The Queen's Rising(95)

The three of us waited, our breath escaping our lips as plumes of smoke in the cold night.

By the moon’s position and the deep chill in the air, I guessed it to be around three in the morning. Again, I dared to rasp my knuckles upon the printmaker’s door, praying that he would hear and answer.

“Brienna,” Cartier whispered. I knew what he was telling me; we had to hurry. We had to reach Mistwood before dawn.

I sighed, about to turn away when the front door unlocked and creaked open, just a sliver. Wide-eyed with hope, I looked to the man who had answered us; his frown was lit by a solitary candle.

“Evan Berne?” I murmured.

His frown deepened. “Yes? Who are you?”

“I am Davin MacQuinn’s daughter. Will you let us in?”

Now he was the one to go wide-eyed, his gaze assessing me, assessing Cartier and Merei. But cautiously, he opened the door and let us enter his home.

His wife was standing a few paces back, clutching a woolen shawl about her shoulders, her terror evident. Flanking her were two sons, one who was obviously trying to conceal a dirk behind his back.

“I am sorry to come at such a time.” I rushed to apologize. “But Liam O’Brian marked you down as a safe house for our mission, and I must ask something of you.”

Evan Berne came to stand face-to-face with me, his gaze still wide and frightened. “Did you say you were . . . MacQuinn’s daughter?”

“Yes. My father has returned to Maevana. By dawn, the three fallen Houses will rise and take back the throne.”

“How?” one of the sons sputtered.

I glanced to him before letting my eyes return to Evan, slipping the satchel from my back. “You are a printmaker?”

Evan gave a sharp nod, the candle trembling in his hands as he watched me pull the Queen’s Canon from the bag.

He hardly breathed as he moved closer, to let his light shine upon the carved words. His wife gasped; their sons stepped forward with entranced gazes. They gathered about me, reading the words Liadan had carved so long ago. With every moment, I felt the hope, the wonder, the courage weave through their hearts.

“Where did you find that?” Evan’s wife whispered, tears filling her eyes when she looked at me.

“It is a long story,” I responded with a flicker of a smile. One day, I thought, I will write it all down, of how this came to be. “Can you print this Canon on paper? I want it posted on every door of this city, every street corner, by dawn.”

Evan grew very still, but he met my gaze. Again, I watched years of fear, years of oppression and estrangement melt from him. This was one of Jourdain’s most beloved thanes, a man who had watched his lord fall decades ago, thinking he would never rise again.

“Yes,” he whispered, but there was iron within his voice. At once, he began to give out orders, for his sons to drape blankets over the shuttered windows so no candlelight could leak out, for his wife to ready the press.

Cartier, Merei, and I followed him into the workroom, where the press sat as a sleeping beast. I set the Canon down on a long table and watched as Evan and his wife began to line the letter plates up, copying Liadan word for word. The air was rich with the scent of paper, with ink as he wet the metal words with it, as he set down a square of parchment.

He began to pump the press, and I watched as the Queen’s Canon was inked on paper, over and over, as quickly as Evan Berne could move. Before long, there was a glorious stack of them, and one of the sons gathered it with reverent hands.

“We will post these everywhere,” he murmured to me. “But tell me . . . where is the rising happening?”

From the corner of my eye, I saw his mother glance up from her place at the ink roller, her mouth pressed in a tight line. I knew what she was thinking, that she was worrying about her sons fighting.

Cartier answered before I could, coming to stand close behind me. “We ride from Mistwood at dawn.” His hand rested on my shoulder, and I could feel the urgency in his touch: we needed to depart. Now.

Evan shuffled to us, gently handing the Canon to me. The tablet went back into my satchel, tethered to my shoulders. He guided us to the front door, but just before we left, he took my hands.

“Tell your father that Evan Berne stands with him. Come darkness or light, I will stand with him.”

I smiled and squeezed the printer’s hands. “Thank you.”

He opened the door, just a sliver.

I slipped out into the streets, Cartier and Merei at my sides, our hearts pounding as we once again ran from shadow to shadow, creeping around enforcers who milled in their dark armor and green capes. I prayed the Berne sons would be careful, that the night would protect them as they too ran the streets with an armful of Canons.

I felt ragged and worn by the time we returned to our horses. Dawn was close; I could feel her sigh in the air, in the crinkling of the frost over the ground as my gelding followed Cartier’s up the road that would lead us safely around Lyonesse’s walls, deep to the heart of Mistwood, Nessie close behind us.

The forest waited, etched in moonlight, sheltered by a thick cloak of fog. Cartier slowed his horse as we approached, our mounts easing into the earthly cloud as if it were foamy water. We rode deep into the trees before we finally saw the torchlight, before we were greeted by men I had never seen before.

“It’s Lord Morgane,” a voice murmured, and I had the prickling suspicion that we had just had notched arrows lowered from us. “Welcome, my lord.”