And then Allenach turned that bloodstained sword on me.
He disarmed me swiftly, the pain a vibrant sting up my arm. I watched Widow’s Bite sail through the air, falling a great distance from me. And then I felt his knuckles as he backhanded my face, my cheek blistering with his spite. He hit me again, again, and my eyes blurred as I felt the blood flow from my nose, from my mouth.
I tried to bring my shield between us, but he wrenched it from my wounded arm, and I at last surrendered to the grass, to the solid push of earth against my spine.
Allenach stood above me, his shadow cascading over my burning face. I could hear Merei screaming my name, over and over, trying to rouse me. But she sounded far away, and I could only watch as he raised his sword, preparing to pierce my neck. I drew in a deep, calm breath, resting in the belief that Yseult would make it. She would reclaim the throne. And that was all that mattered. . . .
Just before Allenach’s steel drank away my life, a shadow overcame both of us, raging and swift. I watched, disbelieving, as Allenach was jarred backward, his grace dissipating as he tripped, as Jourdain stood over me.
“Davin MacQuinn,” Allenach hissed, spitting a stream of blood from his mouth. “Get out of the way.”
“This is my daughter,” Jourdain said. “You will not touch her again.”
“She is mine,” Allenach growled. “She is mine, and I will take back the life I gave her.”
Jourdain had the defiance to chuckle, as if Allenach had said the most foolish of things. “She was never yours to begin with, Brendan.”
Allenach lunged at Jourdain, their swords meeting in a high guard. My heart felt wrenched from my chest as I watched the two lords fight, their swords tasting the sunlight, tasting blood as they nicked and sliced through each other’s arms and legs.
“Bri? Bri help me!”
I began to crawl to where Sean lay, where Merei knelt beside him, frantically trying to stem his blood. I finally reached her side, and my hands joined with hers as we tried to calm his bleeding.
I didn’t have the strength to meet his gaze, but when he whispered my name—Brienna—I had no other choice. I looked at him, my hope breaking when I saw the starkness of his face.
“Why are brothers so foolish?” I cried, desiring to smack and embrace him all at once for his courage.
He smiled; I wanted to weep, for him to die just as I was beginning to know him. Merei wrapped her arm around me, as if she felt the very same.
“Do you hear that?” Sean whispered.
I thought he was about to surrender his spirit, that he was hearing the song of the saints. And I would have begged them to let him stay with me, when I realized that I heard something too.
A shout coming from the south, a shout of people emerging from Lyonesse, bearing swords and axes and pitchforks, whatever weapons they could find. I knew that they had found the Canon on their doors, on their street corners. They had come to stand and fight with us. And from the east came another shout, a song of triumph and light, another banner, orange and red. Lord Burke had brought his warriors, had come to give us his support and his aid.
I was about to tell Sean what I was seeing as I watched the tide of the battle change; I was just about to open my mouth when there came a painful sound from behind me, a gurgle of surprise. I knew it was one of them; it was either Jourdain or Allenach. And I could hardly bring myself to turn, to look and see who had fallen.
But I did.
Allenach was staring at me, his eyes wide as the blood bloomed from his neck, pouring like rain as he sank to his knees. I was the last thing of living earth he saw as he lay facedown in the grass at my feet, as he breathed his last.
I remained seated on the ground by Sean and Merei, my hand clasped with hers, my gaze transfixed with how still death was, how the wind continued to blow over Allenach’s dark hair. And then there was warmth at my side, arms coming about me, fingers wiping the blood from my face.
“Brienna,” Jourdain said, his voice cracking as he wept beside me. “Brienna, I just killed your father.”
I held to him as he held to me, our hearts aching. Because vengeance doesn’t taste quite how you imagine it will, even after twenty-five years.
“No,” I said, as Lannon’s men began to surrender and retreat, leaving us behind on a field of blood and victory. I laid my palm to Jourdain’s cheek, to his tears. “You are my father.”
THIRTY-TWO
LET THE QUEEN RISE
The red banners were soaring as Yseult walked the remaining strip of field, as we followed her to the castle gates that sat open as a yawning mouth. Lannon had fled to the royal hall, had barricaded himself behind the doors. Yet we came as a mighty river, growing in number with every step we took, reclaiming the castle courtyard. When the doors of the hall held fast, two men brought forth axes and began to chop. Piece by piece, we whittled and we hacked and we splintered until the doors came down.
The first time I had stepped into this cavernous hall, I had done so as a Valenian girl in an exquisite dress, alone.
I now entered it as a Maevan woman, covered in blood and woad, Merei on my left, Luc on my right, Jourdain and Cartier at my back.
Lannon was sitting on the throne, his eyes wide, his fear like a stench in the air as his hands gripped the antler armrests. He had only a few men remaining around him, standing, watching as we strode closer, closer. . . .
Yseult finally came to stand before the dais. The hall grew quiet as she opened her arms, victorious, the light glistening down her dragon-inspired armor.
“Gilroy Lannon.” Her voice echoed up to the rafters. “Maevana has weighed you and found you wanting. Come and kneel before us.”
He wasn’t going to move. His face had gone pale, the ends of his hair quivering as he tried to swallow his fear. He might have sat there stubbornly, but then the men standing around him knelt before her, leaving Lannon exposed, leaving him on his own.
Slowly, as if his bones might break, he stood and descended the dais. He came to kneel before her, before all of us.
“Father?” Yseult murmured, glancing to where Hector stood near her elbow. “Take the crown from him.”
Hector Laurent rustled forward, lifted the crown from Lannon’s head.
There was a moment of silence, as if she was pondering how to punish him. And then Yseult struck Lannon across the face, lightning swift. I saw the former king’s head snap to the side, watched his cheek begin to welt as he gradually brought his eyes back to hers.
“That is for my sister,” Yseult said. And then she struck him again, on the other cheek, drawing blood. “That is for my mother.”
She struck him again.
“That is for Lady Morgane.” Cartier’s mother.
Again.
“That is for Ashling Morgane.” Cartier’s sister.
Again, the crack of bone, the crack of twenty-five years.
“And that is for Lady MacQuinn.” Jourdain’s wife, Luc’s mother.