REGAN
REGAN BLED STEADILY as she sewed downy owl feathers into the hem of a linen shift.
She chose, like her mother would have, to be surrounded by the women of Errigal Keep during her monthly blood, and they were arrayed in front of her now: the chatelaine Sella Ironwife, married to the wizard Curan, and their two daughters; three other ladies who were cousins to Connley; and one younger sister of the former Lady Errigal, who had stayed behind when the lady departed to Aremoria, perhaps in trade for the missing elder. For their benefit, Regan had chosen a careful position, seeming to lounge on a low cushion, skirts arranged voluptuously all around.
In truth, Regan perched carefully and uncomfortably upon her knees, a shallow bowl between her legs to collect what blood she could, in preparation for the wormwork she and the Fox would perform in less than a day. The occasional gentle drip could not be heard over the chatter of the assembled ladies, who sewed and embroidered and mended.
The ache in her belly was nothing compared to the pain of miscarriage, and the tightness in her legs as Regan held the wretched pose with a gracious smile was well worth the reward of discovering what ailed her womb, and the hope that it could be fixed.
And Regan enjoyed the presence of other women, who, though they did not know of the dead spirits that plagued her nor of her desperation and feral sorrow, would understand if they did.
When she had daughters of her own, Regan would build them a room like this, with women like this. Friends, maids, cousins, witches, allies, enemies, all of it, but only women. Regan had experienced such a thing when Dalat lived, when Elia was such a baby still, and when sometimes Brona Hartfare had spent weeks living in Dondubhan or the Summer Seat with Dalat, as her companion and advisor. Together they attracted other women like crows to sparkling glass beads. There Regan learned the seeds of magic, and learned, too, to read the holy bones. Brona never hesitated to whisper answers and new questions in Regan’s ear, and though Dalat did not believe in the stars as magic, or the earth saints even as tiny gods, neither did the queen say it could not be so. Dalat prayed to a god of her own, an expansive desert deity of love and vengeance, who apparently favored family and loyalty and heat. But Dalat had wished her daughters to be truly of Lear, and so to Regan, her mother would say, My God is all and has no name but God. God is more than stars and trees and worms, and is all those things, too. I pray, but with action and choice, and God knows it, no matter where I am, because God is in me, and in you, and everything.
Does God speak to you?
Not with words.
The island must be stronger, then, Mama, to have its own voice.
Dalat then smiled, cupped Regan’s chin, and said, That depends on what strength is, and would offer no more.
Maybe if her mother had lived, Regan would understand better what kind of strength Dalat had believed in.
The argument ongoing between Sella Ironwife and Metis Connley touched on strength, too: they disagreed over the behavior of one of the apprentices, who’d been lately seducing another. Sella found it unprofessional, while Metis was in favor of strengthening lines of iron magic, so if two apprentices formed a union, all the better. Regan agreed with Metis: they needed all the strong magic on the island they could find, to counter the cold stars.
The debate was halted by a sharp knock, and Regan granted permission for the doors to be opened. Into the brightly lit room came a dirty retainer wearing the dark blushing pink of Astore.
Going still against the desire to stand, Regan lifted her cool brow but rather suddenly realized it was a woman retainer. “Osli.”
The woman bowed like a man, and brandished a rolled letter, sealed at both ends with thick wax. “My lady Astore sends this letter to you.”
Regan extended her hand, glad as always for word from Gaela, and even more to remember that, despite choosing the life of a man, Gaela still put women around herself. “Go take your rest, and then join us, Osli. You are welcome.”
“I would rather stay in the barracks, my lady.”
“Gaela would join me.”
Osli hesitated, then bowed again, in definite agreement. “I will wash and rest, then, first.”
Regan turned her attention to the letter, snapping the small leaves of wax holding it rolled shut. Around her the women went quiet, though it was a quiet of patient politeness and continued work.
Our father leaves Astora, Gaela began with no salutation, as usual. I expect when Osli reaches you, he will be near behind, if not already through your door.
He is truly mad, and called me by our mother’s name, then in the next breath cursed her line. He has said unforgivable things to me before, but now he is lost in it. His retainers are wild, attacking each other, myself, my people, because he does not keep them under control. Ask Osli and she will tell you more, though I am sure you already know these true ways of men. I will follow this letter with another, but for now, my captain will be away to you with all haste.
Even as Regan skimmed her sister’s writing, she could hear through the open window a change in the rhythm of the wind and noise of the Keep. A distant shout of greeting flared hot and died in an echo. The warm breeze sighed against her neck.
“Leave me,” Regan said.
Though it was gentle, every woman obeyed her command instantly, none pausing to ask if they might help, or lend comfort.
She finished reading.
Do as you must, Regan, and I will see you soon.
Alone, Regan set down the letter, and gathered up her skirts to step carefully away from the bowl of blood. She went into her attached bedchamber and bound herself up with linen and moss before returning to collect the bowl. A slight pool of viscous blood was layered across the long, shallow bottom. She fervently hoped it would be enough, as she poured it into a round glass vial and stoppered it.
And then came another bright rapping on her door, bringing the urgent announcement that the king had come to Errigal Keep, and a request from her lord Connley that Regan would greet him.
She called in her girls and had them see to the repair of her hair, pinning a few loose curls back into the sleek, swept knot at her nape. They added jewels to her fingers and hung pearls from her girdling belt.
Then Regan walked out of her rooms in the oldest wing of the Keep and toward the new hall, where Connley waited for her.
Lear was there, ranting quite freely.
But when his daughter was announced, the old king went quiet. He stood before the throne, his arms thrown out and his wild mane of hair nearly white and gray as storm clouds. He wore a tattered robe that once had been rich velvet, now showing wear at the elbows, and strips of the fur lining hung off the collar like a dog had nuzzled it rather ferociously. Perhaps he’d not changed since the last zenith. It was magnificent to see him fallen so low, he who had killed her mother and made his daughters beg for their portion in front of the entire court, all because of some misunderstanding of the stars.
Perhaps Dalat’s loving and vengeful God was everywhere indeed.
“Father,” Regan said, crossing into the hall. Beyond the side door she’d used, the hall widened into broad whitewashed walls, striped with blackened beams of oak like ribs. Dining tables and benches had been pushed to the sides and fresh rushes spread over the cold stone floor. A narrow line of woven rugs in Errigal’s winter-sky color made a path toward the royal chairs at the end of the hall. Errigal himself hulked beside Connley, large hands clenching and relaxing in an obvious sign of anxiety. So unlike his lord, who sat regal in one of the wide, low-backed chairs. Regan’s husband glanced at her, warning in the bright turquoise of his eyes. He was prepared to play his hand for dominance here, against Astore, against Lear. Her father’s Fool waited with the raging king.
Lear’s faded eyes fixed on his middle daughter, and he stepped to her. “Regan,” he said with the soft pleading of a child. She liked his need of her, his coming here though he had always avoided her since she married.
“Yes,” she comfo
rted just as gently, reaching with both hands for his. He gave his over: dry and wrinkled and long.
Regan’s nostrils flared at the old smell of him; he mustn’t have bathed since leaving Gaela’s lands, or even longer. Oil turned his hair glossy at the roots, and food stains marred the collar of his robes. Pity almost stabbed her, but Regan avoided its blade and let go of Lear before he could embrace her. She addressed him firmly. “What is the cause of your early coming, lord?”
Lear frowned. “Your treacherous sister has cast me out!”
“Gaela? For what reason?”
“Reason! That viper has no need of it, for she is a thankless child, and as unnatural as a woman can be!”
From the royal chair, Connley said, “We will not tolerate insults to our noble sister.”
The old king reared back.
“Father, peace,” Regan said, bringing herself to touch his shoulder, understanding Connley’s first move. “We love our sister and want to understand the strife between you, for strife with her is often as well strife with me.”
“No, you are not so hard-hearted as her, my girl, nor have turned your heart into cruel armor where there should be only soft comfort.”
Regan spied a tear in his eye.
So too she spied wine laid out on one of the side tables. “Sit here, with me.” She led him to the bench and sat first, holding her back straight against the tightening of her womb.
He joined her and drank a great gulp of wine.
“We are glad to see you,” Regan said urgently. “Believe it, Father.”
“How can I, when you defend your serpent sister?” the king cried.
Connley came to join them, Errigal behind. The Fool made his way to the vacated royal chairs and skimmed his hand against one, but watched Regan with a knowing eye. And there, slipping in through the back entrance to lean in the shadows, was sweet Ban Errigal, her canny Fox.
“You are welcome here still,” Connley said to Lear, taking the wine Regan poured him.
“She forced my retainers to leave, and so I had to go with them!”
“My lord father,” Regan soothed, “be at peace, for Gaela surely had reason if she complained of your men. After all, do you truly need so many?”
“Need!” the king roared.
The king’s Fool sang, “Having more than we need separates us from the beasts of the wild, missus!”
Connley pointed around at the Fool. “Have care how you speak to my lady.”
The king let his head fall back. “Truth speaks clear to any, regardless of rank.”
Regan laughed prettily. The sound was crafted for admiration, to redirect the conversations of men. “Father, this argument you have is to do with your retainers, not us, or even our sister. If they behaved as Gaela has said, she was right to turn them out—but you mistake if you think she intended to turn you out as well. You could return to her, without your men, and she will welcome you again.”
Connley added, smiling smoothly and with his teeth out, “You gave yourself into your daughters’ care at your Zenith Court last month, lord king, and so allow them to care.”
“Care! My Gaela has betrayed me. Bit me where I only thought to have kisses.” Lear shook his head, and his hair fluffed like an aged lion’s mane.
Regan stood. Her hips ached, and her heart beat hard at his whining. What need did she now have to pretend to feelings she had not? That moment had come and gone, and along with it Lear’s power over her. “What must that be like, to be betrayed? Perhaps my mother would be able to tell me, did she live.”
“Yes,” Lear whispered. “Yes, she would. Oh, she loved you, and me, besides. And still, she was betrayed.”
Regan willed herself to cold calm. “You admit this now? You agree you killed her, now you are so close to dying yourself?”
“What? No.” Confusion bent his brow, though whether honest—or sane—Regan knew not.
“Who betrayed my mother?” she demanded.
Lear said, “You have, and your sisters, in the face of the sacrifice she made.”
Regan pressed her lips closed against white-hot fury.
Errigal cleared his throat, soft and uncomfortable with emotional weight. “Remain here, sir, with your men. Errigal welcomes you, as you always have been.”
“No.” Connley took his wife’s hand. “Lear—you may stay, but not all your men. We will not welcome more than our sister Gaela would allow. We’ll not undercut her authority in the matter. For now we will rule together, and our word is your law.”
“I would rather sleep roofless!” the king bellowed. “I would rather sleep in a barn or pasture with sheep, than sleep one night under a roof with such an ungrateful daughter!”
Errigal took Lear’s elbow. “My king, come away to rest with me.”
“Do you turn out this lying wretch and her snake husband?” The sorrow and hope in the king’s wet, wide eyes took Regan’s breath away. She clutched her Connley’s hand and waited for Errigal to save or condemn himself.
Errigal grimaced. “Lord, no. Connley is my patron, you know, a duke by your own word, and your queenly daughter’s husband. They must be welcome here, by the will of the stars. And your own. As are you!”
As Lear tore free, a piece of his voluminous sleeve caught on Errigal’s belt: it ripped, and the sound seemed to shock him further. “Ah! Ah!” He reeled toward his Fool.
“Come, sir, stay,” Regan said again, feeling the swell of some mean, yet familiar, power. “Let us take care of you, for you are old and need us desperately. There will be a fire for you, and wine, furs for your shaking limbs, and look here, I am certain you can have Errigal’s star-reader at your disposal. Rely upon our generosity, for I will be as good to you as you were to my mother.”
“I am king! My will is as sure as the constellations above!”
Triumph surged like a cold waterfall. “King no more,” Regan said. “But only titled father. And stars can fall, while roots grow.”
“I gave you all,” Lear said.
“And in good time,” Regan answered.
“Who will you pass our crown to, then, my barren daughter?” the king asked, softly, almost as if he were sad. “You and your star-cursed sister, my empty girls.”
Regan stepped backward, unprepared.
Ban Errigal strode out of the shadows, ready to draw. The duke of Connley held his palm toward Ban, low and warning, anger in his tight jaw.
“Get out,” Regan whispered.
“What?”
“Get out!” she cried.
“You are not welcome where my wife has declared it.” Connley backed her with his body, firm at her side. He always had, even when, as now, it crashed his own driving game. He would be a curtain wall around Regan’s heart.
The king threw his hands up. “Ah, heaven! What star is this, rising above worm-eaten branches? First my Elia and now the others!”
Errigal put his arm about the old king. Blotches of red showed against the earl’s rough white cheeks. He said, “I know this pain, royal sir. Stay and I will share its burden.”
“Yes, stay I shall, with my men at my side.”
Regan would not bend, not now, not while her womb clenched with desperation, and while her own father, having seeded this pain, stood condemning her, throwing her greatest tragedy against her even as he warped and twisted his own into destiny. She would never forgive this, as she had never forgiven Dalat’s absence.
Stars had ignored her birth, and so Regan was free, was aflame, burning cold as any star or sword of destiny. She said, “You will stay by my mercy only, Father! Your star is eclipsed. You and you alone—none of your men—can here remain.”
“Then I will not stay!” Lear pressed knobby hands to his face and spoke more, but it was unintelligible. He threw off Errigal’s touch and spun to leave the hall, crowing and crying for his Fool.
He is truly mad, Regan thought, lightheaded herself, as if floating apart from her body—but for the constant ache, ache, ache of her womb.
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Errigal paused in his trailing the king to say to Connley and Regan, “I’ll make sure he sets his head down in some safe place, my lord, my lady, have no worries on it.”
“Not in this place,” Regan cried, sick at the poison of his nearness.
“See him out, and no more,” ordered Connley.
The earl frowned before hurrying in the king’s wake again.
Regan saw Ban the Fox in the center of the hall, gripping his sword and staring after the king with something like horror and something like glee. She went to him and touched the hot back of his neck. He startled, but relaxed when he realized it was her. “Good riddance,” she murmured. Her thumb stroked below Ban’s ear, and he shivered.
The great hall door shut behind the three older men, its dull echo making the following silence more profound. Regan felt as if she’d been scathed clean with a rough knife. Ready for new growth.
She should have done that long ago.
“He’ll take the king to Hartfare,” Ban said.
Connley joined them, a sneer of disdain nearly ruining his handsome face. “Not with all those retainers.”
“What did Gaela want from this?” Ban asked, though gently, as if truly asking himself.
“Power,” Regan murmured, heady with it. Though she thought of the line of distress in Gaela’s letter, and wondered if Gaela had truly thrown their father out instead for not knowing how else to react. Her elder sister was a strong fighter, but not always strategic in the moment of passion. But Regan would not reveal that weakness to Ban the Fox. Not yet.
“To discover what you would do?” Ban answered himself.
“And what shall we do?” Connley asked. “We must discover Errigal’s true allegiance—to us or the old king. That will affect our course. We need Errigal firmly before we can act against Astore.”
Ban turned to them. “You know my own.”
Regan nodded slowly, dragging her thoughts off her beloved sister and toward the future. “I have bled all day, so tonight we will go to the heath and make your magic. Tomorrow, we will deal with Gaela, and my father, and yours, and with everything else that will come.”