Again, I was quiet, because I honestly didn’t know.
“A revolution needs money, belief, and people willing to fight,” he replied. “I began writing the Grim Quill almost two decades ago, hoping that it would stir Valenians as well as Maevans. Even if the Dowager had never told me about you and what your memories could unleash . . . I would have continued writing and publishing the Grim Quill for however long it took, until I was ninety and frail, until people—Valenian, Maevan, or both united—eventually rose, with magic or without it.”
I wondered what that would feel like—he had spent over twenty years in hiding, letting his anonymous words slowly chip away at Valenian ignorance and Maevan fear. And he would spend twenty more doing it, if that’s what it required, until he had the money, the belief, and the people to make it possible.
“So without me and the promise of the stone,” I said, clearing my throat. “What were you planning to do?”
Jourdain steepled his fingers, propped his chin on them. “We currently have persuaded three Valenian nobles to our cause, who have provided funds, who have promised men to fight. Based on that, we project that we could successfully revolt in four years’ time.”
In twenty-five years, he had only garnered the support of three Valenian nobles. I shifted in my chair. “Wouldn’t that spark a war, Father?”
“It would. A war that has been one hundred and thirty-six years in the making.”
We stared at each other. I kept my face carefully guarded, even though the image of war made my heart wither. And suddenly, I was besieged with fear of conflict, of battles and spilled blood and death.
“What if you asked Lannon to pardon you?” I dared to ask. “Would he be open to change? To negotiations?”
“No.”
“Surely he has advisers there? At least one person who would listen to you?”
He sighed. “Let me tell you a little story. Thirty years ago, I used to attend the royal hearings. Once a week, Lannon would sit on his throne and listen to the people’s complaints and requests. I stood among the crowd, bearing witness with the other lords. And I cannot tell you how many times I saw men and women—children—cut to pieces at the footstool of the throne, fingers and tongues and eyes and heads. All because they dared to ask something of him. And I watched it, afraid to speak out. We were all afraid to speak out.”
I struggled to imagine his story, struggled to fathom that such violence was happening north of here. “There is no peaceful way to do this?”
He finally understood my questions, the glaze in my eyes. “Amadine . . . your procuring the stone and reviving magic is the most peaceful route to justice. I cannot promise there will not be conflict or a battle. But I do want you to know that without you, war would eventually come.”
I broke our gaze, glancing down to the pleats of my dress. He was silent, giving me time to process the revelations that had begun to unfold, knowing I was simmering with more questions.
“How do you know the Dowager?” I asked.
Jourdain drew in a deep breath, and then poured himself a glass of cordial. He poured one for me as well. I saw it as a long-awaited invitation, that he was about to tell me some dark things, and I graciously accepted the drink.
“Twenty-five years ago,” he began. “I joined Lord Morgane and Lord Kavanagh in their plans to upset Lannon, to place Kavanagh’s eldest daughter on the throne. She had a trace of that ancient, magical blood, according to their lineage, which distantly draws from the first queen, Liadan, but more than that . . . we were finished with serving a wicked king such as Lannon, who manipulated us, who oppressed our women, who slayed anyone, even a child, should they look at him the wrong way. You know that we failed, that the other lords would not unite behind us because we lacked the Stone of Eventide, and we lacked the Queen’s Canon. If we had possessed just one of those artifacts, I have no doubt the other Houses would have rallied behind us.”
He took a sip of cordial, turning the glass tumbler in his hands. I did the same, preparing for the hardest part of the story.
“We were betrayed by one of the other lords who had promised to join us. If not for his treachery, we might have overpowered Lannon, for our plans were contingent on surprising him. We had quietly gathered the forces of our three Houses, our men and our women, and were planning to storm the castle, to do things as peaceably as we were able, to give Lannon a proper trial. But he caught wind of it and sent his forces out to meet us in the field. What ensued was a bloody battle, one that saw our wives cut down, our daughters slaughtered. Yet he wanted us to live, his rebelling lords, to be brought to him for torturous punishment. And if not for Luc . . . if I did not have my son, who I had sworn to protect as my wife died in my arms . . . I would have let them capture me.
“But I took Luc and fled, as did Lord Kavanagh and his youngest daughter, as did Lord Morgane and his son. We had lost everything else: our wives, our lands, our Houses. And yet we lived. And yet our Houses were not dead, because of our sons and daughter. We fled south, to Valenia, knowing we might start a war by fleeing into another country, that Lannon would never cease looking for us, because Lannon is no fool. He knows one day we will return for him, to avenge the blood of our women.”
He drained the cordial. I drained mine, feeling the fire flow through every bend and corner of my body. A righteous anger was stirring, the thirst for revenge.
“We pressed as far south into Valenia as we could, keeping to the forests, to the pastures, to the land,” Jourdain continued, his voice rasping. “But Luc fell ill. He was only one year old, and I watched him slowly get weaker and weaker in my arms. So on a stormy night, we dared to knock on the door of a beautiful estate in the center of a field. It was Magnalia.”
I felt the tears line my eyes as he looked at me, as I realized what he was about to say.