Rebecca Ross - The Queen’s Resistance

“Mm-hmm. I should have waited here, then.” My eyes helplessly shifted to Brienna. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and her face was flushed from the ride, her eyes bright. Her cloak was knotted at her collar; the dark blue spread around her, basking in the light.

“I was just telling Tomas the story about how I found the stone,” she said, amused.

“What happened next?” Tomas insisted, directing his attention back to her.

“Well, the Stone of Eventide was within the locket,” Brienna continued. “And I had to hide it in my … ah, in my dress.”

“In your pocket, you mean?” Tomas suggested, propping his chin in his palm.

“Yes. Something like that.” She glanced back to me with a wry smile.

“What does the stone look like?” he asked.

“Like a large moonstone.”

“I’ve seen a few moonstones,” the boy remarked. “What else?”

“The Eventide changes colors. I believe it reads the moods of the one who bears it.”

“But only the Kavanaghs can wear it without the locket, right?”

“Yes,” Brienna said. “It would burn people like you and me.”

Tomas finally became quiet, mulling over what we had told him. My gaze traced Brienna again, and I softly suggested, “Tomas? Why don’t you go see if Cook needs another hand in the kitchen?”

Tomas groaned. “But I want to hear the rest of Mistress Brienna’s story.”

“There will be another day for stories. Go along now.”

Tomas huffed to his feet, hobbling his way out.

“You should get him a little crutch before he tears those stitches you gave him,” Brienna said. “I had to carry him on my back.”

“You what ?”

“Don’t look so surprised, Cartier. The boy’s nothing but skin and bones.”

The silence stretched between us. I felt pricked by guilt.

“I don’t know who he belongs to,” I finally said. “I discovered him the other night. I think he had been squatting here.”

“Maybe one day he will tell you where he comes from,” she responded.

I sighed, leaning back on my hands, regarding her once more. There was an echo of a bang, followed by Cook’s distant shouting. I could hear Tomas defiantly shouting back, and I groaned.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Brienna.” I closed my eyes, that weight coming over me again. Weight of the land, weight of the people, weight of the Dermott alliance, weight of the impending trial. Months ago, I would have never imagined myself in such a state.

Brienna moved closer to me; I listened to the whisper of her dress, felt her block the sun as she sat before me, her hands on my knees. I opened my eyes to see the light crowning her, and for a moment it was simply her and me and no one else in the world.

“There is no guidebook for this,” she said. “But your people have gathered about you, Cartier. They are wonderful and they are dedicated. They don’t expect you to have all the answers, or to settle into your role by tonight. It will take some time.”

I did not know what to say, but her words reassured me. I took her hands in mine—our palms aligned; our fingers linked. I noticed the ink stains on her right hand.

“You’ve been busy writing, I see.”

She smiled wanly. “Yes. Jourdain asked me to begin gathering grievances.”

That took me somewhat by surprise. It felt too soon to be gathering up that darkness; we had just arrived back home, becoming reacquainted with what our lives were supposed to be. But then I reminded myself that the trial was in a matter of days. Of course, I should be gathering up my people’s grievances, as well. I should begin penning my own. Which meant I needed to fully confront what had happened in detail that night. Because while I knew some truth, I did not know the whole of it. I did not know who had given the killing blow to my sister, or the full extent of violence that was done to the Morgane people.

And then there was my mother’s letter, which I continued to carry around in my pocket, uncertain what to make of it. I had Lannon blood in my veins; did I need to acknowledge this truth or conceal it?

I broke from those thoughts to see Brienna was watching me.

“Have you written many grievances down?” I asked.

“Luc has collected quite a tome.”

“And why haven’t you?”

She glanced away from me, and a dark suspicion began to cloud my mind.

“Brienna … tell me.”

“What is there to tell, Cartier?” And she gave me a false smile, one that did not reach her eyes.

“You were never a good dramatic,” I reminded her.

“It is truly nothing.” She tried to slip her hands from mine, but I tightened my hold on her.

If she would not speak it, then I would. “Jourdain’s people have not been welcoming to you.”

I knew it was the truth, because there was a flicker of pain in her gaze before she covered it up with irritation.

“What have they said to you, Brienna?” I pressed on, my anger rising at the thought. “Have they been unkind?”

“No. It’s what I should have expected,” she countered, as if defending them, as if it was her fault, that she could control who she had descended from.

“Does Jourdain know?”

“No. And I would ask you not to tell him, Cartier.”

“Don’t you think your father should know his people are slighting you? That his people are slighting his daughter ?”

“They aren’t slighting me. And if they were, I would not want Jourdain to know.” She freed her hands from mine and rose, turning to face the window. “He has enough on his mind as it is. And I would think you would understand that.”

I did understand it. And yet more than anything, I wanted Brienna to feel like she belonged here. It was nearly the shadow of all my other thoughts—for her to be accepted, for her to find happiness. I wanted her to claim her home in Maevana, this wild land that she and I had once spoken of in lessons. Half of her heritage was in this soil, and I did not care which territory it had risen from.

I stood, wiping the dust from my breeks. I approached her slowly, coming to stand just behind her, just as I could feel her warmth. We were quiet, our gazes to the land beyond the broken glass, the meadows and the woods and the hillocks that rose into mountains.

“They see me as Allenach’s. Not as MacQuinn’s,” she said quietly. “They believe I fooled their lord into adopting me.”

And it broke me to hear her acknowledge it. I could have said countless things to her in return, the foremost being that I never saw her as an Allenach, that I had only seen her for who she was—a daughter of Maevana and a beloved friend to the queen. But I held the words down.

She finally turned to face me, her gaze lifting to mine.

“They only need a little more time,” she whispered. “Time for my blood father’s memory to fade, for me to prove myself to them.”

She was right. We all needed time—time to settle, time to heal, time to discover who we were supposed to become.

And all I could say was her name, spoken as if in prayer.

“Brienna.”

My hand rose; my fingers traced the edge of her jaw. I wanted to memorize her, to explore her lines and her bends. And yet my fingers stopped at her chin, to tilt her face up, to watch the sunlight dance across her cheeks.

Her breath caught, and I leaned down to draw it from her. I kissed her softly once, twice, until she opened her mouth beneath mine and I discovered that she was just as hungry as I was. I suddenly found my hands in her hair, my fingers tangled in the silk of it, lost in the desire to fully surrender to her.

“Cartier.” She tried to speak my name; I drank the sound from her lips. I felt her hands move up my back and take fistfuls of my shirt, tugging. She was warning me, because I could now hear the footsteps scuffing loudly, just beyond the office door.