The Queen's Rising(98)

“Our father wills it,” Luc murmured. “Please.”

Luc could be making a claim just to get me to acquiesce, but I could not let the morning continue to slip away from us. I reached forward and took the slender pole, felt the gentle weight of the purple banner become mine.

I walked to the horse as the third and final rider, mounting with a tremor in my legs. The saddle was cold beneath me as I settled my feet in the stirrups, as my left hand took up the reins while my right held to the pole. The velvet banner stroked my back, the golden-stitched falcon perching upon my shoulder.

I looked to Yseult, to Cartier, who both sat watching me, the morning light flickering across their faces. The wind came about us, tugging at my braids, stroking our banners. And the peace that came over me was like a warm cloak, guarding me against the fear that howled in the distance.

I nodded to the queen and the lord, my gaze proclaiming that I was ready, that I would ride, that I would fall at their side.

Yseult broke from the forest, the fire. Kavanagh the Bright.

Then Cartier, the water. Morgane the Swift.

And last, I emerged, the wings. MacQuinn the Steadfast.

We rode close together, the queen as the point of an arrow, Cartier and I at her flanks, our horses galloping in perfect stride. The fog continued to burn away as we claimed the field piece by piece, the grass glittering with frost, the earth pounding with the song of our redemption.

This was the same field that had witnessed the massacre, the defeat twenty-five years ago. And yet we took it as if it was ours, as if it had always been ours, even when the royal castle loomed in the distance with the green and yellow banners of Lannon, even when I saw that the king was waiting for us with a horde of soldiers lining his back as an impenetrable wall of steel and black armor.

He would know that we would come for him. He would know because he would have been woken just before dawn to find the Queen’s Canon had fallen upon Lyonesse as snow. He would know because Lord Allenach—I imagined—had stormed to the royal hall after discovering I had fled from his lands, along with Jourdain’s people.

There would be no doubt in Lannon’s narrow mind, not when he saw the three forbidden banners billowing at our shoulders.

We were coming to wage war.

Yseult eased her horse to a canter . . . to a trot. Cartier and I mirrored her, reining our horses slower, slower, as the distance between us and Lannon closed. My heart was throbbing as our horses came to an elegant halt, a stone’s throw from where the king sat upon his stead, flanked by the captain of his guard and Lord Allenach.

Oh, his eyes fell upon me as poison, as a blade to my heart. I met my father’s gaze, MacQuinn’s banner gracing my shoulder, and watched the hatred set upon his handsome face.

I had to look away before the grief cleaved me.

“Gilroy Lannon,” Yseult called, her voice sharp and rich in the air. “You are an imposter to this throne. We have come to claim it from your unrighteous hands. You can either abdicate now, peacefully, on this field. Or we will take it forcefully, by blood and steel.”

Lannon chuckled, a twisted sound. “Ah, little Isolde Kavanagh. However did you escape my blade twenty-fire years ago? You know that I drove my sword into your sister’s heart on this very field. And I can easily do it to yours. Kneel before me, deny this folly, and I will bring you and your disgraced House back into my fold.”

Yseult didn’t so much as flinch, as he was hoping she would. She didn’t let her emotions visibly gather, even though I could feel them, like a storm was brewing overhead.

“I do not kneel to a king,” she declared. “I do not kneel to tyranny and cruelty. You, sire, are a disgrace to this country. You are a dark blemish, and one that I am about to purge. I will give you one final chance to surrender before I rend you in two.”

He laughed, the sound taking to the air as crows, dark and cawing. I felt Allenach staring at me; he had not taken his eyes from me, not even to look at Yseult.

“Then I fear that we have come to an impasse, little Isolde,” Lannon said, the crown on his head snaring the sunlight. “I will give you a count of fifteen to ride back across the field and ready yourselves for battle. One . . . two . . . three . . .”

Yseult whirled her horse about. Cartier and I remained on either side of her, her buffers and her support, as our horses began to gallop the way we had come. I could see the line of our people as they strode over the grass, their shields locked and ready, to meet us in the middle and wage the battle we predicted would unfold.

I should have been counting. I should have kept track of the fifteen seconds. But time in that moment went shallow and thin, brittle. We were almost rejoined to our group when I heard the whizzing, as if the wind were trying to catch us.

I never turned about, not even as the arrows began to sink into the ground before us. There was a shout from one of our people—it sounded like Jourdain. He was screaming orders, and I watched as the wall of shields opened in the center, ready to swallow the three of us as we tore across the field.

I didn’t even realize I had been hit, not until I saw the blood begin to pour down my arm, red, eager. I glanced at it like I was looking at a stranger’s arm, saw the tip of an arrow protruding from my bicep, and the pain quivered deep in my bones, up to my teeth, stealing my breath.

You can make it, I told myself, even as the stars began to speckle the edges of my vision, even as I watched as Yseult and Cartier pulled ahead of me.