Aefa glanced at the palace guards standing on either side of the door, studiously ignoring the interaction of peculiar royalty. One stared straight ahead; the other flicked his eyes to Elia and away.
“It’s all right, Isarnos,” Elia said to the young prince.
Then she gently nudged him aside and threw open the door.
MORIMAROS
MARS PREFERRED THE throne room empty. Cavernous and quiet, lacking all these lords and ladies and soldiers who comprised his council, those now arguing loudly their concerns.
As a boy, Mars had liked nothing more than to climb onto the long, oval council table when no others attended the room, spread on his back, and stare up, imagining great stories for all the saints and ancient kings of Aremoria. An old mural filled the entire high ceiling with bucolic rolling hills, flowering trees, and fluffy, whimsical animals with wings and horns. In the bright blue-painted sky were shining earth saints and smiling spirits, with glass embedded where their eyes should have been to show their alien magic. Though the mural depicted daytime, the most glorious of constellations shone like diamonds: the Lion Rampant, the Star of Crowns, the Triple Mountain, the Autumn Throne, and a moon in every phase. A perfect canvas for his imaginings. But if his father caught him, Mars was dragged off the table to the single gilded throne set onto an orange dais at the far end of the room. His father’s throne.
The king would put Mars upon it and say it was better for Mars to imagine the world from that location.
Now that Mars was king, he left the throne empty when he could. One wall of the enormous chamber was entirely arched windows overlooking an elaborately sculpted garden, and it was here he chose to stand.
The nobility and military of Aremoria arrayed behind Mars were divided in four parts: those who thought the moment to retake Innis Lear was at hand, as the island hung between several rulers like an unstable, overripe peach; those who counseled waiting until next summer even though there would be a new-crowned queen by then, to give Aremoria the winter at least to recover from war with Burgun, to celebrate victory and peace; his sister’s contingent, who suggested he marry Elia as quickly as possible and watch the island from a distance to see where the pieces fell before acting; and then Kay Oak, who alone argued for Aremoria throwing support behind Elia herself, without marriage, to situate her on the throne of Lear and reap the awards of alliance. Alliance not only with Lear, but potentially the Third Kingdom.
Not for the first time, Mars wished the Third Kingdom would agree to a permanent ambassador here in Lionis. Aremoria’s interests were constantly stifled by the empress’s insistence that all trade deals be brokered in her territory. His frustration was probably her goal. If Aremoria grew much richer or stronger, there would be a clearer path to rivaling the empire’s dominance over their neighboring continents. Mars had to send ambassadors to her, receiving none in return, or get nothing. Two countries cushioned the borders of Aremoria and the Third Kingdom, and Mars’s father had occasionally toyed with attacking Ispania or Vitilius in an effort to expand south and southeast against her. But Mars had an excellent relationship with the king’s council of Vitilius, one he was loathe to risk, and Ispania had been conquered and reconquered by the Second and then Third Kingdoms, each time eventually earning independence again. The familial connections between the Third Kingdom and Innis Lear put a handful of his best people on the side of careful marriage and no military involvement should Mars decide to take the island. Nobody wanted to risk the wrath of the empress, but all wanted more power for Aremoria.
The best solution, he thought, was to get the granddaughter of the empress as a wife and queen of Aremoria. Marry Elia, and then take Innis Lear against her elder sisters. After his time there, Mars believed the old king had done him a favor by closing off those holy wells. Innis Lear was ready for change. The people needed it.
As the discussion waged, Mars stood at the grand garden windows, his back to the council, hands folded behind him, staring out at the rows of juniper bushes below, trimmed into spiraled cones. Despite the fraught conversation behind him, his mind was full of deep black eyes and the tremble of the princess’s hand as she held the letters from home.
He had wished to pull Elia against his chest and hold her, comfort her, promise anything she asked. He had wished to take the letters and burn them if she was afraid to read.
“It is not only trade to think about, but security,” Efica, Lady of Knights, broke in. “Burgun holds Innis Lear in his sights, too, and if Aremoria does not seize it, Burgun might try, and with the sponsorship of the Rusrike who have long hunted an opportunity to best Aremoria.”
Mars’s sister, Ianta, asked whether Regan or Gaela might consider a stronger alliance. Kayo insisted Elia was the best and only true road for Aremoria, and Mars silently berated himself for not insisting that the exiled princess be here for this council. She should be speaking for herself. Let them all know what she would even consider with regard to marriage and alliances. But her spirit had seemed withdrawn these past weeks, diminished from the humorous young woman he’d so briefly met at the Summer Seat. Still, she had not lost that quiet core of resolve holding her spine tall, as if she truly were leashed to the stars. She mourned; she longed for her home and father. That was what he told himself.
Mars would not push too soon. But he wanted to marry her. Regardless of how it would necessarily shift his tactics in taking Innis Lear. In fact, Mars found he could not stop circling his thoughts back and back and back around to it: as if nothing else mattered to him as much as Elia Lear.
He could not recall a single time in his adult life when he’d been so tilted by his heart.
Perhaps the strangeness on Innis Lear had infected him. Perhaps she was a fracture in his careful crown.
She would not be happy to know he’d sent Ban Errigal to destabilize her island. To undercut Errigal and find a means of putting an Aremore leash upon the powerful iron magic.
I keep my promises.
“Take the island now, Morimaros,” said Vindomatos Persy, one of his northern dukes. “And negotiate your own new sea trade with the Third Kingdom after. They will enter a new bargain, for they crave Innis Lear’s copper. And use the possibility of marriage to a daughter of their empress’s line for better leverage.”
“Is that the sort of king you would have my brother be?” Ianta asked.
Mars could well imagine his sister’s expression, as cool as her voice, but likely with a mocking lift to her golden eyebrows. Novanos had reported that of late, Ianta and Vindomatos played a courtship game, though it remained unclear if Vindomatos desired Ianta herself, or to marry his daughter to Ianta’s son.
Silence dragged on behind him.
“It’s the kind of king our father was, Ianta,” Mars said. Their father had always encouraged Mars to view Innis Lear as a lost piece of Aremoria that needed to be reclaimed. There was an old prophecy, though one not officially espoused since forsaking religion; it claimed that the greatest king of Aremoria would reunite the island to the mainland.
Mars did not believe in prophecy, but he did believe in the power of his people, and their loyalty. Aremoria would rejoice if he regained the island. Especially if he did it with minimal loss of Aremore lives.
So he said nothing else, waiting for someone to press with a cause. Ianta said no more, and Mars thought he should tell Ianta of Ban’s mission. It would swing her arguments to know his man worked for their interests on the island, outside of Elia and marriage.
One of the councilors tapped a boot impatiently against the marble floor. Another sighed. Mars heard the tick of a glass touch the tabletop, and the soft gurgle of pouring wine. He still did not face them.
“Sir.” It was Efica. “You should marry her, first. Hold off Burgun that way, and it will be an opportunity for all our people to celebrate. Project strength.”
With that, he agreed. Rather desperately.
Kay Oak said, “Your majesty, it will go better for Aremoria in the long term
if you marry an acknowledged queen of Innis Lear, not an exiled princess.”
“That’s true, though if she gains power, when you marry her the power would still be yours,” Dekos of Mercia said.
“No, I—” Kay tried to say, but Vindomatos interrupted loudly.
“If we act now, before they’ve consolidated their rule, it will be easier and faster, with less loss of Aremore life.”
Before any else spoke, one of the entrance doors clicked and suddenly swung open. Mars turned, alert for danger, though an urgent message was the most likely interruption.
Elia Lear halted a few paces into his throne room, chin up, mouth determined, eyes wide on him. Seeing her again was a revelation.
It always was.
Taking two concerned steps toward her, Mars said, “Lady Elia?”
Straw clung to the hem of her mint-colored dress, and her brown hands were so stiff and straight at her thighs it had to be an affectation. The throne room and the people in it fell away into a gentle roar in his ears, and Mars wondered if she’d like to go with him now down into the garden, and walk among the junipers.
But Elia instead turned to face the council table.
Kayo half stood out of his delicate chair, chagrined. Elia’s nostrils flared as the Oak Earl winced, and Mars recognized, finally, her anger. Her spark. His heart flew high with hope.
Elia walked to the edge of the table, stared at every member of his council; they gazed back unconcerned, curious, irritated, and a few as chagrined as Kayo, depending on their arguments.
The princess touched the corner of the map spread across the oval table, held down by weights sculpted into ships: an elaborately painted Innis Lear and its surrounding ocean, with the shores of Aremoria just visible.
“Are you discussing my island?” she asked, too softly.
“Elia,” Kayo said, fully on his feet now, sounding conciliatory.
She held up her hand for him to stop. Carefully, she turned to face Morimaros again.
“Yes,” the king said.
“You should not discuss Innis Lear without Innis Lear present. Not only is it insulting, it seems tactically unsound.”
His heart went wild at her offended tone, and his eyes ranged over her face as if all the pieces of it were separate, as if he could read her as clearly as any battlefield; she was a mystery in that moment. His lips parted, but the king maintained his silence.
The princess’s chest lifted faster; the only signal of the depth of her upset. She lifted her brow as if to encourage him. Yes? Speak?
As if he needed her permission.
“You are correct,” Morimaros said. “I apologize, Princess.” He ignored the shifting motions of his council; indeed, he only suddenly recalled their presence.
She said, “I was grieving when I took the haven offered by the Aremore crown, and I thank you, Morimaros, for the sanctuary provided so generously by your court, and for the time to appreciate my wounds.”
Mars nodded once. Any more and he would cross the small distance to her and touch her: take her wrist, brush his hand along her jaw, put his cheek to her curls.
Elia stepped nearer. “I am finished hiding.”
It was a concession, to having been weak. Mars admired her for it.
She said, “I must be Elia of Lear today and tomorrow, and more than I was last month.” Her eyes slanted toward Kay Oak to include him, before fixing her gaze again on Mars. “And this council should know that Innis Lear is not as vulnerable as we seem. We have a royal bloodline, born of the island roots and blessed by the stars, who will fight for it, and people unwilling to be conquered.”
Her voice only trembled slightly.
Mars stepped nearer. “That is good information to have, Lady Elia,” he said with equal formality. “Perhaps this council should adjourn and you and I will continue our conversation alone.”
“Yes,” she said.
Mars reached for her hand, and she gave it. He raised her fingers, barely grazing them with his own, and bowed once more. Without straightening out of the bow, Mars lifted his eyes, and smiled slightly for her; a smile no one else could see.
FIVE YEARS AGO, HARTFARE
KAY OAK WALKED alone.
Despite the perfect afternoon, the peaceful clouds so high overhead, every breath was agonizing.
He’d not rested since leaving the wedding ceremony at Connley Castle, but instead taken a horse and ridden hard west, unthinking, a weight like murky water pressing down and all around him, darkening his vision. The horse moved under his urging, into the White Forest, and Kayo only knew to aim for the center, the heart of the woods, where there would be sign in the form of tattered cloth hanging from branches.
He’d never been to Hartfare, and not spoken with Brona in years. Not since that night of his sister’s year memorial, when the witch had told him everything he’d missed while working his trade routes. When the witch—this island—had broken his heart. But he knew the path to her lost village, as everyone did, from songs and rumors.
The blue cloth markers appeared, and he allowed the horse its head for a while. Once they reached the village, he slid off, dropped the reins, and walked on, past curious women and children, and some few men, past barking dogs delighted to meet someone new, past cottages and finely tended gardens and smoking fires. They pointed silently the way to the witch, knowing without asking why Kayo had come.
The door to Brona’s cottage was shut, and he leaned against it, slumping with his forehead to the grainy wood. Beneath his forehead, the door shifted, opening. Kayo stood, lips parted, dark eyes wide.
Brona was there, luscious and tall and numinous.
He said, “I didn’t know where else to go.”
She took one of his hands and led him inside, closing the door behind them.
Daylight poured in through small, square windows, and the fire was low in the hearth. Brona wore a plain blouse and striped skirt, with a bodice loosely holding it all together, tied with violet ribbons. Her feet were bare. She put him at the long table near the fire, on a bench, and silently set about making a plate of food. Kayo slouched wearily, staring at her, feeling dull and undone.
But his pulse had slowed, and gradually his breath evened.
Brona gave him a small crescent pie stuffed with turnips, onions, and savory gravy and set a jug of ale between them, along with two cups. She poured, and they drank.
Kayo ate the pie carefully, letting the simple flavors ground him, and watched Brona’s face. She remained as beautiful as she had been six years ago: dark hair unbound around her tan, freckled face; soft everywhere but the corners of her eyes and the sharp slash of her black brows. Her mouth was too plump not to think of ripe figs.
He’d not tasted a fig since leaving the Third Kingdom.
A shudder passed through Kayo and he finished his food, licking the last crumbs from his thumb. He reached for the ale and drank. All while the witch studied him.
She poured a second helping of ale and said, “I have heard Regan’s wedding was beautiful, though they infuriated the king by sharing a bowl of rootwater.”
“They did, and it did,” he said slowly, suspecting the trees themselves must have whispered the news to her, for no human messenger could have beaten him to her door.
The witch slid his cup nearer to him and cradled her own. “I am here, Kay Oak.”
“I … don’t know what to do,” he said. “Tell me what my sister would wish me to do. All is falling to pieces, and I don’t know that I’ve done any good here.” His own voice was unrecognizable to him, tight with desperation. He hid his face in his hands. Both his elder nieces were married now, to enemies that would tear apart this island—and he couldn’t see how to stop them. Particularly that slick son of salt, Tear Connley. Kayo slammed his hands flat on the table. “And by my sister’s word, I cannot tell Regan why it is so wrong that she married Connley!”
“I know,” Brona murmured. She put her hands atop his. “I know, Kay. And Regan would not
listen, if you could.”
He dragged in a deep breath. “My land is dying. And the lands around mine, too. The shepherds must take their flock higher and higher, farther inland toward this forest, because even the moors do not make thick enough blankets of food. The past two years my cows have birthed fewer and fewer calves. The trees blossom only half the time, depending on how far they live from the heart of Innis Lear.”
The witch nodded. “The island pulls inward, to consolidate its power since our king closed the navels and ended all the root blessings.”
“What is to be done? I feel this island in my bones, Brona. I feel the promise I made to Dalat, and I despair.”
“As do I, Kayo.”
“Brona…”
“Wait, and be strong. It will be the right time, when Elia is older.”
His pulse gasped. “Elia! Elia is a shadow of herself, and untouchable. I should take her, spirit her away to the home of our mothers, and save her, if that is the only possible thing.”
“What would she be in the land of your mothers?” Brona asked.
“A granddaughter of the empress, beloved at least, and encouraged to thrive. Her father, stars protect him, strangles her with his devotion.”
“But what would her potential be?”
“Whatever she wished. You cannot know what it is like in the Third Kingdom. Women are … you are the strength and hearts of the world. You rule it and we know why, there deep in the desert.”
Brona smiled a little.
Kayo pushed on, “Her people are there, too. Elia would be among her own. Less rare, but less burdened, too.”
“Does she want to leave?”
“No.” Frustrated, he made his hands into fists. “But she can’t know what it would be like. She’s never known anything but Innis Lear. She’s only fifteen, and you haven’t seen her of late, Brona.” He leveled his eyes on hers. “Her heart broke when Errigal and Lear took your boy away from her. They loved each other, with nothing to gain from the loving but love itself. Have you ever loved that way? I do not know how. Lear does not. There are too many layers of loyalty and lies and half-truths for adults to love so. But Elia had it, and might have carried it into adulthood if not for breaking them apart. And now there is a deep mistrust inside her, worse than her sisters’ fury or her father’s fanaticism.” Kayo snapped his mouth shut and closed his eyes against a wail. He could not speak of this with his brother Lear; the king refused all mention of Ban’s name in his presence, and even more so the suggestion Elia had been influenced by a bastard with terrible stars.