The Queen's Rising (Untitled Trilogy #1)(84)
I thought on what he had just told me, the pieces finally coming together. Slowly, I sat up, propping myself on the pillows, and eased my chemise down, covering my stomach and wound.
“Now,” Cartier said, “tell me your side of the story.”
I told him everything. I told him about each of my shifts, I told him about the Dowager’s decision to contact Jourdain, of arriving to Beaumont and desperately trying to force another bond. Of my discovery of who Jourdain was, of the planning meeting, of my fever and my crossing of the channel. Of recovering the stone.
He didn’t say a word, his gaze not once straying from me. He could have been carved from marble until he suddenly leaned forward, his brows pulling in a frown, his fingers brushing over his jaw.
“You tried to tell me,” he whispered. “You tried to tell me about the first shift. The last day of lessons. The Book of Hours.”
I nodded.
“Brienna . . . I am sorry. For not listening to you.”
“There is nothing to be sorry over,” I said. “I didn’t exactly give you details.”
He remained quiet, staring down at the floor.
“Besides,” I whispered, drawing his eyes back to mine, “it no longer matters. You and I are here now.”
“And you have found the Stone of Eventide.”
The corner of my mouth curved with a smile. “Don’t you want to see it?”
A mirthful glimmer returned to his gaze as he stood to retrieve the stone. Then he came to sit beside me on the bed, his thumb opening the locket. The stone writhed with gold, with ripples of blue and petals of silver that wilted to red. We both watched it, mesmerized, until Cartier shut the locket with a graceful snap, gently easing it over my head. It came to rest above my heart, the stone thrumming with contentment through the wood, warming my chest.
“Jourdain should arrive to Lyonesse tomorrow morning,” Cartier said quietly, his shoulder nearly touching mine against the headboard. At once, the mood shifted in the room, as if winter had chewed through the walls, coating us in ice. “I have a feeling that Allenach may keep you here. If he does, you need to ride with me to Mistwood, in three nights.”
“Yes, I know,” I whispered, my fingers tracing the locket. “Cartier . . . what is the story behind Mistwood?”
“It was where the three rebelling lords gathered with their forces twenty-five years ago,” he explained. “They emerged from the forest to ride across the field, to reach the back castle gates. But they never made it to the gates. That field is where the massacre occurred.”
“Do you think it foolish that we are planning to ride out from the same place?” I questioned. “That it might be unwise for us to meet there before we storm the castle?” I knew it was the superstitious Valenian speaking in me, yet I couldn’t wash away the worry I felt over this arrangement, that we were storming from a cursed forest.
“No. Because Mistwood is more than the ground where we first failed and bled. It used to be a magical forest where the coronations for the Kavanagh queens were held.”
“They were crowned in the woods?” I asked, intrigued.
“Yes. At dusk, just when light and darkness are equal. There would be lanterns hovering in the branches, magical flowers and birds and creatures. And all of Maevana would gather in the woods, woods that seemed to never end, and watch as the queen was crowned first with stone, then with silver, and last with cloak.” His voice trailed off. “Of course, that was long ago.”
“But perhaps not as distant as we think,” I reminded him.
He smiled. “Let us hope.”
“So when we gather in Mistwood in three nights . . .”
“We gather on ancient ground, a place of magic and queens and sacrifice,” he finished. “Others who want to join our rebellion will inherently know to meet there. When you spoke MacQuinn’s name at the royal hearing, you began to stir not only his House, but mine, and what little remains of Kavanagh. You stirred people beyond our Houses. I don’t know how many will appear to join us in the fight, but Mistwood will undeniably draw them, especially when you bring the stone there.”
I wanted to ask more—I wanted him to tell me of those ancient, magical days. But I was exhausted, as was he, each of us feeling the weight of the days to come. I shifted on the bed until the breeches tried to slip farther down my waist.
“Let me return your pants, and then you can escort me to my room,” I said, and Cartier rose to angle his back to me. I removed the breeches, refastened my dirk, and carefully set my feet on the floor, my chemise tumbling back down to my knees. Those herbs he had given me must have spread into my blood, for the pain was but a dull itch in my side.
We gathered the pieces of my gown, and then Cartier took a candelabra and I led him through the winding inner passages, showing him the way to the unicorn chamber. Only when I had opened the hidden door to my room did he say, “And how did you discover these doors and secret paths?”
I turned to look at him through the candlelight, one foot in my chamber, one foot in the inner passage, billows of my gown crumpled to my chest. “There are many secret doors around us, in plain sight. We just don’t take the time to find and open them.”
He smiled at that, suddenly looking worn and tired, as if he needed sleep.
“Now you know where to find me, should you need to,” I whispered. “Good night, Theo.”