The Queen’s Resistance

“Neeve,” I said, an idea coming to mind. “Perhaps you can teach me something in return.”

She glanced up, shocked. “Oh?”

“I want to know more about the MacQuinns, about your beliefs, your folklore, and your traditions.”

I want to become one of you, I almost begged. Teach me how.

I already harbored head knowledge of the MacQuinn House, courtesy of Cartier and his teachings at Magnalia House. I knew their history, the sort that could be found in an old, dusty tome. They were given the blessing of Steadfast, their sigil was that of a falcon, their colors were lavender and gold, and their people were respected as the most skilled of weavers in all the realm. But what I lacked was knowledge of the heart, the social mores of MacQuinns. What were their courtships like? Their weddings? Their funerals? What sort of food did they serve at birthdays? Did they harbor superstitions? What was their etiquette?

“I don’t know if I am the best one to teach you such things,” Neeve said, but I could see how pleased she was that I had asked her.

“Why don’t you tell me about one of your favorite MacQuinn traditions?” I offered.

Neeve was quiet for a moment, and then a smile emerged on her lips.

“Did you know that if we decide to marry someone beyond the MacQuinn House, we have to choose them with a ribbon?”

I was instantly intrigued. “A ribbon?”

“Or, perhaps I should say that the ribbon chooses for us,” Neeve said. “It is a test, so we may determine who is worthy beyond our House.”

I settled back in my chair, waiting for more.

“The tradition began a long time ago,” Neeve started. “I do not know if you are familiar with our tapestries or not …”

“I’ve heard that the MacQuinns are known to be the best weavers in Maevana.”

“Aye. So much so that we began to hide a golden ribbon in the tapestry wefts as we wove. A skilled weaver can make the ribbon melt into the design, so that it is very difficult to find.”

“Every MacQuinn tapestry holds a hidden ribbon, then?” I asked, still very confused as to how this corresponded to choosing a mate.

Neeve’s smile widened. “Yes. And this is how the tradition began. The first lord of MacQuinn had only one daughter, one that he loved so greatly he did not believe any man—MacQuinn or beyond—would ever be worthy of her. So he had the weavers hide a ribbon within a tapestry they were making, knowing that it would take the most determined, dedicated of men to find it. When the lord’s daughter came of age, man after man arrived to the hall, desperate to win her favor. But Lord MacQuinn called forth the tapestry and his daughter challenged the men to bring her the golden ribbon hidden in the wefts. And man after man could not find it. By the time the twentieth man arrived, Lord MacQuinn believed the lad would only last an hour. But the man stood in the hall for one hour searching, and then one hour turned into two, until evening stretched into dawn. By the first light of the sun, the man had pulled the ribbon from the tapestry. He was a Burke, of all people, and yet Lord MacQuinn said he was more than worthy should his daughter choose to marry him.”

“And did the daughter choose him?” I asked.

“Of course she did. And that is why to this day we MacQuinns think twice before challenging the Burkes to a competition, because they’re a stubborn old lot.”

I laughed; the sound provoked Neeve to join me, until we sat before the fire wiping our eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so lighthearted.

“I think I like that tradition,” I eventually said.

“Yes. And you should use it yourself, if you decide to take a mate outside of the MacQuinns,” Neeve stated. “Unless, that is, the handsome Lord of Morgane is already your secret beau.”

My smile widened, and I felt my cheeks warm. She must have noticed it last night, when Cartier had sat beside me at dinner. Neeve raised her brows at me, waiting.

“Lord Morgane is an old friend of mine,” I found myself saying. “He was my instructor in Valenia.”

“For the passion?” Neeve asked. “What does that mean, exactly?”

I began to explain it to her, inwardly struck with the worry that she would find the passion study frivolous. But Neeve seemed hungry to hear of it, as I had been to hear of her traditions. I would have kept talking deep into the night had we not heard voices in the hall. The sound seemed to jar her, reminding her that she was here in my chamber secretly, that she had been here for well over an hour.

“I should probably go,” Neeve said, hugging the stack of paper to her heart. “Before my absence is noted.”

We stood together, nearly the same height.

“Thank you, Mistress, for writing this for me,” she whispered.

“You’re welcome, Neeve. I shall see you tomorrow night, then?”

She nodded and quietly slipped out into the corridor as if she were nothing more than a shadow.

My body was exhausted, and yet my mind was brimming with what had just happened tonight, with all that Neeve had said to me. I knew if I lay down, sleep would evade me. So I tossed another log on the fire and sat before the hearth, my writing table still before me spread with paper and quill and ink. I found Merei’s letter and tore it open gently, the wax seal of a musical note catching beneath my nail.

Dearest Bri,

Yes, I know you’ll be surprised by this letter coming to you so soon. But didn’t someone vow they would “write me every hour of every day”? (Because I’m still waiting on that mountain of letters you promised me!)

I’m currently sitting at a lopsided table at an old leaky tavern in the city of Isotta, right by the harbor, and it smells of fish and wine and a man’s terrible cologne. If you hold your nose to this parchment, you can probably smell it—it’s that strong. There’s also a one-eyed tabby cat that keeps glaring at me, trying to lick the grease from my dinner. Despite all of this chaos, I have a moment before I’m supposed to meet up with my consort, and I wanted to write you.

I just disembarked from my ship, and it’s hard to believe I just left you behind in Maevana as a lord’s daughter, that I just saw you yesterday, that the revolution you and Cartier drew me into has done everything you dreamt it would. Ah, Bri! If only we’d known what was to come that night at the summer solstice four months ago, when we were both so worried we would fail our passion! And how long ago that time feels now. I confess, I wish you and I could go back to Magnalia, just for a day.

Old memories aside, I do have a little snippet of news that I think you will find interesting. You know how taverns attract the salt of the earth? Well, I overheard quite a few of them talking about Maevana’s revolution, about Queen Isolde returning to the throne and the Lannons being in chains awaiting trial. (It took everything within me to remain quiet and sip my wine.) Quite a few people here think it is marvelous that a queen has taken back the northern crown, but there are a few who are nervous. I think they worry unrest might spread to Valenia, that some here will dare to contemplate a coup against King Phillipe. Valenians are very curious and will be watching the north in the upcoming weeks, eager to hear how things are resolved with the Lannons. I’ve heard talk center on everything from beheadings to torture to making all of the Lannons walk over flames so that they slowly burn to death. Let me know the truth of what actually happens, and I will have to keep you abreast with such gossip and developments here in the south, but it only makes me miss you more.

I need to wrap this up, and you know I am going to ask these three vital questions (so you had better answer them all!):

First, what does your cloak look like?

Second, how good of a kisser is Cartier?

Third, when can you come visit Valenia?

Write me soon!

Love,

Merei

PS: Oh! I almost forgot. The sheet of music in this letter is for your brother. He asked me to send it to him. Please do pass it on to him, with my regards!—M

I read the letter a second time, my spirits lifting. I reached for my half-written letter I had begun that morning, and then decided to start it over. I asked Merei about her consort, where they were traveling to next, what sort of people and parties had she played her music for. I answered her three “vital” questions with as much grace as I could—my cloak is beautiful, stitched with the constellation of Aviana; I should hopefully visit Valenia sometime in the next few months when things settle here (prepare for me to bunk with you wherever you are); Cartier is a terribly good kisser—and then I told her about the grievances: that I was still struggling to fit in here, that I thought about her and Valenia nearly more than I could bear. Before I could hem my worries, I wrote them down, as smoothly as if I were speaking them to her, as if she were sitting in this room with me.

And yet I already knew what she would say to me:

You are a daughter of Maevana. You are made of ancient songs and stars and steel.

I stopped writing, staring at the words until they blurred in my weary sight. And yet I could almost hear the echo of Merei’s music, as if she were only playing down the hall, as if I were still at Magnalia with her. I closed my eyes, homesick yet again, but then I listened to the hiss of the fire, to the sounds of laughter drifting down the corridor, the howl of the wind beyond my window, and I thought, This is my home. This is my family. And one day, I will belong here; one day, I will feel like a daughter of MacQuinn.

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