The Queen's Rising

I set one in Merei’s hands. Her long fingers turned the pages as she smiled at the first poem, reading it aloud after clearing the trace of tears from her throat.

“‘How shall I remember thee? As a drop of eternal summer, or a blossom of tender spring? As a spark of autumn’s stirring fire, or perhaps as the frost of winter’s longest night? No, it shall not be as one of these, for these shall all come to pass, and you and I, though parted by sea and earth, will never fade.’”

“Again,” I said, “not as beautiful as your gift.”

“It doesn’t mean I will cherish it any less,” she responded, gently closing the booklet. “Thank you, Bri.”

It was only then we realized the state of our chamber, which looked as if a windstorm had passed through.

“Let me help you pack,” I offered. “And you can tell me of the patron you have chosen.”

I began to help her gather her music and fold her dresses, and Merei told me of Patrice Linville and his traveling consort of musicians. She had received offers from all three of her patrons, but had decided to choose a partnership with Patrice.

“So you and your music are bound to see the world,” I said, awed, as we finished at last with her packing.

Merei closed her cedar chest and sighed. “I don’t think it has quite caught up to me, that tomorrow I will receive my cloak and leave this place for constant travel. All I know is I hope that it was the right decision. My contract with Patrice is for four years.”

“I am sure it is right,” I answered. “And you should write to me, about all the places you see.”

“Mmm.” She made that sound when she was worried, nervous.

“Your father will be very proud of you, Mer.”

I knew she was close to her father; she was his only daughter, and had inherited the love of music from him. She had grown up beneath his lullabies, his chansons, and his harpsichord. So when she had asked to attend Magnalia when she turned ten, he had not hesitated to send her, even though it put vast distance between them.

He wrote her faithfully every week, and oftentimes Merei would read his letters to me, because she was determined I would meet him one day, that I would visit her childhood home on the island.

“I hope so. Come, let’s get ready for bed.”

We donned our night shifts, washed our faces, and braided our hair. Then Merei climbed into bed with me, even though it was a narrow slip of a mattress, and we began to reminisce all of our favorite memories, such as how shy and quiet we had once been our first year rooming with each other. And how we had climbed onto the roof with Abree one night to watch an asteroid shower, only to discover Abree was terrified of heights and it had taken us until dawn to get her back in through the window. And about all the holy day celebrations, when we had a week free from lessons, and the snow arrived just in time for snowball fights, and our masters and mistresses suddenly felt more like older brothers and sisters during the festivities.

“What does Master Cartier think, Bri?” Merei asked around a yawn.

“About what?”

“About you staying through the summer.”

I fiddled with a loose thread in my quilt and then responded, “I don’t know. I haven’t told him yet.”

“Will he still give you your cloak tomorrow, then?”

“Probably not,” I said.

Merei blinked at me through the watery moonlight. “Did something happen between the two of you, last night in the garden?”

I swallowed, my heart quieting as if it wanted to hear what I might say. I could still feel that agonizing trace of his fingertips down my arm, feather soft and wildly deliberate. What had he been trying to say to me? He was my master, and I was his arden, and until I passioned there was to be nothing more between us. So maybe he was only trying to reassure me, and I had completely misread the touch? That seemed more reasonable, because this was Master Cartier, the strict law abider who never smiled.

Until he had.

“Nothing important,” I finally murmured, and then forced a yawn to hide the deceit in my voice.

If she hadn’t been so tired, Merei would have pressed me. But two minutes later, she was softly snoring.

I, on the other hand, lay awake and thought about Cartier and cloaks and the unpredictable days to come.





TEN


OF CLOAKS AND GIFTS



By nine the following morning, the patrons were beginning their departures from Magnalia. The footmen started to ascend the stairs, gathering each girl’s cedar chest and packing it away in the coach of her new patron. I stood amid the flurry in the sunlight of the courtyard and watched, waiting with my basket of poetry booklets. By then, it was no secret that I had not been chosen. And each of my sisters had reacted in the same manner during breakfast. They had hugged me with sympathy, reassured me that the Dowager would find me the perfect patron.

As soon as breakfast was cleared away, I retreated outside, knowing that my arden-sisters were about to receive their cloaks. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see them officially gain impassionment; I merely thought it best if I was not there. I did not want to be the awkward observer when Cartier gave Ciri her cloak.

Sweat was beginning to dampen my dress by the time I heard Ciri’s voice. She was descending the front stairwell, her pale blond hair tamed in a braided crown. At her back fluttered a blue cloak, a color for midsummer days. She and I came together without words; we didn’t truly need them, and when I smiled she turned about, so I could see the constellation Cartier had chosen for her.

“Yvette’s Bow,” I murmured, admiring the silver threads. “It suits you, Ciri.”

Ciri spun back around and gave me a toothless smile, her cheeks flushed. “I only wish that I could see what he picks for you.” And there was no longer spite in her voice, no envy, although I heard the words she didn’t say. Master Cartier did favor me, and we both knew it.

“Ah, well, perhaps when we meet again,” I said.

I gave her the book of poetry, which made her eyes alight. And then she gave me a beautiful writing quill, which swarmed me with a sad pleasure.

“Good-bye, Brienna,” Ciri whispered.

We embraced, and then I watched her walk to Monique Lavoie’s coach.

I bid farewell to Sibylle and Abree next, who both gave me bracelets as their departing gifts as I admired their cloaks.

Sibylle’s green cloak had the stitched emblem of a spade, for wits adorned their cloaks with one of the four suits according to their strengths: hearts for humor, spades for persuasion, diamonds for elegance, clubs for opposition. So Mistress Therese had given Sibylle a spade, and I had to confess it suited my sister very well.

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