If they were to greet each other in the way of dogs, so be it, Ban thought viciously, and fought back hard. Ban was not as strong or bulky as his brother, but he was fast and smart and practiced at these games. He would not let Rory have this easily.
Rory grunted a laugh of surprise the first time Ban almost slipped free, their legs still tangled and bracketed together. Ban twisted his entire body to gain the upper hand, but he could not quite keep hold against Rory. They rolled, scraping hands and knees and chins on the rough mountain path, and Ban tasted blood in his mouth. He hissed like a badger or a furious snake, and Rory cried out, “For Errigal!” before throwing his shoulder into Ban’s gut with another laugh.
Breath snuffed out, Ban heaved and gasped, half thrown over his brother’s shoulder, then managed to turn his flail into a firm stomp of his boot against Rory’s thigh.
Rory fell.
They both went down.
Rory tried to throw Ban out of his way, but managed to land partially atop him anyway, and Ban flung out his arms, flat on his back and barely breathing. Blood slicked down his chin from a cut inside his lip.
Overhead, the sun and tapestry of clouds turned slow, dizzy circles.
They’d been like this as boys, after Errigal stole Ban from Hartfare and his mother when he was ten: wrestling, running about together, climbing trees, foraging, playing at swords, often with the youngest daughter of Lear as a pretty third. While Elia had loved Ban despite his situation, Rory hadn’t seemed to even notice what that situation was. It had frustrated Ban, then, but he’d loved his brother for never making him feel small.
Ban blinked. It was a long time ago, years and several wars since. But Rory likely remained as unaware as ever of the bitterness in Ban’s heart. The privilege of ignorance—yet one more advantage never accorded to a bastard.
Rory groaned and turned his head to look at Ban from one eye. “You learned some tricks!”
“Give me a sword and I’ll win,” Ban gasped. He couldn’t move his legs, trapped as they were under his brother.
“Ha!” Rory shoved up with his hands, pinching Ban’s legs in the process. Ban was delighted to see a smear of blood on Rory’s cheek, dirt ground into it.
He sat up, felt the heat of battle expanding through his core, and the promise of bruises and pulls he wouldn’t truly know until he woke up the next morning. It was good, and refreshing. Familiar, too.
Ban offered Rory his hand. The brothers leveraged their weight to stand up together.
Curan crossed massive arms over his chest. “You can be done for the day, Fox, in perhaps an hour.”
Chagrined, he agreed.
“You’re learning iron magic?” Rory’s voice held, predominantly, curiosity, yet also a tight hint of a darker thing.
“I am,” Ban answered cautiously.
“Well! I need a shower.” Rory clapped his hand too hard on Ban’s back. “And to see Father and tell him my news.”
“News?” Ban repeated.
“Gossip more like, and letters from Astore.”
“I’ll go right after you, when I see to my bloom.”
Rory smiled, nodded to Curan, and headed for his patient horse.
With unaccustomed fondness, Ban watched Rory lead the mare down the unobtrusive rocky path to the Keep’s rear wall.
A wind blew suddenly out of the north, bringing a voice from the White Forest: Ban, it called. Ban Fox, Ban Errigal, Ban, Ban, Ban!
He looked, along with Curan and every one of the apprentice iron wizards.
Son!
His mother called him to her. Ban grimaced, avoiding Curan’s curious eye. He was not ready to go to Hartfare, not yet, not before he set his games in solid motion. Brona would tease the truths out of him, attempt to convince him to stop. That, Ban would not do.
Shrugging off his thoughts, Ban turned to care for the iron.
* * *
BAN TOOK THE worn, black stone steps up to his chambers two at a time, eager to bathe and find his brother again. The Keep bustled with sudden preparations for a feast in Rory’s honor, to welcome him home.
There’d been no such feast for the older Errigal son’s return.
Ban shook away the hurt as best he was able, careful not to rub at his face or run fingers through his hair: dried mud flaked off as he moved, despite his having put his shirt back on over the streaks and cakes. The pain did not matter: this was a game, not a destiny.
The door to his chamber hung slightly open, and Ban went silent. He put one hand on the hilt of the long dagger strapped to his belt, carefully pushing the door open just enough so he could slip inside.
Rory stood, his back to the door, flipping through one of Ban’s thin books. The earlson’s wide shoulders were dotted with tiny drops of water, fallen from his washed and combed hair. He’d dressed himself in a clean tunic of pale blue, edged with leather and fine black silk from the Rusrike. His boots were polished deep brown, and he wore copper at both wrists and rings on his thumbs. A sapphire shone on the hand turning the thick vellum of the book cradled in his other hand.
Glancing around, Ban saw nothing else strange: his low bed was exactly as neat as he’d left it, pillow-free and plain; a trio of shields leaned like giant dragon scales below the open window; his desk was covered with books he’d hardly unpacked, though they’d arrived from Aremoria two days previous; the hearth was cold, for he’d not built a fire in it since coming home two weeks ago. Instead the space held boughs of juniper and a cluster of dried roses, two honeycomb candles, and a slice of oak polished to a shine he used for rubbing spells. Three of the five tiny ceramic bowls for offerings were empty, but one held salt and one a smear of white-burned ashes.
In the corner by his bed, an arched door led to a privy shared between his and Rory’s rooms; it was held open by a footstool, and beside it sat a wide wooden tub full of steaming water.
“Brother?” Ban said quietly.
Rory startled, fumbling the book he inspected, but he caught it and spun. “Saints! Ban, you’re quiet as a ghost.”
Before Ban could answer, Rory laughed at himself. “Of course you are, Fox of Aremoria. The stories got even better after I left.” He slapped shut the thin volume: a book of Aremore poetry, Ban saw, carefully copied out by Morimaros to use as a code key. Rory dropped it back onto the desk with the rest. “I had your bath filled for you, as soon as I was done with my own.”
“Thank you,” Ban said, unbuckling his belt to set it and the dagger onto the bed. “Have you seen Father?”
“Yes, and we’re feasting tonight.”
“Yet you’re in my room, not out flirting with the entire Keep.”
Rory smiled with more than a little wry acknowledgement. “I haven’t seen you in longer, so here I’d rather be.”
Ban paused as he crouched to remove his boots, gazing in surprise at Rory. “Just over a year.” He’d not thought his brother would miss him so, based on their farewell in Aremoria, and the lack of letters between them.
“So long!” Rory threw his head back and heaved a sigh.
With a small laugh, Ban finished undressing. He dropped his dirty clothes onto the floor and tested the water: perfectly hot. He climbed in, kneeling so the water hit his chest. It was a luxury to bathe in his room; usually he used the colder baths in the Keep barracks. Ban closed his eyes, relishing the tingle of heat. He cupped water up to his face, splashed it through his hair. Dirt changed to mud again, and he stripped it off his scalp, rubbing down his face and neck.
“You have more scars than I do,” Rory said softly, sinking down onto the bed. The ropes beneath the thick mattress creaked.
Ban met his eyes, unsure what to say.
Rory was unusually serious, almost sad looking. “Some of them are wizard marks?”
“I bled myself here.” Ban touched a small lightning-shaped scar on his left shoulder. “And here.” He lowered his hand into the water, where a line of scarring cut horizontal across his belly, just over his navel. “But most
are from war.”
“Impressive.”
Ban grimaced. “Better not to have any. I get caught too often, blade through my armor.”
“You don’t wear armor sometimes, though, isn’t that right? Because you’re a spy and a wizard?”
“True, some. I have very good leather armor that doesn’t make the noise of mail or plates.”
The look Rory gave him insisted on Ban agreeing to the impressive nature of his scars, and Ban felt compelled to say, “Morimaros hardly has any scars at all, for he is so good a warrior.”
“Father wanted me to marry Elia, before the foreign kings offered,” Rory said, so abruptly Ban scrambled to follow the thought path.
He frowned. “I … can see how it would’ve been … advantageous. Better for Errigal to join our power to the king’s line that way, through Elia, than keep our contract with Connley. It might’ve made you king, eventually.”
“You loved her,” Rory said, ignoring the shift into politics, “when we were children.” His red hair caught the sunlight streaming in the window, reminding Ban of the fiery strands in Elia’s curls.
Ban’s eyes lifted east, toward the ocean, toward Aremoria. For a moment, he was stuck: no breath, no momentum, lips parted, thinking of her.
She would surely have his note by now.
“You still do,” Rory said softly.
Ban refocused, reaching out of the tub for the cake of soap perched on a small washstand. “I saw her, at the Summer Seat. Before she left with Aremoria.”
“And?” Rory leaned his elbows on his knees, oddly urgent.
“It’s been over five years. She’ll be safe with Morimaros, that’s what matters right now.”
“Did she truly deny Lear her love?”
Ban attacked his brother with a hearty splash. “Hardly!”
Standing and wiping water off the front of his tunic, Rory asked, “Then what?”
“The king has lost his mind; how do you not know that? You’ve served as his retainer for a year!” Irritated, Ban scrubbed at his arms with the soap and, in a fit of frustration, ducked down under the water. Small waves heaved over the sides of the tub.
“You should be careful what you say about the king,” Rory said, once Ban had emerged.
Ban scowled. “Why?”
“He’s your king.”
As if it were that simple.
“He was never mine,” Ban said, low and dangerously—half because he believed it, and half to shock his brother.
“Ban!” Rory loomed over him. “He can’t hurt you anymore, the way he once did. You’re the Fox now, and a wizard, and learning iron magic, too? I’ve only been home for an hour, but I already see how everyone in this Keep adores you, and you could take whatever you wanted of Errigal, with nobody to stop you! Why be afraid of King Lear?”
The earlson’s breath panted from parted lips, his hands held out where he’d flung them in his angry enthusiasm.
Ban sat naked in the tub of cooling water, gaping up at his brother. It was too near Ban’s actual intentions for him not to be impressed.
Suddenly, Rory closed his mouth, two dark spots of red flushing his cheeks, blending all his freckles together. He stomped toward the door between their bedrooms.
“Wait!” Ban surged out of the tub.
Rory stopped, glancing over his shoulder with his bottom lip between his teeth.
“Rory, I … just wait. Let me…” Ban glanced around for a clean shirt, or a robe or cloth.
With a little helpless sound, Rory returned. “You don’t have to do it.”
Ban stepped out of the tub and grabbed a shirt from his trunk. He patted himself dry before pulling it over his head to hang down over his thighs. “Do what?”
“Earn a place here. You have one.” Rory said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ll always belong here, with me,” Rory continued. “My brother, captain of my soldiers, uncle to my sons, a husband to some fat, gorgeous wife, whatever you want. And if anyone says a slant word about it, I’ll make them regret it.”
The words played dully on Ban’s heart. They were meant well. Rory wanted to reassure him, to display his affection. But the very fact that Rory felt he needed to say it, needed to show him, only proved that Rory, finally, could see the bastard brother’s lesser position.
Ban smiled, but it was tight. A fox’s smile, narrow and sharp, with hidden teeth. “I know, brother. This is where I belong.”
“Good. Good.” Rory clasped Ban’s shoulders, shook him once, and let go. “I’ll see you in the hall for the feast. Drink hearty, for I plan to compete with you story for story, and I won’t let you get away with burying me under the Fox’s exploits.”
“You have a bargain,” Ban said softly.
His brother departed, and Ban slowly dressed, a realization blossoming with every movement.
Rory was the widest chink in Errigal’s armor.
Though sickened to think it, Ban could immediately see the spiral of an elegant, simple plan.
Limbs heavy, a frown pulling at his mouth, Ban skimmed his fingers through his ragged black hair and prepared to sacrifice his brother.
Sister,
I well hope your first week in Gallia has helped you calm yourself. Our father certainly is not happy with the outcome of his mad policies, which should make you feel relief or comfort, but I greatly suspect will only worry you more. Ever were you loyal and blind to his flaws, both as a father and king. Never mind, for he is neither to you now.
I will not horrify you with further talk of his death, but despite his new wildness that takes no rest, his seeming loss of composure, he will not change his mind about the crown or you. Both Regan and I are his heirs; we will work it out between ourselves. Mulish inflexibility is the name of his birth star, and where you used to out of kindness call it tenacity, I will name it truly now: the old man indulges in simple childish tantrums. Already my own retainers resent his contradictory orders and the slovenliness of his men. Would that you were here, for you alone might calm him and talk him out of his furies. My captain found him burning his eyes staring for hours at the sun in the sky yesterday afternoon. But you cannot return. As I said, we will read it as hostile intent, little sister. The crown is mine, but once I am confirmed, you will be welcome. So long, that is, as you do not marry Aremoria.
Keep yourself to yourself, and be strong. Give him no reason to bring his army here, or think he can take Innis Lear. When you return, we will find you a husband worthy of you: one of the Errigal sons, perhaps, for by then Regan will come around to it. One loves our father, and so you must get on well; the other is a fine warrior, and you thought you loved him once already. So.
This letter goes with the Oak Earl, and comes with a promise of his speed and safety, the one of which I can expect, and the other of which I can personally assure. It will not be long before we meet again, little sister.
Gaela of Lear
* * *
Elia,
Though our martial sister likely would not share my assessment, things are well for now in Innis Lear. This time of transition will not be so dire as some would predict. Though the harvest has gone poorly the past two years, I hear signs from the wind that we will do better this year, that the island rallies itself under my and Gaela’s joint rule. The first day after the Longest Night, the navel wells will be opened again.
It has never been a strength of yours to see what is not obvious, to be aware of the edges of words, the double and triple layers in all purposes, but you must turn your attention to developing such skills. I should have taken you greater in hand after our mother died. Taken you farther from his influence. In our grief and unforgiving natures, we allowed you to be coddled, as perhaps is right for a young girl, but no longer for a woman or sister to queens. Now you must look past what you are told, what you are given, and you must rely on your own mind, your own heart. Suspect Aremoria, but give him enough that he maintains hope of alliance through you. If you love him, do a
s you will, but accept the consequences. That is what I have done. The consequences may be severe, little sister. Marriage to Aremoria would allow him an avenue through which to take the island, unless you stand against it. And remember, if you are his, so will your children be, and belong to the roots of his kingdom.
Probably you are amazed at these words, and narrow those eyes at my lettering to see if this is truly your sister Regan’s hand. Worry not: I harbor my doubts that you will be able to do these things. This is no confession of hidden affection or respect. I love you as I always have: reluctantly, and knowing we might someday be rivals for this crown. Gaela assumes that in your core you are made of the same mettle as we, but I assume nothing, and it has served me very well.
Guard yourself, and guard us. Guard Innis Lear. If your own eyes, Morimaros of Aremoria, trace these words of mine, take them as the threat they are.
In sisterhood,
Regan of Connley and Innis Lear
* * *
To the Princess of Lear and Maybe Queen of Aremoria,
Let this be a comfort, an assurance to you, dear lady. We love our poor King Lear greatly, and know in time he will forgive whatever fault he has seen in you and bring you home. Until then, consider our cousins in Aremoria to be as your own. Their name is Alsax. My son Errigal, who you have known as Rory, would speak for them I am sure, as he fostered there with them for three years. Our other, less spoken of, son, whom you also know, was with them longer. He carries a reputation there himself, as the Fox.
Good lady, look to the heavens. Surely the answer to all our terrible times must hang there. As the stars and dread moon have given life to misfortune this season, so shall they bear the means of our triumph.
Earl Errigal
* * *
My daughter Aefa,
I know you will share this with your lady, she who is intimate with all your thoughts, though perhaps not prepared for what I would prefer not to speak of. As such, I keep my words brief, though already this introduction has drawn out what might’ve been the truth of brevity into a surplus of concision. So.