He loomed over me, blocking the moon, and raised one half of his severed weapon.
But his blow never came. I watched, wide-eyed, as he was suddenly rocked off his feet by a leaping beast, a dog that looked like a wolf. I stumbled back, shocked, as Nessie tore his arm open. He let out one strangled scream before she was at his throat. The dog was quick; I watched as Rian went still, his eyes open to the night, his blood spilling into the grass. And then Nessie moved to nuzzle me, whining into the folds of my skirts.
“Easy, girl,” I whispered, shivering. My fingers stroked her head, thanking her for saving me.
He was my half brother, and yet I felt no remorse that he had been killed by his father’s hound.
I turned my back to him and hurried the rest of the way to the alehouse, Nessie trotting at my side.
Cartier was waiting for me at the back door of the building, the shadows of the heavy eaves nearly concealing him from my sight. But he stepped forward when he saw me coming, two horses saddled and ready, the moonlight like spilled milk around us.
I walked right into his embrace, his arms coming about me, his hands touching my back to feel the Canon that I carried. I would have kissed the smile that graced his mouth when he looked down at me, but the night demanded that we hurry. And then I saw that we were not alone.
From the shadows, Merei emerged with a horse in tow, the starlight limning her face as she smiled at me.
“Mer?” I whispered, slipping from Cartier’s arms to reach her. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” she teased me. “I’m coming with you.”
I glanced to Cartier, then back to Merei, just now realizing that she had been involved from the very beginning, that she was part of our plans.
“How . . . ?”
“When I volunteered to be the one to go to Damhan,” Cartier explained quietly, “I contacted Merei. Asked if she could convince Patrice to come north, to play in Damhan’s hall. I honestly didn’t think she would be able to sway her patron . . . and so I said nothing of it to Jourdain, in case my idea never materialized.”
“But why?” I persisted.
“Because I knew Amadine Jourdain would need help on her mission,” Cartier replied with a smile. “Little did we know it was you, Brienna.”
And how right he had been. Without Merei, I would have never been able to recover the stone.
I took both of their hands. “To Mistwood?”
“To Mistwood,” they whispered in unison.
We had a six-hour ride ahead of us, through the deepest stretch of night. But before we reached Mistwood, there was one more place we needed to visit.
“Whose dog?” Cartier asked, finally noticing the large, wiry-haired hound who waited at my heels.
“She’s mine,” I replied as I mounted my horse. “And she goes with us.”
Five hours later, I found the safe house on a dark street corner, just beneath one of the oaks that flourished through Lyonesse. Cartier and Merei followed me, their boots hardly making noise on the cobblestones as we moved from shadow to shadow, from road to road, all the way to the printmaker’s front door.
We had left our horses hidden outside the city, guarded by Nessie, who had kept up with our pace, so we could silently travel on foot, to avoid being discovered by Lannon’s night patrol, who enforced a strict curfew. Even so, I still felt a shudder rack my spine as I lifted my knuckles to quietly knock on the door.
The three of us waited, our breath escaping our lips as plumes of smoke in the cold night.
By the moon’s position and the deep chill in the air, I guessed it to be around three in the morning. Again, I dared to rasp my knuckles upon the printmaker’s door, praying that he would hear and answer.
“Brienna,” Cartier whispered. I knew what he was telling me; we had to hurry. We had to reach Mistwood before dawn.
I sighed, about to turn away when the front door unlocked and creaked open, just a sliver. Wide-eyed with hope, I looked to the man who had answered us; his frown was lit by a solitary candle.
“Evan Berne?” I murmured.
His frown deepened. “Yes? Who are you?”
“I am Davin MacQuinn’s daughter. Will you let us in?”
Now he was the one to go wide-eyed, his gaze assessing me, assessing Cartier and Merei. But cautiously, he opened the door and let us enter his home.
His wife was standing a few paces back, clutching a woolen shawl about her shoulders, her terror evident. Flanking her were two sons, one who was obviously trying to conceal a dirk behind his back.
“I am sorry to come at such a time.” I rushed to apologize. “But Liam O’Brian marked you down as a safe house for our mission, and I must ask something of you.”
Evan Berne came to stand face-to-face with me, his gaze still wide and frightened. “Did you say you were . . . MacQuinn’s daughter?”
“Yes. My father has returned to Maevana. By dawn, the three fallen Houses will rise and take back the throne.”
“How?” one of the sons sputtered.
I glanced to him before letting my eyes return to Evan, slipping the satchel from my back. “You are a printmaker?”
Evan gave a sharp nod, the candle trembling in his hands as he watched me pull the Queen’s Canon from the bag.
He hardly breathed as he moved closer, to let his light shine upon the carved words. His wife gasped; their sons stepped forward with entranced gazes. They gathered about me, reading the words Liadan had carved so long ago. With every moment, I felt the hope, the wonder, the courage weave through their hearts.
“Where did you find that?” Evan’s wife whispered, tears filling her eyes when she looked at me.
“It is a long story,” I responded with a flicker of a smile. One day, I thought, I will write it all down, of how this came to be. “Can you print this Canon on paper? I want it posted on every door of this city, every street corner, by dawn.”
Evan grew very still, but he met my gaze. Again, I watched years of fear, years of oppression and estrangement melt from him. This was one of Jourdain’s most beloved thanes, a man who had watched his lord fall decades ago, thinking he would never rise again.
“Yes,” he whispered, but there was iron within his voice. At once, he began to give out orders, for his sons to drape blankets over the shuttered windows so no candlelight could leak out, for his wife to ready the press.
Cartier, Merei, and I followed him into the workroom, where the press sat as a sleeping beast. I set the Canon down on a long table and watched as Evan and his wife began to line the letter plates up, copying Liadan word for word. The air was rich with the scent of paper, with ink as he wet the metal words with it, as he set down a square of parchment.
He began to pump the press, and I watched as the Queen’s Canon was inked on paper, over and over, as quickly as Evan Berne could move. Before long, there was a glorious stack of them, and one of the sons gathered it with reverent hands.