The Queen's Rising (Untitled Trilogy #1)(72)

“So what blessing does this room give?” I asked, warily glancing back to him just as one of his servants brought in my trunk, carefully setting it at the foot of the bed.

“Surely you know what the unicorn embodies,” the lord said, the candle faithfully flickering in his hand.

“We have no unicorn myths in Valenia,” I informed him mournfully.

“The unicorn is the symbol of purity, of healing. Of magic.”

That last word felt like a hook in my skin, his voice pulling on me to see how I would respond. I glanced back to the tapestry, only to shift my eyes from his, remembering that while this lord was appearing friendly and hospitable to me, he was not easing his suspicions. He was not forgetting that I was MacQuinn’s daughter.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured. “Thank you for choosing it for me.”

“I’ll send one of my servant girls to help you change. Then come down and join us for dinner in the hall.” He departed, closing the door with hardly a sound behind him.

I hurried to unpack my trunk, locating the homespun servant’s dress, apron, and shawl that I would wear two nights from now, when I would sneak out of the castle to find the stone. In the deep apron pocket was my digging spade, and I quickly bundled it all together and hid it beneath the bed, a place the chambermaid would not think to look. I was leisurely unpacking the remainder of my clothes, hanging them in the wardrobe, when the servant girl arrived. She helped me shed the blue gown and white kirtle, refastened my corset even though I was aching to peel it away after wearing it all day. And then she re-dressed me in a gown of silver that bared my shoulders and gathered in a scintillating bodice. The dress flowed like water when I moved, the train following me like spilled moonlight. I had never worn something so exquisite, and I closed my eyes as the girl gathered and pinned my hair up from my neck, leaving a few tendrils loose about my face.

When she left, I reached deep within my trunk to find the silver rose I was to wear in my hair. I twirled it in my fingers, watching the candlelight breathe fire over the small rubies, wondering how simple it would be for me to locate d’Aramitz. A man I had never met, who I was supposed to recognize by a crest. Well, he was here somewhere, I thought and moved to stand before the hanging copper plate that served as a mirror. I watched my dim reflection as I pinned the silver rose behind my ear, and then I wiped away my star mole and redrew it on the ridge of my cheekbone.

Oh, d’Aramitz would know it was me, even without the rose. I was going to stand out like a sore thumb in a hall full of men, even if they were predominantly Valenian.

I began to walk to the door, but I paused, my eyes catching on the unicorn tapestry once more. I had won two victorious battles that day. I had gained passage for Jourdain, and I had made it to Damhan. I let that sink into my heart, let that courage rekindle. Tonight should be very simple, perhaps the cleanest branch of my mission. I did not even have to speak to the third lord, just make eye contact.

I left my room and found the stairs, following the trickle of laughter and the rich aromas of a promising feast all the way to the hall.

I was impressed by it, perhaps even more so than the royal hall. Because Damhan’s hall was some sixty feet long, the high ceiling crafted from exposed wooden beams that arched in complexity, darkened from habitual smoke. I admired the tiles on the floor, which led me to the fire in the middle of the hall, raised on flagstones. The light illuminated the heraldry that guarded the four walls—stags that leaped through crescent moons and forests and rivers.

This was the House I had come from.

Shrewd blessings and leaping stags.

And I savored it, this Maevan hall and all its charms and life, knowing that long ago Tristan had once sat in this hall. I felt close to him, as if he might materialize any moment, might come and brush my shoulder, this man I had descended from.

Yet it wasn’t Tristan who brushed past me, but servants rushing to set platters of food, glazed wine jugs, and ale flagons upon the long trestle tables.

D’Aramitz, I reminded myself. He was my mission tonight.

Most of the Valenian nobles were milling toward the center of the hall while the tables were prepared, holding silver cups of ale and reliving the day’s events to one another. There were also seven thanes of Allenach, intermingling with the Valenians, but I easily identified them by the leather jerkins pressed with the stag.

So I began to quietly move about the clusters of men, my eyes modestly coasting over their chests as I sought the crest of the tree. A few of the men, naturally, tried to catch me in conversation, but I merely smiled and continued on my way.

It felt as if I had wandered about aimlessly for a good while when I finally came upon a gathering of men I had yet to peruse. The first couple were certainly not d’Aramitz. I stopped in weary frustration, until I began to imagine how he should look in my mind. If he was one of the lords, he would be older, around Jourdain’s age most likely. So perhaps a few wrinkles, a few gray hairs.

I had just sketched a very ugly lord in my mind when my eyes were suddenly drawn to a man standing with his back to me. His flaxen hair was bound in a ribbon, and something about his height and manner of stature seemed strangely comforting to me. He was dressed in a dark red jerkin and white long-sleeved linen shirt, his breeches a simple black, yet the longer I looked upon his backside, the more I realized there was no chance for me to unobtrusively circumvent the crowd to see his crest.