time to adjust to moving in rhythm with each other. I tended to make the bold moves, Merei the cautious moves. Our pawns were scattered all over the board when Merei broke our silence by asking, “Have you heard from your grandfather?”
I claimed her first red pawn, one she had defiantly floating toward our line of impact. “Yes. I’ll have to let you read it later.”
She began to shift toward one of my red pieces. “Did he tell you a name?”
“No name. The usual response.”
“That your father is unworthy to note?”
“Yes, those very words.” I watched as she swiped one of my red pawns. She also had