The Queen's Rising (Untitled Trilogy #1)(36)

“I have a gift for you,” I said, reaching beneath the parchment to find the last poetry booklet in my basket. “You probably do not remember, but one of the first lessons you gave me was on poetry, and we read this one poem that I loved. . . .”

“I remember,” Cartier said, accepting the booklet. He leafed through the pages, and I watched as he silently read one of the poems, pleasure flickering over his expression as sun over water. “Thank you, Brienna.”

“I know it is a simple gift,” I stammered, feeling as if I had removed a layer of clothing, “but I thought you would like it.”

He smiled as he slipped it into his satchel. “And I have something for you.” He brought forth a small box, letting it rest in the hollow of his palm.

I took the box and slowly eased it open. A silver pendant with a long chain sat on a square of red velvet. And as I examined it closer, I saw that a Corogan flower was carved into the pendant, a silver drop of Maevan whimsy to rest against one’s heart. I smiled as my thumb traced the delicate etching.

“It’s lovely. Thank you.” I shut the box, unsure of where to look.

“You can write to me, if you want,” he said, smoothing over the awkwardness we both felt. “To let me know how your studies fare over the summer.”

I met his gaze, a smile quirking the corner of my mouth. “You can write to me as well, Master. To make sure I am not dwindling in my studies.”

He gave me a wry look, one that made me wonder what he was thinking, as he slipped his satchel over his shoulder. “Very good. I will be awaiting word from Madame.”

I watched him step into the flood of morning, his passion cloak snapping behind him as he departed. I could not believe he had left so swiftly—he was worse at good-byes than I was!—and I hurried to the threshold.

“Master Cartier!”

He stopped halfway down the stairs and turned to look at me. I leaned on the door frame, the small pendant box clutched in my fingers.

“Your books! They are still upstairs on my shelf.”

“Keep them, Brienna. I have far too many as it is, and you will need to start your own collection.” He smiled; I lost my thread of thought, until I realized he was about to spin around and continue on.

“Thank you.”

It felt far too simple for what he had given me. But I could not allow him to leave without hearing it from my lips. Because I felt that fissure again, a cleaving of my heart. It was an admonition, as I had felt saying good-bye to Merei, a warning that I may never see him again.

He did not speak, but he bowed. And then he was gone, like the rest of them.





ELEVEN


BURIED


July 1566


The next month passed quietly. I longed for Merei’s music, for Abree’s laughter. I missed Oriana’s spontaneous art, Sibylle’s games, and Ciri’s company. But even with loneliness for a companion, I was faithful to my studies; I filled my hours with books and lineages, with anatomy and herb lore, with histories and astronomy. I wanted to be able to branch any way I desired with knowledge.

Every Monday, I wrote to Cartier.

At first it was only to ask for his advice about my studies. But then my letters became longer, eager for a conversation with him, even if it was made of ink and paper.

And his letters reflected mine; at first he was succinct, giving me lists of things to study, as he had often done in the past, and then asking me for my thoughts and opinions. But I gradually began to encourage more words and stories out of him, until his letters required two pages, and then three. He wrote about his father, about growing up in Delaroche, about why he’d chosen the passion of knowledge. And soon, our letters were not so much concerned with lessons but about discovering more of each other.

It astonished me that for three years, I had sat nearly every day in his presence and there was still so much I did not know about him.

The month elapsed with letters and studies, with the Dowager sending inquiries to potential patrons, all of which were kindly rejected. But at last, in that fourth week of waiting, something finally happened.

I was walking the long drive one afternoon, beneath the oaks and the threat of a thunderstorm, waiting on the mail. When I was out of sight of the house, I chose one of the oaks to sit beneath, leaning against the trunk, closing my eyes as I thought about how much time I had left of summer. That was when the rain came, gently through the rustling branches above me. Sighing, I rose and caught my sleeve on a small branch.

I felt the sting of a cut in my arm.

The storm broke loose above me, drenching my dress and hair, as I begrudgingly examined my cut. I had torn my sleeve and blood oozed forth. Gently, I touched the wound, the blood staining my fingertips.

There was a buzzing in my ears, a shiver over my skin, the sort of premonition lightning might give before it strikes. The storm no longer smelled like sweet meadows but like bitter earth, and I watched as the hands before me widened into those of a man, crooked knuckles smudged by dirt and blood.

I glanced up, and the orderly oaks of Magnalia twisted into a dark forest of pines and alders, aspens and hickories. I felt like the woods were spreading me thin; my ears popped and my knees ached until the shift had fully overcome me.

He had cut his arm on a branch too. The same place as mine. And he had stopped to examine it, to smudge his blood on his fingertips.