As much as I enjoyed talking to Cartier about Maevan history, Ciri was right. I was, once again, trapped by things of the past instead of looking to the coming days. Because knowledge about Maevan queens was probably not the sort of thing that hooked a Valenian patron. As far as I knew, Maevana recognized the passions but did not embrace them.
Cartier pulled back his chair and finally sat, lacing his fingers as he looked at us. “I fear that I cannot tell you much about the solstice, Ciri. I do not know the patrons the Dowager has invited.”
“But, Master—”
He held up his finger and Ciri quieted, although I could see the indignant red rise in her cheeks.
“I may not be able to tell you much,” he said. “But I can give you both a little hint about the patrons. There will be three of them seeking a passion of knowledge, one for each branch.”
“Branch?” Ciri echoed.
“Think back to our very first lesson, a long time ago,” Cartier said. “Remember how I told you that knowledge is broken into three branches?”
“The historian,” I murmured, to whet her memory.
She glanced at me, the knowledge slowly trickling back to her. “The historian, the physician, and the teacher.”
He nodded in affirmation. “Both of you need to prepare your approach for each of these three patrons.”
“But how do we do that, Master Cartier?” Ciri asked. She tapped her fingers over the table anxiously, and I wanted to tell her she had nothing to worry over; she would undoubtedly impress all three of the patrons.
“For the historian, you should have an impressive lineage memorized; you should be able to talk of any member of that lineage. Preferably, you should focus on the royal kindred,” Cartier explained. “For the physician, you should be prepared to talk about any bone, any muscle, any organ of the body, as well as trauma and wounds. And for the teacher . . . well, this one is more difficult. The best advice I could give you both is to exemplify that you can conquer any subject as well as instruct any student.”
He must have seen the glazed look in our eyes. Again, he almost smiled as he crossed his legs and said, “I’ve overwhelmed you. Both of you take the rest of the morning and prepare for the solstice.”
Ciri at once pushed back from her chair, eager to get away and mull over what he had just told us. I was slower to rise, once more feeling that strange confliction . . . the need to stay with him and ask him to teach me more warring against the desire to sit alone and try to sort it all out on my own.
I had just walked past his chair, heading to the open door when I heard his voice, soft and gentle, say my name.
“Brienna.”
I paused. Ciri must have heard it too, for she stopped on the threshold to frown over her shoulder. She watched me retreat back to him before she vanished down the corridor.
“Master?”
He looked up at me. “You are doubting yourself.”
I drew in a deep breath, ready to deny it, to feign confidence. But the words withered. “Yes. I worry that a patron will not want me. I worry that I do not deserve my cloak.”
“And why would you believe such?” he asked.
I thought about telling him all the reasons why, but that would require me to extend back to that fateful day when I had first sat in Magnalia’s hall, eavesdropping. The day I had first met him, when his unexpected entrance had drowned out the name of my father.
“You remember what I told you,” Cartier said, “the day you asked me to become your master, to teach you knowledge in three years?”
I nodded. “Yes, I remember. You said I would have to work twice as hard. That while my sisters were enjoying their afternoons, I would be studying.”
“And have you done such?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “I have done everything you have told me to do.”
“Then why do you doubt yourself?”
I glanced away, looking to the bookshelves. I didn’t feel like explaining it to him; it would bare far too much of my heart.
“Would it encourage you to know that I have chosen your constellation?”
That bold statement brought my eyes back to his. I stared down at him, a prince on his throne of knowledge, and felt my pulse quicken. This was his gift to me, a master to his student. He would chose a constellation for me, have it replicated on the heart of my passion cloak. Stars that would belong only to me, to mark my impassionment.
He wasn’t supposed to tell me that he was preparing my cloak. Yet he had. And it made me think of his own cloak, blue as the wild cornflower, and the stars that belonged to him. It was the constellation of Verene, a chain of stars that foretold triumph despite loss and trials.
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you, Master Cartier.” I began to leave, but felt hung once more between the door and his chair.
“Is there something else you long to ask me, Brienna?”
I came back around to him, meeting his gaze. “Yes. Do you have a book about the Stone of Eventide?”
His brows rose. “The Stone of Eventide? What makes you ask about it?”
“That illustration of Liadan Kavanagh . . .” I began shyly, remembering how she had worn the stone about her neck.
“Ah yes.” Cartier rose from his chair and opened his leather satchel. I watched as he sifted through the books he carried, at last bringing forth an old tattered volume wrapped in a protective sheet of vellum. “Here. Pages eighty through one hundred will tell you all about the stone.”
I accepted the book, minding its fragile binds. “Have you always carried this book around?” I found it odd that he would, because I saw the Maevan printing emblem on it. And who bothered to tote around a tome on Maevan lore?
“I knew one day you would ask for it,” Cartier responded.
I didn’t know what to say. So I curtsied to him, dismissing myself without another word.
FIVE
THE STONE OF EVENTIDE
That afternoon did not find me with Cartier in a private lesson, because we both forgot that the tailor was coming to measure the ardens for our solstice dresses. But I was never one to be seen lacking a book. I stood in the hall beside Ciri as we waited for our measurements, my fingers turning the delicate, speckled pages of the Maevan lore book Cartier had given me.
“Listen to this, Ciri,” I said, my eyes rushing over the words. “‘The origin of the Stone of Eventide is still largely speculated about, but legends claim that it was found at the bottom of a cave pond in the Killough Mountains. It was retrieved by a Kavanagh maiden, who took the stone to the clan elders. After many deliberations, the Kavanaghs decided to bind their magic to the stone, which slowly led to the digression of their ability to shapeshift into dragons.’”
I was enchanted by the lore, but when Ciri continued to remain quiet, my eyes drifted to her, to see her standing rigid against the wall, her gaze stubbornly fastened to the wainscoting.
“Ciri?”
“I do not care about the Stone of Eventide,” she said. “In fact, I do not wish to hear about it at all. I have enough things to crowd my mind these days.”
I shut the book, my thoughts quickly sifting through my memory of that morning, trying to find the source of her irritation. “What is wrong, Ciri?”
“I cannot believe I never saw it until now,” she continued.
“Saw what?”