The Queen's Rising(100)

He let her hands go, and he warily observed as she murmured the ancient words, her fingers flickering to the sky. Gradually, the magic unraveled and weakened, breaking like plates on a floor, leaving behind its residue as dust and gossamer in an abandoned house.

The storm clouds began to dissipate, revealing ribs of blue, and the wind eased, but the corpses remained. The destruction and the dead and the consequences remained.

Gently, he rolled off her, drew her to her feet. The dirk in his hand was slick, with sweat, with blood.

Kill her, a voice whispered. She will betray you. She is like her mother. . . .

“You want to kill me,” she whispered, reading his mind.

He held her by her wrist, and her eyes were fearless as she looked at him. He could feel her magic brush his bones . . . like autumn’s first frost, like a slow-consuming fire, like the seductive texture of silk . . .

He tightened his hold and lowered his face to hers, until their breaths intermingled. “I want you to disappear. I want you to vanish, to deny your right to the throne. If you come back, I will kill you.”

He shoved her away, even though the motion tore what little remained of his heart. He had come to admire her, respect her, love her.

She would have made an exquisite queen.

He expected her to fight, to summon the magic, to raze him to the earth.

But Norah Kavanagh did none of those things.

She turned and walked away. And she went five steps before she pivoted to look at him one final time, her dark, blood-matted hair the greatest crown she had ever worn. “Heed this, Tristan Allenach, lord of the shrewd: you have bought my House to ashes. You have taken the life of the queen. And you will steal the Stone of Eventide. But know that one day, a daughter will rise from your line, a daughter who shall be two in one, passion and stone. And she will bring down your House from within and undo all your crimes. But perhaps the greatest wonder of all? She shall steal your memories to do it.”

She set her back to him and walked, walked until the mist came about her.

He wanted to brush aside her words. She was trying to rattle him, make him doubt himself. . . .

Brienna.

Somewhere, a voice that reminded him of midsummer stars spoke within his mind. An echo trembled through the earth as Tristan began to ascend the summit once more.

Brienna.

He came to kneel at the queen’s side, her blood beginning to cool and darken, his arrow protruding from her eye.

Brienna.

The Stone of Eventide was his.

Just as Tristan reached for the stone, I opened my eyes, leaving his battle for mine.

The earth was hard and cold beneath me, the sky remarkably cloudless and blue as I squinted up at Cartier, the sun like a crown behind him. I drew in a long breath, felt the stabbing pain in my left arm, and remembered. The banners, the arrows, the fall.

“I’m all right,” I rasped, my right hand fluttering over my chest, finding his. “Help me up.”

I could hear the clashing of steel, the shouts and screams that preceded blood and death. Lannon and Allenach’s forces had broken through our wall of shields, and Cartier had carried me as far back to the line as he could, trying to rouse me. I glanced to my arm; the arrow was gone, a strip of linen fastened about the wound. My blood still seeped through it as he raised me up to my feet.

“I’m all right,” I repeated, and then drew my own sword, the widow in the amber. “Go, Cartier.”

His people were pressing forward, fighting without him. And it was evident to see we were outnumbered. I shoved him gently in the chest, smearing his breastplate with my blood.

“Go.”

He took a step back, his eyes riveted to mine. And then we both turned at the same moment, taking up wooden shields and wielding our steel. While he moved toward the warriors in blue, I moved toward the warriors in lavender, the House that was mine, that I wanted to belong to.

I tripped over a body, one of ours, a young man whose eyes were glassy as he stared at the sky, his throat shredded. And then I tripped over another, one of theirs, a green cloak about his neck. I began to step over death, wondering if she was also about to trip me. No sooner did I sense the brush of death’s wings than did I feel a cold gaze touch me.

I looked forward, into the fray, to see Allenach a few yards away.

Blood was splattered on his face, his dark hair blowing in the breeze beneath his golden circlet. Calmly, he began to walk forward, the battle seeming to flow away from both of us, opening a chasm of passage between the lord and me.

He was coming for me.

There was a side of me that begged me to run, to hide from him. Because I could see it in the dark glitter of his eyes, in the bloodlust that swarmed him.

My father was coming to kill me.

I stepped back, tripping, regaining my balance before I told myself to stand firm, steadfast. When that gap closed between us, my sword the only thing preventing him from reaching me, I knew that only one of us was going to walk away from this encounter.

“Ah, my traitor of a daughter,” he said, his eyes going to the long blade in my hand. “As well as a thief. Widow’s Bite suits you, Brienna.”

I held my tongue, the battle raging around us, raging but not touching us.

“Tell me, Brienna, did you cross the channel to betray me?”

“I crossed the channel to set a queen upon the throne,” I said, thankful my voice was steady. “I had no inkling who you were when I first saw you. I was never told the name of my father.”