How did one greet a Maevan queen?
I didn’t know, and so I fell back to my Valenian upbringing and curtsied, my heart pounding wildly.
“I have heard so many wonderful things about you, Amadine,” Yseult said, her hands reaching for mine as I straightened.
Our fingers linked, both pale and cold, a passion and a queen. For one moment, I imagined she was a sister, for here we stood among a room of men, daughters of Maevana who had been raised in Valenia.
I vowed in that moment that I would do everything I could to see her reclaim the throne.
“Lady Queen,” I said with a smile, knowing the Maevans didn’t bother with “highness” and “majesty.” “I . . . I am honored to meet you.”
“Please call me Yseult,” she insisted, squeezing my fingers just before she let go. “And sit beside me at dinner?”
I nodded and followed to a chair beside hers. The men filled the spaces around us, and the ale was poured and the dinner platters set along the spine of the table. Again, I was surprised by the sentiments of a Maevan dinner—there were no courses set down and taken away before us in orderly fashion. Rather, the platters were passed about, and we filled our plates all at once to overflowing. It was a casual, intimate, natural way to partake in a dinner.
As I ate, listening to the men speak, I marveled at how well they had forced their accents into hiding, how Valenian they truly seemed. Until I saw little glimpses of their heritage—I heard a slight brogue emerge in Jourdain’s voice; I saw Laurent draw forth a dagger from his doublet to cut his meat, instead of using the table knife.
But for all the Maevan air that had settled about the table, one thing I could not help but notice: Yseult and Luc still maintained the strict posture, the correct handling of their forks and knives. For, yes, they had been born in Maevana, but they had both been very young when their fathers fled with them. Valenia, with her passion and her grace and etiquette, was the only way of life they knew.
No sooner had I thought such did I glance down to see a dagger belted to Yseult’s side, nearly hidden in the deep pleats of her simple dress. She felt my stare and glanced at me, a smile hovering just over the edge of her goblet as she prepared to take a sip of ale.
“Do you fancy blades, Amadine?”
“Never held one,” I confessed. “You?”
The men were too absorbed in their conversation to hear us. All the same, Yseult lowered her voice as she responded, “Yes, of course. My father insisted I learn the art of swordsmanship from an early age.”
I hesitated, unsure if I had the right to ask such of her. Yseult seemed to read my thoughts though, for she offered, “Would you like to learn? I could give you a few lessons.”
“I would love to,” I answered, feeling Luc’s gaze shift over to us, as if he knew we were making plans without him.
“Come tomorrow, at noon,” Yseult murmured and winked, for she felt Luc’s interest as well. “And leave your brother at home,” she said loudly, only to rile him.
“And what are you two planning?” Luc drawled. “Knitting and embroidery?”
“How did you ever guess, Luc?” Yseult smiled demurely and returned to her dinner.
No plans or strategies for recovering the throne were discussed that night. This was merely a reunion, a pleasant gathering before a storm. The Laurents—Kavanaghs—did not ask me at all about my memories, about the stone, although I could sense that they knew every single detail. I felt it every time Yseult looked at me, a hoard of curiosities and intrigue in her eyes. Jourdain had said she had a trace of magic in her blood; I was about to recover the stone of her ancestors, set it about her neck. Which meant I was about to bring forth her magic.
It was my all-consuming thought as we prepared to leave, bidding the Laurents good-bye in the foyer.
“I shall see you tomorrow,” Yseult whispered to me, folding me in an embrace.
I wondered if I would ever feel comfortable hugging her, the future queen. It went against every Valenian sentiment in me, to touch a royal. But if there was any time to shed my mother’s heritage, it was now.
“Tomorrow,” I said with a nod, bidding her farewell as I followed Jourdain and Luc into the night.
The following day, I returned to the Laurents’ a few minutes shy of noon, Luc on my heels.
“I am not opposed to this,” my brother insisted as we stood on the front door and rang the bell. “I only think it best that we focus on other things. Hmm?”
I had told him about the sword lessons but not that my foremost motivation was to convince Jourdain that I could protect myself, that I could be sent to Maevana for the stone’s retrieval.
“Amadine?” Luc pressed, wanting an answer from me.
“Hmm?” I lazily returned the hum, to his amused annoyance, as Yseult opened the door.
“Welcome,” she greeted, letting us inside.
The first thing I noticed was she was wearing a long-sleeved linen shirt and breeches. I had never seen a woman wear pants, nor look so natural in them. It made me envious that she could move so freely while I was still encumbered by a flurry of skirts.
Luc hung his passion cloak in the foyer, and then we followed her down the hallway into an antechamber at the back of the house, a room with a stone floor, mullioned windows, and a great oaken chest. Atop the chest were two wooden long-swords, which Yseult gathered.
“I must confess,” the queen said, blowing a stray tendril of her dark red hair from her eyes, “I have always been the student, never the teacher.”
I smiled and accepted the scuffed training sword that she extended to me. “Don’t worry; I am a very good pupil.”
Yseult returned the smile and opened a back door. It led into a square courtyard enclosed by high brick walls, sheltered overhead by woven wooden rafters that were thickly knotted by vines and creeping plants. It was a very private space, only a few splotches of sunlight caressing the hard-packed ground.
Luc overturned a bucket to sit against the wall while I joined Yseult at the center of the courtyard.
“A sword has three foremost purposes,” she said. “To cut, to thrust, and to guard.”
So began my first lesson. She taught me how to hold the pommel, then the five primary positions. Middle, low, high, back, and hanging guard. Then she transitioned to the fourteen essential guards. We had just perfected the inside left guard when the chamberlain brought us a tray of cheese, grapes, and bread, along with a flask of herbal water. I hadn’t even been aware of the hours that had slipped by, fast and warm, or that Luc had fallen asleep against the wall.
“Let’s take a break,” Yseult suggested, wiping the sweat from her brow.
Luc woke with a start, wiping drool from the corner of his mouth as we approached him.
The three of us sat on the ground, the tray of food in the center of our triangle, passing the flask back and forth as we ate and cooled off in the shade. Luc and Yseult teased each other with a familial affection, which made me wonder what growing up in Valenia must have been like for them. Especially Yseult. When had her father told her who she was, that she was destined to take back the throne?
“A ducat for your thoughts,” Luc said, flicking a coin from his pocket my way.
I caught it on reflex as I said, “I was just thinking of how you were both raised here. How difficult that must have been.”
“Well,” Luc said, popping a grape into his mouth. “In many ways, Yseult and I are very Valenian. We were raised in your customs, your politeness. We don’t remember anything of Maevana.”
“Our fathers have not let us forget it, though,” the queen added. “We know what the air tastes like, what the land looks like, what a true brogue sounds like, what our Houses stand for, even though we have not yet experienced it wholly for ourselves.”
An easy lull came about us as we each took a final swig from the flask.
“I hear you are Maevan on your father’s side,” Yseult said to me. “So you are similar to Luc and me. You were raised here, you love this kingdom, embrace it as part of yourself. But there is more to you, which you cannot begin to fully know until you cross the channel.”
Luc nodded his agreement.
“Sometimes I imagine it will be like our time here was all just a dream,” the queen continued, glancing down to a stray thread in her sleeve. “That when we return to our fallen lands, when we stand in our halls among our people once more . . . it will feel like we have finally woken.”
We were silent again, each of us lost to our own thoughts, our own imaginations quietly blossoming as to what it would be like to see Maevana. Yseult was the one to break the reverie, brushing the crumbs from her shirt, and then she tapped me on the knee.
“All right, let’s do one more guard, and then we will call it a day,” Yseult said, drawing me back into the center of the dirt. We gathered our swords, Luc lazily chewing the last of the bread as he watched us with hooded eyes. “This is called the close left guard, and . . .”
I lifted my practice sword, to mirror her as she demonstrated the guard. I felt the wooden hilt slide in my sweaty palms, a steady ache drum up my spine. And then she was suddenly, unexpectedly lunging for me. Her practice sword shed its wood and shimmered into steel as it cut for me. I lurched back, fear piercing my stomach as I tripped and heard an irritated male voice snap, “Hanging left, Tristan! Hanging left, not close left!”
I was no longer standing in an enclosed courtyard with Yseult. The sky was cloudy, troubled above me, and a cold wind washed over me, smelling like fire and leaves and cold earth. And him—the one cutting his sword at me, the one who had barked at me as if I were a dog. He was tall and dark-haired, young but not quite a man yet, as his beard was still trying to fill in along his jaw.
“Tristan! What are you doing? Get up!”
He was talking to me, pointing the sharp tip of his sword at me. I now realized why he looked so irritated; I had tripped and sprawled out on the grass, my backside throbbing and my ears ringing, my practice sword fallen uselessly beside me.
I clambered for the discarded sword, wooden and scuffed, and that’s when I noticed my hands. Not mine, but the uncertain, grubby ones of a ten-year-old boy. There was dirt under his nails and a long scratch across the back of his right hand, still swollen and red, as if it wanted to break its scab.
“Get up, Tristan!” the older one shouted, exasperated. He took hold of Tristan’s collar—my collar—and hauled him up to his feet, lanky legs kicking momentarily before boots found the earth. “Gods above, do you want Da to see you like that? You’ll make him wish we were daughters and not sons.”
Tristan’s throat tightened, his cheeks flushed with shame as he retrieved his sword and stood before his older brother. Oran always knew how to make him feel worthless and weak—the second-born son, who would never inherit or amount to anything.
“How many times are you going to get that guard wrong?” Oran insisted. “You realize I nearly cut you open.”
Tristan nodded, angry words swarming in his chest. But he kept them locked away, bees buzzing in their hive, knowing Oran would hit him if he talked back, if he sounded the least bit defiant.
It was days like that one when Tristan fervently wished he had been born a Kavanagh. If he had magic, he would blast his brother into pieces like a broken mirror, melt him into a river, or turn him into a tree. The mere thought, however impossible with his Allenach blood, made Tristan smile.
Of course, Oran noticed.
“Wipe that off your face,” his older brother sneered. “Come on, fight me as a queen would.”
The anger stirred, dark and blazing. Tristan didn’t think he could hold it in much longer—it made his heart rot when he held it in—but he settled into middle guard, just as Oran had taught him, the neutral guard that could shift into offense or defense. It wasn’t fair that Tristan was still forced to wield a wooden blade, a child’s blade, while Oran, who was only four years older, was holding steel.
Wood against steel.
Nothing in life was ever fair, was always set against him. And Tristan longed, more than anything, to be inside the castle, in the library with his tutor, learning more about history and queens and literature. Or exploring the castle’s hidden passages and finding secret doors. Swords had never been what he wanted.
“Come on, maggot,” Oran taunted him.
Tristan shouted as he lunged forward, bringing his wooden sword down in a powerful arc. It lodged into Oran’s steel, stuck, and Oran easily twisted the hilt from Tristan’s hands. Tristan stumbled and then felt something hot on his cheek, something wet and sticky.
“I hope that scars,” Oran said, finally yanking Tristan’s wooden sword off of his blade. “It’ll make you at least look half a man.”
Tristan watched as his brother tossed his training sword in the grass, lifting his fingers to his cheek. They came away bloody, and he felt a long, shallow cut down his cheekbone. Oran had purposely cut him.
“Are you going to cry now?” Oran asked.
Tristan turned and ran. He didn’t run toward the castle, which sat on the crest of the hill as a dark cloud that had married earth. He ran past the stables, past the weaver’s guild, past the alehouse to where the forest waited with dark green invitation. And he could hear Oran pursuing him, shouting at him to stop. “Tristan! Tristan, stop!”
Into the trees he went, weaving deep within them, bounding like a hare, or like the stag of his heraldry, letting the forest swallow him, protect him.
But Oran still trailed him; he had always been fast. His older brother rudely broke branches, blundering through the pines and alders, the aspens and hickories. Tristan could hear Oran gaining on him, and he nimbly jumped a little creek and shot through a thicket, finally reaching the old oak.
He had found this oak last summer, after he had fled from another one of Oran’s brutal lessons. Quickly, Tristan scaled her branches, going as high as he could, the leaves beginning to thin with autumn’s glamour.
Oran reached the clearing, panting beneath the massive branches. Tristan held still in the crook of his chosen branch, watched as his older brother walked all the way around the tree, only then conceding to glance up with a squint.
“Come down, Tris.”
Tristan made no noise. He was nothing more than a bird roosting in a place of safety.
“Come. Down. Now.”
He still didn’t move. Didn’t so much as breathe.
Oran sighed, jerked his fingers through his hair. He leaned against the trunk and waited. “Hark, I am sorry for cutting your cheek. I didn’t mean to.”
He did too mean to. He always meant to these days.
“I’m only trying to train you the best way I know how,” Oran continued. “The way Da taught me.”
That made Tristan sober. He could not imagine Da training him. Ever since their mother had died, their father had been ruthless, sharp, angry. No wife, no daughters, two sons—one who was trying desperately to be like him, the other who couldn’t care less.
“Come down, and we will go steal a honey cake from the kitchens,” Oran promised.
Ah, Tristan could always be bribed with something sweet. It reminded him of the happier days, when their mother was alive and the castle was filled with her laughter and flowers, when Oran was still his playmate, when their da still told stories of brave and heroic Maevans by the hearth in the hall.
Slowly, he climbed down, landing right before Oran. His older brother snorted, made to wipe the blood away from Tristan’s cheek.
“Wake her up.”
Oran’s lips were moving, but the wrong words, the wrong voice, came out. Tristan frowned, frowned as Oran’s hand faded, the invisibility eating up his arm, turning his brother into a swirl of motes. . . .
“Amadine? Amadine, wake up!”
The trees began to bleed, the colors dripping as paint off a piece of parchment.
I didn’t realize my eyes had been closed until they opened, and I looked up into two worried faces. Luc. Yseult.
“Saints, are you all right?” the queen asked. “Did I hurt you?”
It took me a moment to fully shift my mind back to the present. I was lying on the dirt, my hair spread out around me, the wooden sword at my side. Luc and Yseult hovered over me as protective hens.
“What happened?” I asked, my voice croaking as if the dust of a century still crowded my throat.
“You fainted, I think,” Luc said, a frown creasing his forehead. “Maybe it’s the heat?”
I took in this morsel of news—I had never fainted before, and to think the shifts might cause such was troubling—but then I remembered what I had just seen, the new memory finding space among my own.
A smile curled on my lips. I tasted the dirt and my sweat, reaching for each of their hands. Luc took my left, Yseult my right, and I said, “I know exactly how to find the stone.”