“How long have you been here?” Luc hissed.
“Six years. But I’ve waited . . . waited twenty-five years . . .”
There was a loud splash from behind us. We turned to look, to see a group of children on the other side of the bank. Two of the boys were warily watching us, and Luc lowered his dagger, but it still remained sheathed between his fingers.
“Come, we can give you a hot meal for the night,” Luc said loudly, so the children could hear. “But you will have to go to the cathedral if you need alms.” He glanced at me, wordlessly telling me to follow close behind him as he hauled the stranger forward, keeping the blade tucked sightlessly against the man’s back.
It was an awkward, hasty walk to the house. We entered through the back door, and I remained in Luc’s shadow all the way to Jourdain’s office door, which was abruptly closed in my face. I stood in the hall, unbalanced, and listened to the rumble of Jourdain’s voice, of Luc’s, of the stranger’s, as they conversed behind the heavy door. No chance of eavesdropping, but I didn’t need to as I found a seat on the creaky stairs. Because the pieces were slowly coming together.
Cartier had once spoken to me of a revolution-turned-massacre that had happened twenty-five years ago in Maevana. I closed my eyes, remembering the cadence of my master’s voice. Twenty-five years ago, three lords tried to dethrone Lannon . . . Lord Kavanagh, Lord Morgane, and Lord MacQuinn. . . .
I dwelled on all the fragments that I had been gathering since I’d met Aldéric Jourdain. A widower with a son. A lawyer skilled with a blade. Twenty-five years, with a last name that began with M. A man who desired to see Lannon obliterated.
I finally knew who Jourdain was.
SIXTEEN
THE GRIM QUILL
I waited on the stairs, watching the afternoon light fade into dusk, an ache pounding in my head. But I wasn’t going to move, not until I could catch Jourdain and set a few things straight. So when the office door finally opened, spilling candlelight into the hall, I quickly stood, the stair creaking beneath me.
Luc and the stranger emerged first, heading down the corridor to the kitchen. And then came Jourdain. He stood on the threshold and felt my gaze, glancing up to where I stood.
“Father?”
“Another time, Amadine.” He began to follow Luc and the stranger to the kitchen, willfully ignoring me.
Ire boiled up my throat as I cleared the last stair, following him into the hall. “I know who you are,” I said, my words pelting him as rocks in the back. “You may not be Lord Kavanagh the Bright, but perhaps you are Lord Morgane the Swift?”
Jourdain halted as if I had pressed a blade to his throat. He didn’t turn around; I could not see his face, but I watched his hands curl into fists at his sides.
“Or might you be Lord MacQuinn the Steadfast?” I finished. That name had scarcely had time to leave the tip of my tongue when he rounded on me, his face pale with fury as he took my arm and pulled me into his office, slamming the door behind us.
I should be afraid. I had never seen him look so furious, not even when he took on the thieves. But there was no room for fear in my mind, because I had spoken truth—I had spoken his name to him, the one he had never wanted me to know. And I let that name sink into me, let the truth of who he was settle in my heart.
MacQuinn. One of the three Maevan lords who had boldly attempted to reclaim the throne twenty-five years ago. Whose plans to dethrone Lannon and crown Kavanagh’s oldest daughter had fallen to ashes, and as a consequence, whose wife had been slaughtered, who had fled with his son, to hide and quietly endure.
“Amadine . . .” he whispered, his voice choking on my name. The white wrath was gone, leaving exhaustion in its wake as Jourdain collapsed in his chair. “How? How did you guess?”
I sat slowly in one of the other chairs, waiting for him to look at me. “I’ve known you were Maevan ever since I saw you so effortlessly cut down the thieves.”
He finally met my gaze, his eyes bloodshot.
“It makes sense to me now, why you reacted so violently. How you will protect your family at all cost, because I now know you have lost someone very precious to you. And then this . . . stranger . . . mentioned that he had waited twenty-five years,” I continued, lacing my cold fingers together. “Twenty-five years ago, three courageous Maevan lords stormed the castle, hoping to place a rightful daughter on the throne, to reclaim it from a cruel, unrighteous king. Those lords were Kavanagh, Morgane, and MacQuinn, and though they may be hiding, their names are not forgotten—their sacrifice is not forgotten.”
A sound came from him, a tangle of laughter and weeping, and he covered his eyes. Oh, it broke my heart to hear the sound come from such a man, to realize how long he had been hiding, carrying the guilt of that massacre.
He lowered his hands, a few tears still clinging to his lashes, but he chuckled. “I should have known you would be shrewd. You are an Allenach, after all.”
My heart turned cold at the sound of that name, and I corrected him by saying, “It’s not that, but because I am a passion of knowledge, and I was taught the history of Maevana. Were you ever going to tell me the truth?”
“Not until Isolde was crowned. But it was only out of protection for you, Amadine.”
I could not believe it. I could not believe my patron father was one of the rebellious Maevan lords—that a name I had once heard Cartier merely talk about was now sitting before me in the flesh.
I glanced to the papers scattered on his desk, overwhelmed. My gaze caught on something familiar . . . a piece of parchment with a drawing of the unmistakable bleeding quill. I reached for it; Jourdain watched as I held up the illustration with a tremor in my fingers.
“You’re the Grim Quill,” I whispered, my eyes darting to his.
“Yes,” he responded.
I was flooded with awe, worry. I thought back to all those pamphlets I had read, how bold and persuasive his words were. And I suddenly understood the “why” of it all . . . why he wanted to obliterate the northern king. Because he had lost his wife, his land, his people, his honor because of Lannon.
I read the words he had scrawled beneath the drawing, a messy first draft of his upcoming publication:
How to ask pardon for rightfully rebelling against a man who thinks he is king: Offer your head first, your allegiance second. . . .
“I . . . I cannot believe it,” I confessed, setting the paper down.
“Who did you think the Grim Quill was, Amadine?”
I shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. A Valenian who liked to poke fun at Lannon, at current events.”
“Did you think that I fled here to hide and cower, to sit on my hands, to try to become Valenian and forget who I was?” he asked.
I didn’t answer, but my gaze held his, my emotions still running the gamut.
“Tell me, daughter,” he said, leaning forward. “What does every revolution need?”