The Queen's Resistance Read online

  “Do you think Keela did these things?” I asked Cartier, my heart heavy.

  Cartier was quiet, staring at the list. “No. I think Declan Lannon made her do these evils. And when she refused, he harmed her. So she began to acquiesce, to survive.”

  “So how do we go about this?”

  “Brienna . . . that dungeon is perhaps the darkest place I have ever been. Keela was too terrified and angry to speak to me.” He turned the grievances over and met my gaze. “If you can find a way to keep her calm, to reassure her that she can trust you, that there is the possibility of redemption for her . . . perhaps that will give her the confidence she needs to share her story, and the people will let her live. They need to know she is just like them, that she has greatly suffered her entire life because of her father and grandfather.”

  “I will go this afternoon,” I said, even though I didn’t know what to expect, even though I was struggling to grasp everything Cartier was trying to tell me.

  A few hours later, I met the master guard, Fechin, to be led into the darkness of the dungeons. And I found myself standing in Keela Lannon’s dim, cold cell, leagues of stone overhead, seeming to crush the air from my lungs, the hope from my heart. And I finally understood Cartier’s words.

  I couldn’t help but shiver as I watched Keela rush to her little table and grab a candle, as if the tiny flame could protect her.

  “Do you mind if I sit?” I asked, but didn’t wait for her to respond. I lowered myself to the stone floor, crossing my legs, my dress spreading around me. I had the princess illustration in my pocket, with the words Ewan wanted me to say to her tucked in my memory.

  “Get out,” Keela whimpered.

  “My name is Brienna MacQuinn,” I spoke in a soothing tone, as if Keela and I were not in a cell beneath the earth, but sitting in a meadow. “But I haven’t always been a MacQuinn. Before that, I belonged to another House. I was Brendan Allenach’s daughter.”

  Keela froze. “Lord Allenach never had a daughter.”

  “Yes, so people thought, because I was illegitimate, born to a Valenian woman across the channel.” I tilted my head, my hair falling over my shoulder. “Would you like to hear my story?”

  Keela’s mind was racing. I could tell by the darting of her eyes as she assessed me, and then the door, which was closed and locked, and then back to me, and then her nearby cot. I wanted her to know that I was just like her, born into an oppressive and cruel House, but that our names and our blood did not wholly define us. There were other things, deeper things, such as beliefs and choices, that were more powerful.

  And if Keela had once loved the idea of becoming the princess of the mountain, then I knew she was a dreamer as well as a lover of stories.

  “Fine,” she relented, edging her way to her cot.

  I began to tell her about my life: losing my mother when I was three, my grandfather sending me to an orphanage with a different last name because he was afraid of Lord Allenach finding me.

  I told her about when I turned ten, I was accepted into Magnalia House, and how more than anything, I wanted to become a passion.

  “How many passions are there?” Keela asked, slowly setting her candle aside.

  “There are five,” I answered with a smile. “Art. Dramatics. Music. Wit. Knowledge.”

  “Which one are you?”

  “I’m a mistress of knowledge.”

  “Who taught you knowledge?” Keela pulled her knees up to her chest, propping her chin on them.

  “That would be Master Cartier, who is better known as Aodhan of Morgane.”

  She fell quiet, studying the floor between us. “I think he tried to speak with me earlier today.”

  “Yes, that was him. He and I want to help you, Keela.”

  “How can you help me?” she whispered angrily. “My grandda is a horrible man. They say I favor him in the face, so if I am to live, how will other people bear to look at me?”

  My heart beat faster as I listened to her. She had thought on the possibility of surviving the trial, had thought about how much she would be reviled. And I couldn’t lie to her: it would take time for other Maevans to trust and accept her, just as it was taking time for Jourdain’s people to fully welcome me.

  “Let me tell you the rest of my story, Keela, and then we can try to answer such worries,” I said.

  I told her of the memories I had inherited from my ancestor, Tristan Allenach, about his treachery, how he hid the Stone of Eventide and forced magic to go dormant, how he assassinated the last queen of Maevana. I told her about the revolution, of how I crossed the channel to recover the stone, how Brendan Allenach had known I was his daughter and tried to tempt me to deny my friends and join him, to take the crown for myself with him at my side.

  This hooked her attention, more than my history with the passions, because I could see how she was comparing us, me and her, two daughters trying to break away from their blood Houses.

  “But I will always be a Lannon,” she argued. “They will always hate me, whether I live or die.”

  “But Keela,” I gently countered. “Is it only blood that makes a House? Or is it beliefs? What holds people together more? The red in their veins or the fire in their hearts?”

  She was shaking her head, tears spilling from her eyes.

  “Keela, I want you to live. So does your brother Ewan.” I withdrew the illustration from my pocket and smoothed the wrinkles from it, setting it on the floor. “He wanted me to give this to you, because it reminded him of the time you desired to become the princess of the mountain.”

  She wept then, and while I wanted to comfort her, I stayed where I was, my legs numb from the hardness of the stone. I let her be the one to stand and crawl to where I had set the paper. She took it in her hands and dashed the tears from her eyes, returning to her cot to sit and admire it.

  “He’s not dead? My da told me he was,” she said once she had calmed. “That the new queen cut him up in pieces.”

  “Ewan is very much alive,” I answered, cursing the lies her father had purposely fed her. “Aodhan Morgane and I are protecting him, and we would protect you too.”

  “But the people hate me!” she cried. “They want my blood. They want all of our blood!”

  “Is there a reason that they should want your blood, Keela?”

  She looked like she wanted to cry again. “No. Yes. I don’t know!”

  “What was it like for you, living as a princess in the castle?”

  She was quiet, but I sensed my question had found its mark.

  “Did they beat you, Keela? Did they make you do cruel things?” I paused, but my heart was pounding. “Was your father the one to order you to hurt your chambermaids?”

  Keela began to weep, hiding her face in the crook of her arm. I thought I had lost her until she raised her head and whispered, “Yes. My da . . . my da would hurt me if I didn’t hurt them. He would lock me in my closet, where it was dark, and I would be hungry. It felt like I was in there for days. But he told me it would only make me stronger, that his da had done such things to him, to make him unbreakable. My da said he couldn’t trust me unless I did exactly as he ordered.”

  Listening to her, I was torn between the hunger for justice, to see blood spilled after all the Lannons had done, and the painful desire for mercy when it came to Keela Lannon. Because I saw a shade of myself within her, and I had been given grace.

  “This is what you need to tell the people when you stand trial, Keela,” I murmured, aching for her. “You must tell them the truth. You must tell them what it was like for you as the granddaughter of King Lannon. And I promise they will listen, and some of them will realize you are just like them. That you want the same things for Maevana.”

  I stood, my feet prickling with pins and needles. Keela stared up at me with large, bloodshot eyes, eyes that were nearly identical to Ewan’s.

  “The trial will begin in two days,” I said. “They will bring you out on the scaffold before the city, to
answer the magistrate’s questions, for the people to weigh whether you will live or die. I will be standing at the front, and if you feel afraid, I want you to look at me, and know that you are not alone.”

  SIXTEEN

  LET THEIR HEADS ROLL

  Day of the Trial

  Cartier

  There was not a cloud in the sky the day of the trial.

  I was the first lord to reach the scaffold that morning, a circlet of gold across my brow, the gray horse of Morgane stitched at my heart. I sat in my appointed chair, watching the castle green begin to flood with people.

  I stared at the wooden stand at the center of the scaffold, at the shadows that already gathered about it, where Gilroy Lannon, Oona Lannon, Declan Lannon, and Keela Lannon would stand in a matter of hours. I tried to imagine Ewan standing among them, blood of their blood, bone of their bone.

  Once a Lannon, always a Lannon.

  I hated those words, the doubt Declan had planted in my mind.

  Gradually, the other lords and ladies arrived, to take their places around me. Jourdain walked across the scaffold with a frown, taking the chair at my side, and the two of us sat in stilted silence, our hearts drumming as the trial grew closer.

  “How are you?” Jourdain eventually murmured.

  But my voice faded in that moment, until I caught sight of Brienna. She was standing beside Luc at the front of the crowd, wearing a lavender dress, the color of the MacQuinns, and her brown hair was captured in a braided crown. Her gaze found me as mine had found her.

  “I am fine,” I responded, and my gaze remained on her.

  The castle green was overflowing with people by the time Isolde and her guards and the magistrate reached the scaffold. The lords and ladies stood for her—Lady Halloran and Lord Carran included—even though Isolde wore no crown, only a circlet of gold as the other nobles. She sat in the center of the arranged nobles as the Lady of Kavanagh, with a direct view of the stand. The Stone of Eventide rested against her heart, radiating a soft blue light.

  The magistrate, an old man with a white beard that brushed his chest, stood before the crowd and held up his hands. The silence that fell over the people was thick; sweat began to bead on my brow as I shifted in my chair.

  “My people of Maevana,” the magistrate boomed, his voice carrying over the breeze. “Today we come to give justice to the man who once dared to call himself king.”

  Instantly, boos and shouts of anger kindled in the people. The magistrate held up his hands again, insisting on silence, and the crowd quieted.

  “Each member of the Lannon family will be brought to the stand,” he continued. “They will stand before you while I read the list of grievances against them. These grievances have come from those of you who were brave enough to share your stories. As such, some of your names will be read aloud beside each grievance as proof of witness. When I am finished, the Lannons will each have a turn to speak, and then you will have the power to weigh them. To raise a fist expresses execution. To not raise a fist equates mercy.”

  The magistrate glanced over his shoulder, to look at Isolde.

  Isolde nodded, her face pale, her hair red as blood in the sunlight.

  I could feel my heart throb deep in my chest. I thought of my father, my mother, my sister in that moment of silence.

  The magistrate turned and cried, “Bring forth Gilroy Lannon.”

  The noise that came from the crowd was blistering. I could feel the sound tremble through the wood beneath me, through my teeth. I sat and watched as Gilroy Lannon was gracelessly dragged across the scaffold beneath endless links of chains.

  The former king looked wretched. His lank blond hair was matted with old blood; it appeared that he had tried to bash his head against his cell wall and had failed. His clothes were dirty and reeked of his own filth, and he barely had the strength to remain upright as the guards set him on the stand to face the people.

  The shouts, the curses, and the anger boiled in the crowd. I momentarily feared they would rush the scaffold and violently break it to pieces. Until the magistrate frowned and held up his hands, and the people begrudgingly obeyed the call for silence.

  “Gilroy Lannon, you stand before the people of Maevana with a vast list of grievances held against you,” the magistrate said as a young boy brought forth a thick scroll.

  I watched, stunned, as the seemingly never-ending scroll began to unwind, unspooling across the scaffold. The magistrate began to read, his voice carrying over the murmurs, over the wind, over the thrashing of my heart.

  “Gilroy Lannon, on the twenty-fifth of May, in the year of 1541, you ordered Brendan Allenach to viciously cut down Lady Sive MacQuinn while she was unarmed. You then proceeded to burn MacQuinn fields and slayed three of MacQuinn’s thanes and their families while they slept in the night. Seven of these lives were children. You gave your men orders to rape the women of MacQuinn, and to hang the men who fought back to defend their wives and daughters. You then proceeded to take MacQuinn’s people and scatter them, giving them to Lord Brendan Allenach to ruthlessly rule. This grievance comes from Lord Davin MacQuinn.”

  I looked at Brienna who stood still with a stoic look on her face. But I could tell her anger was rising. “On the same day, you took Lady Líle Morgane and chopped off her hand. You dragged her . . .”

  I forced myself to stare at Gilroy Lannon while my grievance was read. Lannon was shaking, but it was not from fear or repentance. He was chuckling as the magistrate said, “This grievance comes from Lord Aodhan Morgane.”

  “MacQuinn and Morgane defied me! They defied their king!” Lannon shouted, his chains clanging as he pounded his hand on the stand railing. “They rebelled against me! Their women deserved the punishment they received!”

  I was on my feet before I realized what I was doing, that I was about to pull my concealed blade and lunge for Gilroy Lannon. But Jourdain was faster, and grasped my arm, holding me back while the crowd screamed in fury, every fist already raised in their verdict.

  “Let his head roll!”

  The chorus swelled over the people like a tide, breaking against the scaffold, against me.

  Gilroy was still laughing when he turned to look over his shoulder, his eyes meeting mine.

  “If only you knew, little Morgane,” he hissed to me, “all that I did to your mother.”

  My face contorted in agony, in rage. There was more, then. More I did not know. I had been terrified of this possibility ever since I had met with Declan in the keep, his words still lodged in my mind. There’s a special punishment for Lannons who turn on their own.

  “Gag him!” the magistrate ordered, and two of the guards wrestled Gilroy Lannon back under control, stuffing his mouth with a dirty rag.

  And all I could think . . . what more had he done to her? What more had he done to my mother?

  “Sit, lad,” Jourdain whispered into my ear, barely able to hold me back a moment longer. “You must not let this man own you.”

  I nodded, but I was trembling, unraveling. I knew Brienna was watching me; I could feel the draw of her gaze. Yet I could not bear to look at her.

  I resumed my seat and closed my eyes. Jourdain’s hand remained on my arm, like a father trying to comfort his son. Yet my father was dead. My entire family was gone.

  I had never felt more alone and bewildered.

  “On that same day,” the magistrate continued to read. “You beheaded Lady Eilis and Shea Kavanagh, cutting their bodies up into pieces to be displayed on the castle parapets. You then proceeded to target and murder members of the Kavanagh House. . . .”

  It took another hour for the magistrate to read all of Gilroy Lannon’s grievances. But when he finally reached the end of the scroll, the people had already voted. Every lord and lady on the scaffold held up their fist. As did nearly every spectator in the crowd.

  “Gilroy Lannon,” the magistrate announced, passing the scroll back to the boy, “the people of Maevana have weighed you and found you wanting. You w
ill be executed by the sword three days from now. May the gods have mercy on your soul.”

  The guards dragged Gilroy Lannon away. And he laughed the entire way off the scaffold.

  His wife, Oona, was brought forth next.

  She took the stand in chains with a haughty tilt of her chin, gray streaks in her long auburn hair. So that was where Ewan got the hair from.

  Her list of grievances was not as long as her husband’s, but it was still lengthy, filled with accounts of torture, beatings, and burning. She had nothing to say by the end of her record—it was evident she was too proud to stoop—and once again, the people and the nobles around me raised their fists.

  She would die right after Gilroy, by the sword, in three days.

  It was nearly noon by the time Declan Lannon was ushered to the stand.

  I met his gaze as the prince walked in his chains across the scaffold. Declan smiled at me; he did not look at any of the other nobles, not even Isolde. Only me.

  My dread deepened; I could see it in the prince’s eyes that he had something planned.

  “Declan Lannon, you stand before the people of Maevana with a vast list of grievances held against you,” the magistrate began in a hoarse voice, taking up the prince’s scroll.

  It was a long record, a reflection of his parents’. As I listened, my beliefs were confirmed; Declan enjoyed tormenting and manipulating others. He had overseen the majority of the tortures that took place in the bowels of the castle. No wonder he had seemed at ease in the darkness of his prison cell; he was familiar with the dungeons.

  “You now have the opportunity to speak, Declan of Lannon,” the magistrate said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “To either beg for mercy or explain your cause.”

  Declan nodded, then spoke loudly and clearly.

  “Good people of Maevana, there is only one thing I will say to you before you send me to my death.” He paused, turning his palms upward. “Where is my son, Ewan? Have you lost him? Or maybe one of you has been sheltering him? Has one of your own lords betrayed your trust by protecting him?” And here, Declan looked over his shoulder, straight to me.