Regan glanced again at the mantle of moths he wore, sending her own few to alight on his shoulders.
Shrugging as if their tiny feet tickled, Ban said, “They bring a message from my mother. She reminds me I’ve been home weeks, and not visited her.”
For a moment Regan peered at him, as if he were a trick of the White Forest, and then she remembered: “Brona Hartfare is your mother, and I was near when you were born, for my sister Elia was born that same day, while both our mothers resided at the Summer Seat.”
A thing shuttered his eyes, though he did not even blink, when she mentioned Elia’s name. All instincts urging her to slice into that, Regan stepped forward. “You and Elia were childhood lovers.”
The moths burst off him, though Regan did not note even a twitch or shift in his posture. He said nothing, holding her eyes with his.
“I only meant, young Ban,” she soothed, “that once my little sister trusted you, and so would I now.”
He swallowed, barely, and glanced down her body to the water still glistening at her ankles. “You aren’t wearing shoes.”
“I was in the stream, just north of here, begging the forest to lend me aid. The old oak who drinks from that stream said your name, the answer to a question I didn’t know to ask.”
“What is wrong?” Ban stepped nearer to her, the youthful concern in his frown and pulled brow a contrast to the reactions Regan usually garnered from men.
In answer, Regan joined him at the center of the cherry grove and knelt upon a tuft of short, teal-gray grass, flaring her coat around her like a skirt.
Ban sank to his knees. “Tell me what I can do, my lady.”
Regan held her hands, palms up, to him, and he slid his against hers. The pocket between their palms warmed, filling with a tingling spark.
“We are suited,” Regan said, giving him her kindest smile. One she rarely practiced in the mirror, for lack of necessity. “Both of long, powerful bloodlines rooted to Innis Lear.”
He nodded, fingers curling about her wrists.
She noted how roughly attractive he was, again, this near and with his lips parted, the muscles of his chest taut. At least five of his scars were put there for magic. There was an untamed, informal note to the crease of his mouth, the haphazard braids, the thick bands of muscle. The bed of Regan and Connley never had required elegance. His wildness would complement theirs. She said, “I would like to continue my bloodline, Fox, but cannot carry a child well enough that it survives.”
Here her voice hitched, and she allowed it.
“I’m sorry,” Ban murmured. “My mother—she has tried to help?”
“Yes, but only with conception and enhanced potency. I need now to dig into myself, to see deep enough I might understand how to fix myself. And Brona will not go into me like that; she would not risk my life as a man might.”
The young wizard leaned away, though he did not try to let go of her hands. “I do not … I will not go inside you.”
“My husband would destroy you if you tried, Ban Errigal,” she said, “and I would help him. That is not what I meant.” Regan smiled her most dangerous smile, as she found it very telling what he assumed.
Ban cleared his throat. Wind shivered in response, whispering all around them: good good good, for the trees of Innis Lear approved of this alliance. “You don’t seek power, either, then? For Brona is that—powerful.”
“You are rooted with magic, but not only to Innis Lear?”
“I allied with Aremore forests,” he answered simply.
“And you are iron. You are.” Her nails dug at the soft insides of his wrists. “You are forged unlike me, unlike your mother. I would reap your insight, your ideas. Your power.”
His chin lifted: pride at her words. Regan hid her own tiny smile of triumph in favor of a quiet, pleading frown. “Help me, Ban the Fox.”
In reply, he bowed over their joined hands, turning them to kiss her knuckles.
THE FOX
BAN EMERGED FROM the cool cover of the White Forest at the side of Regan Connley. His heart raced, more hare than fox.
He continually glanced at her from the corners of his eyes; she smiled knowingly. Her fingers at the edge of his sleeve were cool and bare, and she wore now a dark red over-dress and leather slippers they’d fetched from beside the creek. She was slightly taller than he, and six years older, and beautiful like the sun on winter trees. As he glanced at her, a small, fluttering sigh escaped her lips. Although Ban knew—absolutely knew—it was an affectation, he felt an answering flutter at the base of his spine.
Meeting her as he had, both of them nearly nude, and her glistening with water in a sleek white shift, with magic sparking in the air and sliding between them back and forth, it was no wonder he felt the bite of infatuation. At least he could recognize it.
And Regan had asked for his aid.
She’d appeared to him like the spirit of an elegant ash tree, an earth saint of old, a witch. And, Ban thought, a queen already. When he stood beside her, the unsettled roots of Innis Lear seemed to calm. Despite everything, it calmed him, too.
Once they’d both retrieved their discarded clothes, once Regan had swiftly wound her wet hair into a low knot, and once she had helped to bind the wound still glistening on his shield arm, Ban asked her why she and her husband had come to Errigal.
“To visit your father,” she said.
He steadied his hand under hers as she stepped over a scatter of rocks pressing up through the path. “To assure yourselves of his allegiance to Connley, you mean.”
Regan smiled quickly, then it vanished. “Is it strong?”
“From what I know, yes.”
“He was distraught when we arrived this morning. I left my husband with him, as Errigal said something about his son’s betrayal? He must not mean … you?”
It was simple to put grief and unease on his face, both being what he felt. “My younger brother, Rory, the one not a bastard. He was discovered to harbor a desire to be earl sooner than my father is like to die, and…”
The lady’s fingers curled around his wrist. “I am so very sorry, Fox.”
“I was out in the forest, hunting after his trail.” Ban shook his head, looking down. It was half-true, for last night he’d pointed Rory in the direction of Hartfare, where he could find shelter. Then Ban returned home, to lie to his father that Rory had fled. Errigal’s rage and grief had been wild, and this morning before dawn, Ban had left his still-drunken father, to lead several parties of men out hunting Rory’s trail. It had been no difficulty to whisper at the trees and ask a handful of crows to divert them all from any path that had his brother’s trace. By the sun’s zenith, they’d all split off, and Ban was alone. He took the opportunity to sink into the forest, to give some blood to the roots of the trees and say hello. Messages had arrived from his mother, on the wings of moths and kisses of wind. Then Regan had come.
“Did you find him? Did he give you that wound on your arm?” she asked.
Ban nodded, though he’d done it himself, knowing how to cut to make it seem enemy-inflicted. He sighed to make his voice breathy. “We fought, but he got away, running.”
Regan paused to touch his cheek where Ban had used his long knife to flick some drops of blood.
She smoothed her thumb down his rough jaw, then continued on.
Together they walked out over the moor toward Errigal Keep, past the iron chimneys. Their linked hands stretched between them. At the gate to the Keep, a bloodred flag for Connley had joined the winter blue banners of Errigal.
Ban needed to make a report for Morimaros.
But first, he would meet the duke, and lie to his father.
He escorted Lady Regan through the ward and into the old great hall, but that was not where the duke and earl were to be found. No, they’d retired to the former library, which had been Errigal’s study since his wife returned to her family some ten years ago.
The small windows overlooked the northernmost, narrowest
section of the ward, from the rampart wall and up the rocky, barren mountain toward sheer blue sky. It was stark and beautiful, and very much emblematic of the iron backbone of Innis Lear.
Errigal slumped in his large chair beside the hearth, where a massive fire danced and snapped. A wide cup of wine was cradled in his lap; Errigal shook his head and muttered quietly. Connley stood at the windows.
When Ban and Lady Regan entered, Errigal hardly twitched, but Connley turned immediately.
The duke was a tall man, though not broad, with a fine posture and a gleaming wardrobe, several years older than Ban. Sunlight from the window brought out the rich gold in his hair and highlighted a break in his long nose, found the sharp corner of his lips. Connley wore no beard, and needed none—with such a charming smile he would wish nothing to hide its edges. Though striking already, the cut of his red velvet tunic only made the duke seem more bold, a daring figure with gold and jewels across his chest, at his belt and on his fingers, and in small chains around the ankles of his boots. The duke’s sword rested in a strapped sheath that did not protect the blade from wear, but showed off the shine and perfection of its steel. Ban judged him both proud and dangerous, recalling stories of Connley’s cold temper: anger or betray him, and your life would end swift and sudden. Loyalty, it was said, held together Connley bones.
Having him here would surely help Errigal turn entirely against Rory, though also make this game a more deadly one for Ban’s brother. He would have to work hard to keep Rory far away from the duke’s reach.
Ban bowed then, his scrutiny complete; Regan strode across the wooden floor toward her husband.
In his arms, she became as shining and perfect as the sword at his side. Not a witch, but a sleek weapon for drawing rooms and the great hall, a perfect halberd nailed to the wall as the promise of penalty, the seductive weight of implied violence. The duke kissed her lightly on the mouth, and Ban thought of her trouble carrying a child. It must weigh heavily on both of them. He would help, if he could, for it would not interfere with Morimaros’s plans. He tried not to wonder at his own motives.
Regan turned in Connley’s arms to say, “Here is Ban the Fox, my love. He escorted me out of the forest.”
“Ah, Ban!” Errigal lurched to his feet before the duke could speak, dropping the cup of wine. “Did you find that traitor, who was my son?”
“Sir,” Regan said coolly, “your son here bleeds. I tended his wound as best I could, but it should be seen by your surgeon.”
“Ban! Did the villain do that to you?”
It was easy for Ban to appear overwhelmed, trapped here in the middle of these three. Duke Connley stared at him with sharp blue-green eyes. Ban said, his gaze on Connley, but with words for his father, “He is responsible, sir, yes, but…”
Errigal’s face went red under his beard. “That traitor! Ah, Connley, what a time for you to be here. And yet, I was right: I told you I was right to fear the worst. My own true son fled for treason—for plotting to do me harm!—and still here my natural son stayed behind, loyal and what! Injured for his brother’s vile sake.”
Ban clenched his teeth over his father’s bloviating, but he fought to keep contempt from his voice and expression as he spoke. “I found him, Father, I found my brother and accused him—I could not help myself—and insisted he return with me. I said he must answer to you for what he wrote against you, and he said…” Ban shut his eyes as if feeling some inner pain. In truth, it was no acting: he felt that bite, though he had not expected to. Holding the king of Aremoria clear in his heart, Ban continued, “He said if I brought him home he would say it all came from me. He would put the invention to my name, and be believed—because Rory is your legitimate son and blessed by the stars, and I a bastard who hides under a dark sky.”
“Oh, treacherous rogue,” Errigal spat. “Let him fly as far as he likes; he will be found.”
“Indeed,” Connley said. “All our strength is for your use, Earl.”
“I am sorry, Father,” Ban said.
Errigal became suddenly woeful. “My old heart is cracking, I think. I know what the king felt, surely, when your once-sister denied him, Lady Regan. How merciful he was in his justified rage.”
Ban turned his face sharply away.
It was Regan, a moment later, who put cool hands on his cheek, stroking tenderly. “There, young Ban,” she said. “You have served your father well. The traitor deserves none of your pain.”
He looked into her cool brown eyes, the color of shallow forest streams. “Thank you, my lady,” he murmured.
Regan soothed him with a sorrowful smile. “Did your star-stained brother not spend this past season among the king’s retainers?”
“He did,” Errigal answered.
“Perhaps, then,” the king’s daughter said, “though I am sure it is no comfort, I can offer some reason: the king’s retainers have become coarse and greedy under my father’s tutelage. They likely put young Rory onto this idea, to get the revenue he would earn as Errigal upon your death for themselves.”
Ban sucked in a quick breath. What a simple motivation the lady offered; he wished he’d thought of it himself. Lay the blame at the king’s feet! He wanted to kiss her fingers, but he kept his gaze low so she did not notice his sudden glee. This daughter of Lear would help him ruin her father, whether she knew it or not.
She said, “Come, let me take you to whatever surgeon can see properly to your wound.”
The duke caught her eye. She nodded, and Connley said, “Then, Ban the Fox, you must return. I’ve been discussing some matters of the future of this island with your father, but I think you should hear them. You’ve shown yourself true.” Connley took his wife’s hands off Ban, but clapped him on the back, asserting his approval. The duke’s handsome face was too near to look away from without seeming weak or rude.
“It was my duty, sir,” Ban said humbly.
Connley smiled. “For such loyalty, you will be ours.”
Ban shivered at the layers of meaning to Connley’s words. “I shall serve you,” he said, bowing, “however else.”
The duke released him, and Errigal poured himself and Connley more wine. Errigal shook his head again and again, and drunkenly sighed. “What cursed stars are trailing in our skies.”
Again, Connley’s and Regan’s eyes met, and Ban nearly read the message they shared. It did not favor the stars, but bloodier desires. Regan offered her hand to him, and Ban leveled his breathing before taking it. He kissed her knuckles, his mind churning with ideas for how to help her. Perhaps there were some details of his plotting that should be left out of the report to his king.
For good or ill, this was the place Ban had landed.
GAELA
GAELA CLIMBED OUT of her bed and flung a thin robe around her shoulders. Her face ached where her husband had hit her, keeping her from rest. The sky was dark, and Gaela’s rooms even darker, lacking stars or candlelight. Her bare feet were cold as she stepped off the rug onto stone, slipping her arms into the sleeves and tying the robe securely at her waist. She lifted her hands to check the scarf tied over her hair remained firmly in place.
The Astore ruby ring gleamed on her finger, and Gaela cradled it as she went to the narrow window. Once an arrow slit, the sill was wide where she leaned, but narrowed to a bare hand-span. A long pane of smooth glass had been set into it, and Gaela beheld the small, dark courtyard from here, but it was impossible to see in from below.
She tilted her head to gaze at the velvet sky. She could make out no stars, and so the sky was a solid shade of purple-black. Did Regan stand under this same sky whispering angrily to the trees? Desperate to find her fertility? Or did she lie with her husband, enjoying the sweaty torment and cursing herself for taking pleasure in what refused to serve her?
There had been a wildness in Regan’s eyes at the Summer Seat, though Gaela doubted any other noticed but perhaps—perhaps—Connley himself. It worried Gaela greatly. She’d seen that fanaticism in another
face: their father’s. Though they had always intended a joint rule, with Gaela the king and Regan mother to the next, Gaela now suspected that the sooner she consolidated her power and convinced Regan to give over the crown, the better for all. Curse Connley for agitating Regan, and Lear for declaring both his elder daughters equal heirs in his rash fury.
In the black courtyard below, a pale figure moved.
Behind him, two Astore servants trailed, recognizable by the color of their tunics.
It was her father, drifting like a ghost.
A thing tightened in her gut: irritation, fear? Gaela preferred the former, but the chill of the latter was undeniable.
Drowning it in a flare of ready anger, Gaela shoved her feet into fur-lined boots and pulled on a long linen tunic before replacing her robe around her. She picked up a knife and walked unflinchingly through the dark to the door of her chamber, swinging it open to the surprise of the dozing page awaiting any sudden orders in the night. The girl sprang to her feet and stammered a question at Gaela, who shushed her and ordered her to remain.
The prince swept past, an elegant, strong storm of vivid shadows and flashing pink wool.
A narrow stair led down to this small private courtyard, shaped like a long triangle with one corner bitten out. Some benches were stacked at the short end, and near the point an ancient well dropped through the foundation and rock, toward water far, far below. Once it had been a spring for intense root magic, and always had Regan collected bottles of it when she visited. Now it was capped off.
Gaela found Lear standing still beside that well, his head craned up to stare at the sky.
She joined him, ignoring his trailing servants. Clouds spread, obscuring the stars.
“You should be in bed,” Gaela said, refusing to glance at her father’s face. In this pit of a starless courtyard, he was the only pale moon.
“I cannot find Dalat!” Lear whispered.
Gaela jerked away. Her hand tightened around the knife. If he whirled too fast toward her, she could say he’d attacked. She could gut him, and say his mind was truly gone.