The Queen's Rising(37)

He didn’t have time for this.

He continued weaving through the forest, his tread soft, his breath slightly ragged. He wasn’t out of shape; he was nervous, anxious. But he knew the tree that he wanted, and he continued to let branch after branch claw at him to get there.

At last, he reached the old oak.

It had been here long before the other trees, had sprouted upward with a massive canopy. He had often come to this tree as a boy, climbed and rested in her branches, carved his initials within her wood.

He fell to his knees before her now, the twilight dying blue and cold as he began to dig. The loam was still soft from the spring rains, and he furrowed a deep hole among the weaker roots.

Slowly, he drew the wooden locket up from beneath his tunic, away from his neck. It dangled from his fingers in a slow, burdened circle.

He had had his carpenter render it, just for this purpose, an ungainly wooden locket the size of a fist. It was a locket designed for one purpose: to hold and guard something. A casket for a stone.

His fingers were stained with soil as he flicked open the latch, just to look at it one final time.

The Stone of Eventide sat within its coffin, translucent save for a tiny flare of red. It was like watching a heart slowly cease beating, the last of the blood drip from a wound.

He latched the locket and dropped it into the darkness of the hole.

As he buried it—packed down the earth, scattered the pine straw and leaves—he doubted himself again. He had wanted to hide it in the castle—there were so many secret passages and crannies—but if it was ever found among his walls, he would lose his head. It needed to be given back to the earth.

Satisfied, he rose with a pop to his knees. But just before he turned away, he searched over the deep ridges of the trunk. And there . . . his fingers found it, traced the old carving of his initials.

T.A.

He smiled.

Only one other person knew of this tree. His brother, and he was dead.

He left the tree to the shadows, weaving through the forest just as darkness fell, until he could no longer see.

He felt his way out.

I ran the remainder of the drive, up the hill to the courtyard through sheets of rain. I was sore for breath, because—unlike him—I was not in shape, and I nearly busted my shin as I slipped on the front stairs.

I could still feel his thoughts in my own, like oil slipping over water, inspiring a sharp ache in my head; I could still feel the weight of the locket, dangling from my fingers.

The Stone of Eventide.

He had hidden it, tucked it away in the soil.

So the princess had stolen it from the queen’s neck, after all.

But more important . . . was the stone still buried there, beneath that old oak?

I burst in through the front doors, shocking the sleepy-eyed butler, and then raced down the corridor to the Dowager’s study. I knocked, slinging water all over the doors.

“Come in.”

I entered her study; she immediately rose to her feet, startled by my drenched appearance, the blood dribbling down my arm.

“Brienna? What is wrong?”

I didn’t truly know. And I didn’t even know what I was going to tell her, but I was burdened with the need to tell it to someone. Had Cartier been here, I would have told it all to him. Or Merei. But it was just the Dowager and me, and so my boots squeaked over her rug as I sat in the chair opposite her desk.

“Madame, I must tell you something.”

She slowly sank back to her seat, her eyes wide. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No, but . . .”

She waited, the whites of her eyes still showing.

“I have been . . . seeing things,” I began. “Things of the past, I believe.”

I told her of the first shift, channeled by The Book of Hours. I told her of Merei’s music, with its Maevan influences granting me a glimpse of some northern mountain. And then I told her of my wound and his wound, of the woods and the burial of the stone.

She abruptly stood, the candles on her desk trembling. “Do you know this man’s name?”

“No, but . . . I saw his initials, carved on the tree. T.A.”

She paced her study, her worry hanging in the air like smoke. I could hardly draw breath as I waited. I thought she would challenge my claim, tell me that I was slowly losing my wits. That what I had said was fantastical, improbable. I expected her to laugh, or become condescending. But the Dowager did none of those things. She was quiet, and I marveled with dread as I waited for her to speak her mind. Eventually, she came to a stop at her window. Facing the glass to watch the storm, she asked, “What do you know of your father, Brienna?”

I was not expecting this question; my heart flared with surprise as I responded, “Not much at all. Only that he is Maevan and that he wants nothing to do with me.”

“Your grandfather never told you what your paternal name is?”

“No, Madame.”

She walked back to the desk but seemed too agitated to sit. “Your grandfather told me the day he first brought you here. And I swore to him that I would never reveal it to you, out of his concern and protection for you. So I am about to break my word, but only because I feel like your father’s blood is calling out to you. Because your paternal name could potentially match this . . . man’s last initial, the man you have been shifting to.”

I waited, twisted rain from my skirts.