The Queen's Rising (Untitled Trilogy #1)(68)

“Quickly speak what ails you, Burke,” the king impatiently said.

Burke bowed, and then held up his hands. “This man is one of my best masons. It would hurt my household to lose him.”

“This man also harbors the traitor’s mark,” Lannon spouted, holding the blue fabric up again. “Do you mean to tell me how to dole my justice?”

“No, my king. But this man, long ago, once served the traitor before the rebellion. Since the victory of 1541, he has served under my House, and he has not once spoken the fallen name. It is, most likely, by accident that this sigil has endured.”

The king chuckled. “There are no accidents when it comes to traitors, Lord Burke. I would kindly remind you of that, and I will also say that if any more traitorous marks arise from your House, you will have to pay for it with blood.”

“It will not happen again, my lord king,” Burke promised.

Lannon propped his jaw on his fist, his eyes hooded as if he was bored again. “Very well. The man will be given thirty lashes in the courtyard.”

Burke bowed in gratitude as his mason was hauled up from the chopping block. The man wept his thanks, thanks that he was going to be scourged instead of beheaded, and I watched as they passed me, heading for the courtyard. Lord Burke’s face was ashen as he followed them, and he brushed my shoulder.

I took note of his expression, of his name. For he was bound to become an ally.

“Lady?” the herald was whispering to me, waiting for my name card.

I handed it to him, my mouth going dry, my pulse spiking through my mind. Saints, I could not do this. I could not do this. . . . It was folly to mention MacQuinn’s name right on the heels of Morgane’s. And yet . . . I was here. There was no going back.

“May I present Mistress Amadine Jourdain, of Valenia, to his royal Lordship, King Gilroy Lannon of Maevana.”

I stepped forward, my kneecaps turning to water, and presented him with a graceful, fluid bow. For once, I was grateful for the rigid stays about my waist; they kept me upright and transformed me from an uncertain girl to a very confident woman. I thought of Sibylle and her mask of wit; I let such a mask come over my face, over my body as I waited for him to address me, my hair flowing around my shoulders, wavy from the ocean breeze. I hid the worry deep within me, let assurance hold my expression and posture, just as Sibylle would do.

This encounter would not come unraveled, like the summer solstice had months ago. This encounter was made from my creation and plotting; I would not let the king steal it from me.

“Amadine Jourdain,” Lannon said with a dangerous little smile. He seemed to say my name only to taste it as he caught Morgane’s sigil on fire from a nearby candle. I watched as the blue and the silver horse burned, burned and became ash as he dropped it to the stone floor beside the throne. “Tell me, what do you think of Maevana?”

“Your land is beautiful, my lord king,” I answered. Perhaps the only truth I would ever speak to him.

“It has been a long time since a Valenian woman has come to make a request of me,” he continued, drawing a finger over his lips. “Tell me why you have come.”

I had woven these words together days ago, forged them in the warmth of my chest. I had carefully selected them, tasted them, practiced them. And then I had memorized them, spoken them facing a mirror to see how they should influence my expression.

Even so, my memory wilted when I needed it most, the fear like a spider crawling up my voluptuous skirts when all I could see was the girl on the spike, when all I could hear was the faint lash of the whip from the courtyard.

I linked my trembling hands together and said, “I have come to ask your graciousness to grant passage to Maevana.”

“For whom?” Lannon asked, that insolent smile still curling the ends of his mouth.

“My father.”

“And who is your father?”

I drew in a deep breath, my heart thundering through my veins. I looked up at the king beneath my lashes, and proclaimed loud enough so every ear in the hall could hear: “I know him as Aldéric Jourdain, but you will know him as the lord of the House of MacQuinn.”

I expected there would be silence when I spoke the fallen name, but I did not expect it to last so long or cut so deep. Or for the king to rise with slow, predatory grace, his pupils turning his eyes to a near black as he glared down at me.

I wondered if I was about to lose my head, right here at the footstool of the antler-and-wrought-iron throne that had once been Liadan’s. And there would be no Lord Burke to stop it.

“The name ‘MacQuinn’ has not been spoken here for twenty-five years, Amadine Jourdain,” Lannon said, the words twisting as a long vine of thorns throughout the hall. “In fact, I have cut out many tongues who dared to utter it.”

“My lord king, allow me to explain.”

“You have three minutes,” Lannon said, jerking his chin toward one of the scribes who sat further down the dais. The scribe’s eyes widened as he realized he was appointed to time how long I got to keep my tongue.

But I was calm, collected. I felt the pulse of the earth, buried deep beneath all of this stone and tile and fear and tyranny, the heartbeat of the land that once was. The Maevana that Liadan Kavanagh had created so long ago. One day, a queen will rise, Cartier had once said to me.

That day was coming on the horizon. That day gave me courage when I needed it most.