The Queen's Rising(96)

I dismounted in tandem with Cartier, my back sore, my legs tight as harp strings. A man took my horse as Merei and I began to walk deeper into the forest, Nessie stuck to my side. We wove around tents and clusters of people, people who had joined us for the rising, utter strangers who wore armor and the colors of the fallen Houses.

Blue for Morgane. Crimson for Kavanagh. Lavender for MacQuinn.

Yet I could hardly soak this in as I continued to search for the queen, for my patron father, weaving through the trees as a needle in fabric, around stacks of swords, shields, and quivers brimming with arrows.

Jourdain had been right: we were prepared to wage war. If Lannon did not yield, if Lannon did not abdicate his throne for Yseult, we would clash with sword and shield.

We were here, and we would fight until the last of us fell. And while I had been told such, I found that I was not prepared for the thought of war.

This all felt like a dream, I thought, the exhaustion knotting in my muscles, in my blurred vision. But then I heard his voice, and it snapped every yawn, every desire for sleep.

“She is not here yet,” Jourdain said. “She was going to ride with Morgane, from Damhan.”

His voice pulled me, drew me closer as I waded through the mist.

“Will she come?” Yseult asked. But I could hear the words she did not say, pitted in the valley of her voice. Will she still choose us, or will she join Allenach?

I finally saw them, standing in a clearing. Jourdain, Luc, Yseult, Hector Laurent. Their armor glistened like the scales on a fish in the torchlight as they stood in a weary circle. Their heads were bowed, their swords sheathed at their sides, and the shadows seemed to feed off their doubt, the darkness rising higher as they contemplated what to do.

“We have told our people the Stone of Eventide would be here,” Hector said quietly. “They all believe that when we ride out to defy Lannon, the stone will be in our possession. Do we continue this belief, even if she doesn’t come?”

“Father,” Yseult said, reaching out to touch his arm. “Yes, the stone is life for us. The stone is what makes us Kavanaghs. But it is not what makes us Maevans.” She paused, and I watched as all the men, one by one, raised their eyes to look at her, their queen. “I am not going to ride out wearing the stone come dawn.”

“Isolde . . .” her father warned, his displeasure evident.

“If Lannon does not abdicate peacefully,” she continued, “we will fight, we will wage war, and we will take back the throne with steel and shield. I am not going to awaken magic only to let it go corrupt in battle. Magic has been dormant for over a hundred years. I need to learn how to wield it in peace.”

“But all of these people who have rallied behind us,” Hector softly argued. “They have done so because of the stone.”

“No,” Luc countered. “They have done it because of Isolde. Because we have returned.”

I held my breath, waiting to see what Jourdain would say, what Jourdain thought.

But he never spoke.

And so I stepped forward, breaking the fog as I said, “I am here.”





THIRTY


THE THREE BANNERS



The four of them spun to look at me, the relief making them sag within their breastplates. It was Yseult who came to me first, her hands outstretched to link with mine in welcome, a smile blooming across her face.

“Amadine,” she greeted, turning me away before I could so much as make eye contact with Jourdain. “Come, I have something for you.”

Luc stepped forward next, noticing Merei’s passion cloak instantly, capturing her in conversation as Yseult guided me through the trees, the torches hissing from their pegs in the trunks. She brought me to a tent, parting the cambric flaps to slip inside. Nessie lay down outside, the wolfhound exhausted from her long run, as I followed the queen, breathing in the scent of pine, smoke, and polished steel.

In one corner of the tent was a cot, rumpled with furs and quilts. In the other corner there was a set of armor. This is where the queen guided me, bringing forth a breastplate fashioned like dragon scales.

“This is for you,” Yseult said. “And I have a shirt and some breeches here as well.”

I unbuckled the satchel from my shoulders, saying, “And I have something for you, my lady.” My hands were trembling as I brought forth the Queen’s Canon, the white stone soaking in the candlelight as if the words were thirsty.

Yseult went very still when she saw it. She eased my breastplate to the ground and accepted the tablet, and I saw that she was trembling too.

“Amadine . . .” she whispered, her eyes rushing over the carved declaration, the declaration that was going to liberate this country. “Where? Where did you find this?”

I began to unlace my boots, unbuckle Allenach’s sword from my waist, unwind from my dress. “I fear that I have descended from a House of traitors. The Allenachs not only buried the stone; they took the Canon as well.”

The cold sent ripples over my skin as I pulled on the breeches and the linen shirt. The wooden locket clinked over my chest, and I felt Yseult’s gaze rest upon it, the stone stirring.

I was one moment from taking it from my neck, to give her the Eventide, when she stepped back.

“No,” Yseult whispered, holding the tablet to her breast. “I want you to wear the stone, Amadine. Do not give it to me yet.”