The Queen's Rising(104)

I don’t know how long I sat there with him before she came. But that breeze blew into the tent, lifting the matted hair off my neck, and I turned to see Isolde was standing among us, her eyes focused on me and my brother.

She walked to us, kneeling at my side so she could look at Sean.

“Lady?” one of the healers respectfully murmured to the queen. “Lady, these are traitors.”

I knew what the healer was implying. These are traitors, and they deserve to die as they lie, without the queen’s healing magic. And I yearned to tell Isolde that Sean was not a traitor, that Sean had chosen to fight for her.

“I know,” Isolde answered, and then she gently took Sean’s hand from me.

My brother’s eyes fluttered open, riveted to the queen. I watched the air shimmer around our corners and edges as Isolde traced Sean’s wound. The sunlight fractured as if she were a prism, and Sean’s breath caught as the queen slowly, achingly knit him back together with sightless threads.

My feet were prickling with pins and needles by the time she finished, offering him a cup of water.

“You will be weak for a few days,” she said. “Rest, Sean Allenach. When you are stronger, we can talk about the future of your House.”

“Yes, Lady,” he rasped.

Isolde stood and laid a reassuring hand on my shoulder. And then she moved on to the others, healing the traitors one by one, not seeing their faults but seeing their possibilities.

And while I could not heal, I could do other measures of service. I began to pass out bowls of soup, chunks of bread, listening as stories began to unwind about me, stories of bravery and stories of fear, stories of desperation and stories of redemption, stories of loss and stories of reunion.

I fed, I buried, and I listened until I was so exhausted I could hardly think, and night had drawn her cloak over the sky, dusted with a multitude of stars.

I stood in the field and drank the darkness, the grass still crimped and stained with blood, and gazed at the constellations. Weeks ago, I would have wondered straightaway which one was supposed to be mine. But now, all I could wonder was where I was to go, where I was to remain. I had done almost everything I had set out to do. And now . . . I did not know where I belonged.

I heard the gentle footsteps of a man walking through darkness to find me. I turned, recognizing Jourdain at once, the starlight catching the silver in his hair. He must have read my thoughts, or read my face with ease.

He drew me to his side so we could admire the stars together. And then, so quietly I almost didn’t hear, he said, “Let’s go home, Brienna.”





THIRTY-THREE


FIELDS OF COROGAN


Lord MacQuinn’s Territory, Castle Fionn


Three days later, I rested in the dappled shade of a lonely oak, the dust of travel still clinging to my breeches and shirt, Nessie panting at my side. The surrounding fields had just been harvested, the air smelling of candied earth, the grass golden from the songs the men had chanted while their sickles had swung.

Jourdain’s—MacQuinn’s—castle sat in the heart of the meadow, the shadows of the mountains only touching the roof early morning and late evening. It was built of white stone, a modest holding, not as grand or large as some of the others, like Damhan. But the walls were seasoned with fire and stories, with friendship and loyalty.

Steadfastness.

And the rightful lord had finally come home.

I had watched as his people greeted him, as they gathered about him in the courtyard, which was strewn with wildflowers and herbs and ribbons. And it had taken me by surprise, the longing for Valenia in that moment. It might have been the ribbons, the colors of passion tangled over the cobblestones. Or it might have been the wine they brought us, which I knew came from a bottle that had crossed the channel.

I had chosen to walk the fields and found this tree not long after the introductions were made and I became known as MacQuinn’s daughter. I was content to watch the sun continue her arc across the sky, weaving long tendrils of grass together as I reflected on all that had come to pass, a faithful dog at my side.

“I think you should pick the eastern chamber,” Luc declared. I glanced up to see him walking toward me. “It’s spacious and has bookshelves. And a beautiful view of the sunrise.”

I smiled as he sat beside me, ignoring Nessie’s protective growl. It was difficult to think about which room I should pick when there was still so much to come . . . Isolde’s coronation, Lannon’s trial, trying to mend a world that had continued to spin beneath tyranny. I wondered how the coming days would gather, how they would feel as I tried to settle into my new life.

“Although,” Luc said, flicking a beetle from his sleeve, “I have a feeling you won’t remain at this castle for long.”

I shot him a curious glance. He was ready for it, cocking his brow at me with that arrogant, brotherly confidence.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” I countered.

“You know what I mean, Sister. Shall I give him a hard time?”

“I have no inkling as to what you speak of.” I plucked another blade of grass and twisted it, feeling Luc’s gaze on me.

“It doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “The old legends claim that nearly all of the Maevan lords fall hard.”

“Hmm?”

Luc sighed, plucking a clover. “I suppose I shall have to challenge him to a spar. Yes, that is the best way to handle this.”