Tristan eased up from the ground, the arrow lodged in his left thigh. As the rain poured, forming bloody puddles on the dirt around him, he broke the fletching and shoved the arrowhead cleanly through his leg, clenching his jaw to contain his scream. The sky was black, the clouds swirling as the eye of a terrible storm, limned with an eerie green light.
He had broken from the line of his warriors, broken from the orders to remain waiting a mile from battle. Because of such, he had been shot; he was now vulnerable, exposed, alone.
But he had to get to the queen, before she sundered the land to pieces.
His horse cantered away, ears back in terror as a boom shuddered from the sky to the earth. His ears were ringing as he limped up the hill, scrambling to find Norah, the quiver of arrows at his back rattling, his bow bent from his fall. He screamed for her as he wove through the dead bodies of the Hilds, their limbs broken in unnatural pieces, gnawed to the bone by some magical creature of the queen’s creation, their faces split in two with the skin peeled back.
He reached the crest of the hill, gazing down at the land that stretched before him, once so beautiful and verdant. It was now scorched, the ashes blowing as will-o’-the-wisps. And there was Norah, her long black hair flowing like a midnight banner as she ran, bearing sword and shield, blue woad blazing on her face.
“Norah!” he shouted, his wounded leg keeping him from pursuing her.
She somehow heard him despite the thunder and rain. The princess whirled among the ashes and corpses and saw Tristan. He stumbled across the distance to reach her, and before he could stop himself, he grasped her arms and shook her.
“You must get the stone, Norah. Now. Before your mother’s magic consumes us all.”
Her eyes widened. She was afraid; he could feel her quivering. And then she looked to the next summit, where they could see the outline of her mother the queen, standing as her magic waged a battle that spun and spun, knowing no depth and no end.
Norah began to move, heading to the hill, Tristan in her shadow. A shower of arrows began to rain down on them, shot from desperate Hild bows in the valley, and Tristan waited for the impact. But the arrows split in two, turning back on themselves, hurling to return to their archers. Screams punctured the air, followed by another resounding boom that brought Tristan to his knees.
But Norah was walking, stealing up the summit. The wind gathered about her as she prepared to face her mother with only sword and shield. Tristan crawled to a rock, embraced it, and waited, watching her reach the crown of the hill.
He couldn’t hear their voices, but he could see their faces.
The queen had always been beautiful and elegant. In war, she was terrifyingly so. She smiled down at Norah, even as Norah opened her arms and screamed at her.
Tristan had read that magic in war easily went astray, that it fogged the wielder’s mind, that it fed off the bloodlust and hatred it found when two rulers clashed to kill and conquer. Liadan had written documents about it, how magic should never be used to harm, to kill, to annihilate. And Tristan was witnessing it firsthand.
He watched as the queen struck her daughter across the face—something she would never have done had the battle magic not corrupted her mind. The blow made Norah stagger backward, made her drop her sword. Tristan felt his blood simmer as the queen brought forth a dirk and reached for Norah. He responded without thinking, drawing an arrow, notching it to his bow, aiming for the queen. And he shot it, watched the arrow spin gracefully through storm and rain and wind, lodging in the queen’s right eye.
The dirk fell from her grip as she crumpled to the ground, the blood streaming down her face, down her dress. Norah crawled to her, weeping, cradling her mother as Tristan rushed to the summit.
He had just killed the queen.
His knees turned to water when Norah glared up at him, the magic gathering about her as sparks of fire, her mother’s blood smeared over her hands. And at the queen’s neck, the Stone of Eventide had turned purple and black, bruised with fury.
“I will cut you in two,” Norah screamed, rising and running toward him, her hands lifting to summon her magic.
Tristan grabbed her wrists and the two of them tumbled to the ground, rolling over each other down the summit, over bones and rocks and streaks of blood. She was strong; she nearly overcame him, her magic eager to break him apart, but Tristan found himself on top when they finally came to a halt. He yanked out his dirk and pressed it to the pale column of her neck, his other hand crushing her fingers into submission.
“Bring this battle to an end, Norah,” he rasped, telling himself that he would not hesitate to kill her should she threaten him again. “Stop the storm. Tame the magic the queen has set loose.”
Norah was panting beneath him, her face twisted in pain, in agony. But she returned to herself, slowly. It was like watching rain fill a cistern, and Tristan shuddered in relief when she finally nodded, tears flowing from her eyes.
He let her hands go, and he warily observed as she murmured the ancient words, her fingers flickering to the sky. Gradually, the magic unraveled and weakened, breaking like plates on a floor, leaving behind its residue as dust and gossamer in an abandoned house.
The storm clouds began to dissipate, revealing ribs of blue, and the wind eased, but the corpses remained. The destruction and the dead and the consequences remained.
Gently, he rolled off her, drew her to her feet. The dirk in his hand was slick, with sweat, with blood.
Kill her, a voice whispered. She will betray you. She is like her mother. . . .
“You want to kill me,” she whispered, reading his mind.
He held her by her wrist, and her eyes were fearless as she looked at him. He could feel her magic brush his bones . . . like autumn’s first frost, like a slow-consuming fire, like the seductive texture of silk . . .
He tightened his hold and lowered his face to hers, until their breaths intermingled. “I want you to disappear. I want you to vanish, to deny your right to the throne. If you come back, I will kill you.”
He shoved her away, even though the motion tore what little remained of his heart. He had come to admire her, respect her, love her.
She would have made an exquisite queen.
He expected her to fight, to summon the magic, to raze him to the earth.
But Norah Kavanagh did none of those things.
She turned and walked away. And she went five steps before she pivoted to look at him one final time, her dark, blood-matted hair the greatest crown she had ever worn. “Heed this, Tristan Allenach, lord of the shrewd: you have bought my House to ashes. You have taken the life of the queen. And you will steal the Stone of Eventide. But know that one day, a daughter will rise from your line, a daughter who shall be two in one, passion and stone. And she will bring down your House from within and undo all your crimes. But perhaps the greatest wonder of all? She shall steal your memories to do it.”
She set her back to him and walked, walked until the mist came about her.
He wanted to brush aside her words. She was trying to rattle him, make him doubt himself. . . .
Brienna.
Somewhere, a voice that reminded him of midsummer stars spoke within his mind. An echo trembled through the earth as Tristan began to ascend the summit once more.
Brienna.
He came to kneel at the queen’s side, her blood beginning to cool and darken, his arrow protruding from her eye.
Brienna.
The Stone of Eventide was his.
Just as Tristan reached for the stone, I opened my eyes, leaving his battle for mine.
The earth was hard and cold beneath me, the sky remarkably cloudless and blue as I squinted up at Cartier, the sun like a crown behind him. I drew in a long breath, felt the stabbing pain in my left arm, and remembered. The banners, the arrows, the fall.
“I’m all right,” I rasped, my right hand fluttering over my chest, finding his. “Help me up.”
I could hear the clashing of steel, the shouts and screams that preceded blood and death. Lannon and Allenach’s forces had broken through our wall of shields, and Cartier had carried me as far back to the line as he could, trying to rouse me. I glanced to my arm; the arrow was gone, a strip of linen fastened about the wound. My blood still seeped through it as he raised me up to my feet.
“I’m all right,” I repeated, and then drew my own sword, the widow in the amber. “Go, Cartier.”
His people were pressing forward, fighting without him. And it was evident to see we were outnumbered. I shoved him gently in the chest, smearing his breastplate with my blood.
“Go.”
He took a step back, his eyes riveted to mine. And then we both turned at the same moment, taking up wooden shields and wielding our steel. While he moved toward the warriors in blue, I moved toward the warriors in lavender, the House that was mine, that I wanted to belong to.
I tripped over a body, one of ours, a young man whose eyes were glassy as he stared at the sky, his throat shredded. And then I tripped over another, one of theirs, a green cloak about his neck. I began to step over death, wondering if she was also about to trip me. No sooner did I sense the brush of death’s wings than did I feel a cold gaze touch me.
I looked forward, into the fray, to see Allenach a few yards away.
Blood was splattered on his face, his dark hair blowing in the breeze beneath his golden circlet. Calmly, he began to walk forward, the battle seeming to flow away from both of us, opening a chasm of passage between the lord and me.
He was coming for me.
There was a side of me that begged me to run, to hide from him. Because I could see it in the dark glitter of his eyes, in the bloodlust that swarmed him.
My father was coming to kill me.
I stepped back, tripping, regaining my balance before I told myself to stand firm, steadfast. When that gap closed between us, my sword the only thing preventing him from reaching me, I knew that only one of us was going to walk away from this encounter.
“Ah, my traitor of a daughter,” he said, his eyes going to the long blade in my hand. “As well as a thief. Widow’s Bite suits you, Brienna.”
I held my tongue, the battle raging around us, raging but not touching us.
“Tell me, Brienna, did you cross the channel to betray me?”
“I crossed the channel to set a queen upon the throne,” I said, thankful my voice was steady. “I had no inkling who you were when I first saw you. I was never told the name of my father.”
Allenach gave me a malicious little smile. It seemed as if he was weighing my soul in that moment, weighing how valuable I was to him. His eyes flickered from my bloodstained boots up to the woad on my face, the braids in my hair, the wound in my left arm, the sword in my right hand.
“You are brave, I will give you that,” the lord said. “If I had raised you, you would love me. You would serve me. You would fight with me, not against me.”
And how different my life would be, if Allenach had raised me from the very start. I saw myself standing at his shoulder, a cold warrior of a girl, taking life and taking the throne with no regrets. There would have been no Magnalia, no Merei, no Cartier. Just me and my father, sharpening each other into vicious weapons.
“I will give you one final chance, Brienna,” he said. “Come to me, and I will forgive you. I know MacQuinn has clouded your judgment; he has stolen you from me. Join me, and we will take what is rightfully ours.” He dared to extend his left hand, palm upward, as a Valenian would offer their allegiance and their heart.
I stared at the lines of his palm, the lines my own life had grafted from. And I remembered Tristan’s memory, the one I had just tasted. But know that one day, a daughter will rise from your line, a daughter who shall be two in one, passion and stone. Norah Kavanagh had seen me coming in the features of Tristan’s face, had predicted my life and my purpose.
I had descended from selfish, ambitious blood.
And I was Norah Kavanagh’s vengeance. I would redeem myself.
“No,” I said, a simple yet delicious word.
Allenach’s pleasant façade shattered. His hatred returned, burning bright, his face like a stone that had cracked, turning itself into dust. Before I could so much as breathe, he growled—the beast within him coming unleashed—and cut his sword at me.
It was all I could do to block his blade, to protect myself from being split open by his wrath. I stumbled again, my exhaustion my slow undoing, the impact of clashing steel rattling up my fingers, up my arms, setting my teeth in a grimace.
I fell into a dangerous dance with him, over blood and death, Yseult’s training rising in me, keeping me alive as I deflected and blocked and twisted away from the edge of his blade.
I needed to pierce him with my steel. I needed to sever one of his vital blood flows. And yet . . . I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I had never taken life. I had never killed. And I wanted to weep, to know that I had reached this moment, this moment when I would have to kill the man who had made me, or let him extinguish my life.
Those thoughts were haunting me when an arrow hissed through the air, so unexpectedly that it took Allenach a full breath to realize he had been shot in his thigh, the very place Tristan had been pierced, the fletching trembling as he took a step back. The lord looked down at it, stunned. And then we both glanced up, following the path the arrow had flown to see a girl with dark hair and elegant fingers standing a few yards away, lowering her bow, her eyes gleaming as she defied Allenach.
“Run, Brienna,” Merei ordered me, notching another arrow on her bow, calm and poised as if she were about to play me a song on her violin.
I felt stricken as our gazes met. She was ordering me to run while she stayed. She was offering to kill him, so I would not have to.
But my father was charging to her now, his sword flashing in the sunlight. And all she had was her bow and arrows.
“No!” I screamed, chasing after him, trying to catch him before he could reach her.
Merei stepped back, her arm quivering as she shot at Allenach again, a brave one aimed at his face. He ducked, narrowly missing her lethal shot, and then swung his blade. I bit through my lip trying to intercept him. But there was a sudden gleam of armor, a blur of dark red and silver as someone came between Allenach and Merei.
Sean.
His face was trapped in a grimace as his sword clashed with Allenach’s, as he shifted his blade to push the lord away from Merei. I didn’t know if I should wholly trust him: my half brother was wearing the colors and sigil of Allenach. But Sean continued to spar our father back, until Allenach was trapped between us, his son and his daughter.
“Enough, Father,” Sean rasped. “This battle is lost. Surrender, before more lives must fall.”
Allenach chuckled bitterly. “So my son is also a traitor.” He glanced between us. “You choose your illegitimate sister over me, Sean?”
“I choose the queen, Father,” Sean said, his voice steady. “Surrender. Now.” He extended the point of his blade, until it rested against Allenach’s neck.
I was struggling to breathe, to stand as my legs went numb. I could not imagine one as gentle and polite as Sean killing his father.
The lord laughed, no fear in the sound, only disgust and fury. In one bold move, he disarmed my brother. In one breath, he plunged his sword into Sean’s side, through the weak seams of his armor.
A scream clawed its way up my throat, but all I could hear was the roar of my own pulse as I watched Sean fold and tumble down to the grass. My eyes were fixed upon his blood, blood that began to coat Merei’s hands as she frantically tried to help him.
And then Allenach turned that bloodstained sword on me.
He disarmed me swiftly, the pain a vibrant sting up my arm. I watched Widow’s Bite sail through the air, falling a great distance from me. And then I felt his knuckles as he backhanded my face, my cheek blistering with his spite. He hit me again, again, and my eyes blurred as I felt the blood flow from my nose, from my mouth.
I tried to bring my shield between us, but he wrenched it from my wounded arm, and I at last surrendered to the grass, to the solid push of earth against my spine.
Allenach stood above me, his shadow cascading over my burning face. I could hear Merei screaming my name, over and over, trying to rouse me. But she sounded far away, and I could only watch as he raised his sword, preparing to pierce my neck. I drew in a deep, calm breath, resting in the belief that Yseult would make it. She would reclaim the throne. And that was all that mattered. . . .
Just before Allenach’s steel drank away my life, a shadow overcame both of us, raging and swift. I watched, disbelieving, as Allenach was jarred backward, his grace dissipating as he tripped, as Jourdain stood over me.
“Davin MacQuinn,” Allenach hissed, spitting a stream of blood from his mouth. “Get out of the way.”
“This is my daughter,” Jourdain said. “You will not touch her again.”
“She is mine,” Allenach growled. “She is mine, and I will take back the life I gave her.”
Jourdain had the defiance to chuckle, as if Allenach had said the most foolish of things. “She was never yours to begin with, Brendan.”
Allenach lunged at Jourdain, their swords meeting in a high guard. My heart felt wrenched from my chest as I watched the two lords fight, their swords tasting the sunlight, tasting blood as they nicked and sliced through each other’s arms and legs.
“Bri? Bri help me!”
I began to crawl to where Sean lay, where Merei knelt beside him, frantically trying to stem his blood. I finally reached her side, and my hands joined with hers as we tried to calm his bleeding.
I didn’t have the strength to meet his gaze, but when he whispered my name—Brienna—I had no other choice. I looked at him, my hope breaking when I saw the starkness of his face.
“Why are brothers so foolish?” I cried, desiring to smack and embrace him all at once for his courage.
He smiled; I wanted to weep, for him to die just as I was beginning to know him. Merei wrapped her arm around me, as if she felt the very same.
“Do you hear that?” Sean whispered.
I thought he was about to surrender his spirit, that he was hearing the song of the saints. And I would have begged them to let him stay with me, when I realized that I heard something too.
A shout coming from the south, a shout of people emerging from Lyonesse, bearing swords and axes and pitchforks, whatever weapons they could find. I knew that they had found the Canon on their doors, on their street corners. They had come to stand and fight with us. And from the east came another shout, a song of triumph and light, another banner, orange and red. Lord Burke had brought his warriors, had come to give us his support and his aid.
I was about to tell Sean what I was seeing as I watched the tide of the battle change; I was just about to open my mouth when there came a painful sound from behind me, a gurgle of surprise. I knew it was one of them; it was either Jourdain or Allenach. And I could hardly bring myself to turn, to look and see who had fallen.
But I did.
Allenach was staring at me, his eyes wide as the blood bloomed from his neck, pouring like rain as he sank to his knees. I was the last thing of living earth he saw as he lay facedown in the grass at my feet, as he breathed his last.
I remained seated on the ground by Sean and Merei, my hand clasped with hers, my gaze transfixed with how still death was, how the wind continued to blow over Allenach’s dark hair. And then there was warmth at my side, arms coming about me, fingers wiping the blood from my face.
“Brienna,” Jourdain said, his voice cracking as he wept beside me. “Brienna, I just killed your father.”
I held to him as he held to me, our hearts aching. Because vengeance doesn’t taste quite how you imagine it will, even after twenty-five years.
“No,” I said, as Lannon’s men began to surrender and retreat, leaving us behind on a field of blood and victory. I laid my palm to Jourdain’s cheek, to his tears. “You are my father.”