“It is by his hand.”
The words sounded like death blows, dull and hard and promising raw blood to come.
The earl crumpled the letter. All his blunt teeth were bared. “And a feast prepared for this ungrateful whelp! Ah! Find him, so I can disabuse him of this notion his father is too old and weak to govern.”
Ban held his hands out to stall Errigal, and let him see the anger now. Errigal could read it as he liked. “Wait. At least until you can hear from his own mouth what he intended with this letter! We do not know if he wrote it, we do not know if he meant it—maybe he is testing me, as I said.”
“Ban!” Errigal ground out the name through clenched wide teeth.
“Father.” Ban put hands to Errigal’s broad shoulders. “Don’t do as Lear did. If you go violently against Rory and it’s merely a mistake, that is a gap in your honor, not his. Look at the chaos Innis Lear is experiencing already, with Kay Oak banished and the princess, too. Connley and Astore are ready at each other’s necks. We need Rory to be innocent of this.”
The earl’s jaw worked, his hairy brows dipping in uncertain anger. “All this is a disaster, you are right about that. If my own son … ah. He cannot be such a monster.”
“He cannot,” Ban murmured, only half in guilt.
The two leaned together at the window, both breathing hard, though for different causes.
“Ah, Ban.” Errigal sagged, and Ban dropped to the floor, kneeling. “Child against father—it is not natural. It is against the stars, and yet the stars warned us. These eclipses, these signs of division, of friend against friend, loves lost, what can we do? Heaven and earth, I love that fine, wretched boy. He must be as good as you, as loyal. Look at his stars! He was born under such good stars.” The earl thumped his head back against the wall and shut his eyes. “Discover the truth, Ban. Discover it.”
“I shall, Father,” Ban said, pressing his forehead to his father’s fist. He let his mouth twist and his eyes burn where the earl could not see.
Stars. Always the stars of birth. The blindness of old men, the weakness of their faith. Easy weapons to turn against them now that Ban understood power better.
Hurrying down stone stairs worn in the middle from generations of soldiers’ boots, Ban made his way to the kitchens where he knew Rory to be already, flirting with the cooks and maids as they prepared the feast.
Ban paused just outside the bend into the sweltering kitchen, catching his breath. He heard his brother’s voice trail brightly up the stairs from the larder instead. A young woman pressed past Ban, carrying a full platter of steaming bread. She smiled at him, but Ban’s attention was all for the story his brother told.
“… and though battered and bruised, Ban the Fox had clutched in his hand the underwear of the commander of the Diotan forces!”
The triumphant words spread into a shout of laughter and cheers from surely a dozen throats. Ban stepped down, steadying the sword at his belt. A cluster of young people—retainers in Errigal sky blue, two servant boys in their aprons, and even some young women covered in flour and smiling under sweat-curled hair—surrounded Rory, all of them crushed into the space around the long butter table, ducking their heads around the jars of butter and cream hung on hooks to keep free of rats and insects.
“You were supposed to be telling stories of your own exploits,” Ban said softly, affection warming his belly beside stinging guilt.
“Ban! Ha! Worms!” Rory held out his arm. “You tell them a story about me, then.”
Ban smiled tightly, aware that though his presence didn’t quite crush the spirit of the room, he most definitely quieted it. They’d accepted him, to be sure, but he had not earned their ease. “Rory, I have an urgent matter for your ears only.”
“After, then,” Rory promised, grimacing wildly for his audience. He snaked through them, coming up to Ban. “What it is, brother?”
“Wait,” Ban said, leading Rory up into the kitchens again, and out one of the rear corridors toward the strip of earth between the kitchens and the inner stables. The evening sun shone, still high enough to glare over the outer black wall of the Keep. Ban put his shoulder to the rough wall and pulled Rory very close. “You spoke with Father as soon as you returned today?”
“Yes, I told you that, just before bathing.”
“And not again? Not recently?”
“No.” Rory’s brow wrinkled.
Ban nodded as if confirming suspicions. “Did he seem well? You parted on good terms?”
“What is going on?” the legitimate son eyed Ban crown to boot.
“He’s furious at you for something,” Ban said evenly.
“Furious? At me? What for?”
“I don’t know, but he raged at me for it, just now.”
“I must go to him. Discover the cause.”
“No, Rory, wait. He is in a killing manner. You should leave for a few days.”
“Leave! I just arrived!”
Ban took a long, calming breath. “Let me be your ambassador. Go to Brona’s house where you know you can be safe. I will send to you what I discover, and when you should return.”
Rory bit his bottom lip, as he’d done in uncertain times as a boy. It struck a blow to Ban’s conscience, but not so deep that he altered his words.
“Trust me, Rory,” he said. “Go.”
“Some villain has done me wrong,” Rory said softly.
For a moment, Ban thought he’d misjudged his brother and that Rory saw through the pretense and accused him. But no, Rory just took Ban by the shoulders and dragged him into a crushing embrace. Slowly, Ban brought his arms up. “Go armed,” he murmured, and Rory jerked.
“Armed?”
“You cannot be too careful—these are strange times. Fathers against children…”
“Like the king,” Rory whispered in a hollow, suddenly fearful tone. “He spoke of the eclipses as portents, and our father, too, was on edge over the whole business. Banishment and disloyal daughters, and some eclipses. He must be hunting danger—oh, worms of earth.”
“Yes,” Ban said through gritted teeth. Their ears pressed together.
“I go, but with your love, brother,” Rory said. “And you remain with mine.”
Ban hugged his brother, learning something himself. This was the lesson: while Ban had used his father’s greatest weaknesses against him—mistrust, bullish ambition, and obsession with star-signs—against Rory, Ban had used only virtue.
ELIA
THE BALCONY OFF Morimaros’s study was a round half-circle protected by a short marble rail carved like a trellis of fat-blooming roses. The stone blossoms trailed down the side of the tower toward the central courtyard, where Elia supposed sometimes the people of Lionis would gather to hear their king. She touched both hands to the rail and leaned out with her face raised, imagining all of Aremoria below her, a crown wound through her elaborate braids, and voluptuous layers of an orange-and-white royal wedding gown spilling over her body. Or perhaps she would wear the dark blue and white of the house of Lear. But then, she could hear Aefa insisting, Elia had always looked most beautiful in the colors of fire.
Like the sunset spread across the great spill of city hills before her.
It was a breathtaking sight, unlike any beheld on her island. Elia had believed she’d understood summer and the end of summer, before. Innis Lear held the season rather in reserve, parting warm mists and rain for moments of crystalline sunlight, and cool, lovely afternoons of wildflowers and breezes. It was a flash of a smile, appreciated more because of its fleeting nature.
But Aremoria did not let that smile pass or fade without worship. The countryside grabbed at the shortening days, made itself rabid with color. Elia was used to rusty autumn oaks and crisp browning leaves, not this wilderness of vivid green and gashed, bloody purple, nor the narrow strips of yellow as bright as topaz. The white city reflected the sky, and the rolling hills were emerald and golden fields as far as she could see beyond the city walls. Aremoria w
as violent with life, while Lear froze and ached at the precipice of death. She did not like to think—would not think—that lately the island seemed to court decay harder and longer, barely relinquishing winter in time for any spring.
How Elia missed her island, even so; how she longed for the desperate, dangerous beauty of churning seas, and the naked enduring mountains, and the hungry shadows of the White Forest. She tried, for a moment, to compose herself, to close off the ache for home.
“Elia,” Morimaros said from just inside his study. “I’m sorry for being late.”
Before she could turn, the king of Aremoria came behind her and put his hand delicately against her back. The touch held her open, somehow; sharpened her yearning.
“Lady, are you so unhappy here?” he asked. “I see only sadness when you look out at my city.”
She did not answer, breathing deep for calm and concentrating on the warmth of his hand. His thumb skimmed her skin, at her spine just over the collar of her dress. She had no wish, still, to marry, but how easy it would be to take what he offered, to turn herself over to this strong king, to let herself be subsumed under his power. The way she’d been subsumed under her father. Was this why Regan chose Connley, because he was so vibrant he could fill all the cracks in her spirit?
Elia turned and looked into his eyes. His expression left no room for whimsy or prettiness, and she wondered how a vibrant place such as this could have carved him into the serious, thoughtful man he was. But pride showed in his features, and a thin tension she was about to wind tighter. His orange leather coat hung open and casual, the tunic below untied at his neck. He wore no sword belt. The sunset lit his gaze and put fire along his bearded jaw.
“You are beautiful,” he said abruptly.
It caught her off guard, for she’d not known Morimaros to fill his own silences as if nervous. The thought that he was nervous alone with her, here on this balcony in the heart of his country and castle, was humbling as well as a thrill. Could she affect him as he did her? Could her voice set his heart pounding? She’d allowed Aefa to pamper her between the interrupted council meeting and this dinner: she bathed for too long and rubbed oil into her skin as well as her hair, until she felt soft and careful and made of the finest materials. Together they’d found a dress of sunny yellow and an overdress of meadow violet to compliment her best ribbons and lace wound into her freshly braided hair. It was sturdy and intricate enough to last a long while, especially if she wrapped it in a scarf to sleep.
Elia tried to bridle her racing thoughts, staring still breathlessly at Morimaros. “Thank you,” she managed.
He politely touched his hand to her elbow, guiding her around to the small table set for two, where he pulled the cushioned stool for her. She sat with her spine too rigid for comfort as the king leaned beside her to pour a clear yellow wine into her glass. He poured for himself, as well, before sitting across from her. At that silent signal, a duo of footmen emerged from the study with plates covered in cheeses, smears of jam and honey, and thin slices of smoked and salted fish.
Sparrows fluttered overhead, and Morimaros explained that he would come here as a boy to read his father’s treatises and lessons, and had begun feeding the birds. His sister named this balcony Mars’s Cote because of it. Elia watched how his mouth relaxed in the telling, as he spoke of his family with such obvious affection. This king was charming, but she felt a sadness reminiscent of envy. She wished she could relax into sharing a meal with him, to think merely of enjoying his company as if she too belonged here, another sparrow come home to roost and be comforted. But Elia could not forsake Innis Lear.
“The news from my sisters is not good,” she said, setting down a thin layer of unleavened bread she’d spread with apricot preserves.
He frowned, his glance flickering west, toward her island.
“My father has not changed his mind, or given any sign he means to. I fear—I fear my exile is not temporary.”
“From where does his madness spring, do you know?”
Elia took a small, hasty sip of wine. She set it down and folded both hands around the stem. “You have heard the story of my mother’s death?”
“That it was predicted by the stars.”
“That day, after she died, I have never felt such inconsolable despair, and I was so young. It was all my father, his feelings, and then my sisters both, spilling out onto me, all around me. My father gave what he could to me, and the island, but mostly to me.”
Morimaros took a breath, as if to speak, but remained silent.
“I was all he had, and the stars took so much from him. My mother, his brothers to make him king, his vocation. Can you imagine what that leaves a man, who then must try to be the king he is destined to be? The stars have been his only, only constant. Of course he can’t unlock himself from their prophecies, for fear of losing everything again.”
“Still,” the king said darkly, “he chose them over you, and set his kingdom on a path toward upset.”
“Better to push me away than have me torn from him because he does not do as the stars decree.” Elia forced her eyes up from the goblet. “Do you intend to invade Innis Lear?”
“If I must.”
The answer hardened her heart, squeezing out the prick of disappointment she felt, too. “What would make you think you must?”
His mouth pulled down. “Do you know what I saw, those waiting days in your father’s court?”
She met his eyes, nodding permission for him to continue, though she did not think she wanted to hear.
“A thin, rigid power, cracking in all the wrong places. Your father is a terrible king.”
Elia gasped in shock. “You know so much better?” she said angrily.
“I had a better example. My father was a good king. Perhaps your father was once, but no longer.”
She gripped her own arms. He spoke so matter-of-factly! Loyalty and love warred inside her against the need to understand, the need for change. She said, “My sisters are strong.”
“Dual queens will not hold, not when they do not act in complete accord.”
“They will, on the matter of keeping Innis Lear independent from you.”
Morimaros shook his head. “I had letters today, too. From Gaela and her husband Astore, as well as Connley. None of them agreed on their approach to me or even what they want from Aremoria.”
“What did they say?” she asked, too tentatively.
“Gaela warned me to keep my distance, saying that any action from me, including marrying you, would be seen as hostile. Astore asked me to back them against Connley, and offered me assurances of alliance if I do, when Astore is king. He suggested we might work this out as men, which I took to mean he does not trust his own wife, though perhaps I misread it. And Connley declared that he holds the loyalty of the Errigal earldom, and if I want iron from them, I must back him. As his wife does, though her sister might protest. This period before Midwinter is already hanging over disaster.”
Elia shook her head, disbelieving. “And so you must invade? To save Innis Lear?”
“Innis Lear once was part of Aremoria.”
“Eight hundred years ago!”
“I would see our lands reunited.”
“Innis Lear will not choose you if you invade. Not the people, and not the roots. Not even if you think you’re saving us.”
“Aremoria needs the minerals buried in your mountains, needs the trade advantages. Aremoria needs her western flank secure, and Innis Lear is a volatile neighbor. But”—Morimaros inclined his head nearer hers—“none of that makes my words any less true. Innis Lear will destroy itself if left on this path. A ruler must recognize this and make a choice, where land cannot choose or act.”
Elia stood up and returned to the edge of the balcony, but faced Morimaros. She studied him, his hard handsomeness, the certainty in his eyes. Nothing about him suggested he did not believe everything he said. Her sisters were right. Gaela and Regan both—the king of Aremoria saw we
akness in Lear, and he would blow through, expecting little resistance, unless Elia proved otherwise. And so far all she’d shown Morimaros was her own grief; none of Innis Lear’s strength, none of what she knew to be true about stars and roots, or even what her father had ever done well, what would make Innis Lear thrive. She thought of Lear’s expectant face, the strain with which he coaxed her to answer his terrible instruction at the Zenith Court. Star prophecy was woven into the bedrock of her island, but it had led them before to ruin.
“You don’t understand Innis Lear.”
“Perhaps.” Morimaros came to her. “But I understand rulership, and I understand balance.”
“You do not respect prophecy or the songs of the Aremore trees. There is no rootwater in your city wells, no voice for the wind or roots of this land. Ours may cry out for help now, but unless you embrace what those of Innis Lear require, you could never be our true king. Not unless you submerge yourself in the rootwater at the dark well of Tarinnish, when the stars are brilliant and ready on the Longest Night, and prove the island accepts you. Your blood and the blood of the island, one blood bringing life.” Elia felt breathless, imagining it from the handful of stories she knew about how Innis Lear made its kings.
He would never. He couldn’t.
Slowly, Morimaros reached out, giving her ample time to avoid his touch, and took both her elbows in his hands.
“Innis Lear is a mess, with no strong head, no direction. It is not because your father closed the holy wells, or because he gave all to the stars. That is only how he did it. By offering the people nothing else to believe in when he forbade access and censured their faith. He gave Innis Lear no common enemy, nor any common hero, nothing to unite his people and keep them bound to their crown. He rejected them, preferring the distance of cold stars to the warmth of his close blood. And your sisters? They may be individually capable of ruling, but what of giving your island a hero or myth or anything to heal the wounds inflicted? And what of their husbands? They are all too selfish to understand the weight of a healthy crown. And if your sisters could somehow come to deny their own desires, cast off such quarrelsome husbands and devote more to the island than their own wounds, would the people of Lear agree to follow them, women who have been nothing but angry and cold? You see, I know much of the history of strife over the crown of Lear, Lady.”