The forest had agreed, and in proof had delivered Ban’s lost sword, forged of whispering Errigal steel. A gift to aid his intentions. The trees and the wind had sung to him, leading him to the muddy hill where the sword waited, stabbed into the earth, glistening pure and clean in dappled sunlight.
Ban touched the hilt again now, and the sword sighed hungrily.
Something else sighed, too.
Not a tree, but—
Ban softened his breathing to silence and crept across a loamy sprawl of dead winter leaves, toward the sound.
Another sigh.
And another.
It was rhythmic. Someone—something—was asleep and snoring. An earth saint, Ban thought giddily, or perhaps even an old stone giant or forest dragon.
Ban’s heart thrummed in his chest. He would not even risk a whispered inquiry to the trees. They’d brought him here; they knew of whatever awaited him and had not revealed it until now, like a game for them to play. Ban reached a soft, small meadow. The last of the rain was evident in the muddy grass, and in the heavy flow of the creek bending around the edge.
An old man huddled, sleeping against the mossy face of a granite boulder along the creek. He wore a tattered robe, and his hair was tangled and damp. His long face drooped in heavy sleep.
The earth tilted beneath Ban’s feet. Blood rushed in his ears and he stood, stunned.
It was the king of Innis Lear.
Ban spun around, wildly, but there was no one else nearby. Birds chirped and the forest canopy shivered pleasantly, scattering tiny raindrops onto Ban’s forehead. He stepped into the sunny meadow, one hand curled around the hilt of his sword. The other he lifted, palm out, as if the sleeping old man were a wild boar, a lion or deadly bear.
Ban approached slowly, and began to smile.
He could do anything to this foolish man, left alone in the heart of the forest. Slide this hungry blade into Lear’s gut. Bash in his head with a jagged rock. Wake him with a whisper, before gently suffocating him. Ask the ash tree there to bury the king deep in the earth, until he was eaten by worms.
It would hurt Elia so very badly.
Ban ground his teeth together and hissed. But this old man, this awful once-king, deserved this and more, for all he’d done: not only to Ban, to his daughters, to his queen, perhaps—but even more for what he’d done to this island itself. The rootwaters should be free.
There might never come such a chance as this. But to murder him so secretly, without consequence, would do nothing for the island, prove nothing to anyone.
He bent and put his hand over Lear’s mouth, to feel the small puffs of breath.
Sometimes I cannot even breathe when he is near, the king had said of Ban, dismissing his very existence with a wave. The stench of his birth stars pollutes this air.
And so Ban knew what it was that he would take.
* * *
A WIZARD CROUCHED between two young hawthorns at the edge of a clear, rushing creek. Bare to the wind and roots, he’d painted muddy lines onto his chest, in spirals down his arms and legs, and with a tiny knife, he now etched his name alongside that of a former king, glistening blood against his own skin.
The hawthorns shivered and shook with thrills; they’d not worked such magic in more years than they even understood. This was death magic, magic of the worms that fed upon their roots, magic that brought food to the world, decay and rebirth and an excess of fluid.
The wizard breathed into his palms, where the two shells of a walnut were fitted together, missing the meat. He replaced the nut with his own blood and a stolen silver hair.
Breath and death, he whispered to the nut in the language of trees, glad the daylight drove all the stars away, so they could not witness this. Or maybe they did: the wizard knew not. He only knew the blood of the land and the chatter of leaves.
Breath and death, he whispered again, and the hawthorns echoed it back to him.
The spell would be his last weapon, a comfort to him wherever he went. A safeguard, a triumphant laugh, a final word to be remembered by.
He would not be forgiven for this.
GAELA
IT WAS A cold, crisp morning when Gaela led her retainers out of Astora.
They headed north across the foothills to Dondubhan Castle, where her husband had already claimed the winter throne, and Gaela was eager to join with him. Two nights of angry storms had cleared out the remains of summer, scouring the hills of the last flowers and painting ice farther down the jagged peaks of the Mountain of Teeth, always a sharp ghost in the far distance. Her army marched quickly, a surging river of pink, black, and silver across the moors. They passed the Star Field silently, all eyes turned in respect, for even the least religious knew that this was where the kings and queens of the past rested, where stars and rocks came together to merge heaven and earth.
Gaela reveled in the cold wind, though winter itself she despised: layers of wool weighing her down, and the constant snow of the north trapping her inside, where there was little space to breathe or loom large. Tight quarters, sweat, pine-sharp incense, and fire all the time, wet socks from melting ice, all were oppressive and overwhelming, heavily laden with memories. Dalat had loved the winter, been fascinated by ice crystals and the patterns of snowflakes, sometimes even leaving open a window, and wasting wood to beat back the cold. She would wrap herself and Gaela and Regan in massive bearskins to watch the snow fall, so crisp and quiet.
This was before Elia arrived, loud and interrupting.
Gaela could not stand the smell of fur in the winter.
But it was not yet that darkest part of the year, and Gaela led her army to join with Astore at the seat of her childhood. Together they would push south to take back Lowbinn and Brideton, crushing Connley’s arrogant claims while he sat in Errigal. If he would take the iron for himself, then Gaela saw no reason to let Connley think to keep any of the north.
Her only regret was leaving before Osli had returned from delivering letters in Errigal. But it was taking her longer than it should have, and Gaela could not wait.
Slivers of cold wind cut inside her throat as she breathed deep to call an order to move her retainers faster. Now that they’d crossed around the Star Field, their destination was visible.
The castle at Dondubhan embraced the Tarinnish, the largest, deepest lake on Innis Lear. Its name meant well of the island in the language of trees, and was one of the few words all still recognized. Even in the height of summer the black waters were cold with runoff from the mountains.
Gaela led her men from the karst plain of the Star Field down toward the marsh surrounding the lake and the river it fed. They met with the West Duv Road, narrow here, and built of stone to lift itself out of the muck to cross the Duv River over three thick stone arches. No more than two horses could walk abreast for the final hundred feet of the approach to the fortified first wall of Dondubhan. The wall rested on foundations as old as the island itself: a handful of massive blocks of blue-gray basalt gifted to the first people from the earth saints, pushed out of the roots in fully formed boulders and columns. If the stories were to be believed. Again and again, over generations, earls and kings had built the walls taller, adding an inner castle and fortified towers and longer arms of the wall to curl halfway around the Tarinnish. When the moon was brightest, the castle rock glowed, as eerie as swamplights or wandering spirits.
This afternoon, beside the dark blue and white swan flag of Lear, Astore’s salmon crest flew from the tallest tower, snapping in the bitter wind. Men on the forward ramparts held up their hands to greet Gaela and her men, flying a matching banner. The drawbridge sat open, like a wide, wooden tongue, but her army was forced to wait while the iron-toothed gate was lifted for them to pass.
Gaela jogged her horse through the twelve-foot tunnel and into the forecourt, his hooves tapping lightly.
They rode to the center, and Gaela pulled her horse up, calling behind for her captain to halt and bring in only the first squad o
f retainers: the inner courtyard was filled with soldiers, blocking the edges so her men would not all fit as they should.
Her husband waited, astride, at the fore of his own men.
Sun glinted off Astore’s chest plate, formed of three arched salmon in a trefoil. His helmet was hooked to his saddle, but otherwise Astore dressed in full war regalia, including the great sword on his belt. Fifty of his best men swept to either side of him, equally ready for battle. Behind him, the five thick blue towers of Dondubhan rose, shading him with their authority.
Impressed, Gaela nudged her horse nearer to his. “Husband, you’ll leave me no time to don my own plates.” She put a hungry smile on her face. “Though glad I am to see you so fine and ready to chase our great purpose.”
Astore did not smile in return. His pale face remained rigid. “That will not be necessary.”
Gaela narrowed her eyes. “You have not reclaimed the border towns without me.”
“I will.”
“But why?”
“You are my wife no longer, and have no cause to ride beside me.”
The eldest princess laughed loud, for all these retainers to hear and take to heart. “Yet you are my husband, and thus married to the ascending queen of Innis Lear. But perhaps my father’s mind has infected yours, and you, too, will betray the woman you’ve professed to prefer?”
“Get off your horse, Gaela.” Astore flicked his gloved hand, and ten of his men dismounted, approaching her. She knew them all, had practiced with some. They willingly had called her their lady. Only two did not readily hold her in esteem.
“I will not,” Gaela said, heart racing as she readied for battle.
With a small sigh and a tightening of his lips, Astore nodded. Then he said, “Detain her.”
The men moved, and those of Gaela’s command who had pushed into the forecourt shifted nearer to her in returned threat.
“Stop,” Gaela ordered Astore’s men.
They did. A few glanced nervously at their lord.
“Astore, what is your cause to take up this absolute folly?” Her mouth curled with distaste.
The duke said, loudly for all, “The lady’s crime is treason against her father, for until Midwinter he remains the king of this island; and further treason against myself, her lord and husband.”
“Oh, Col,” Gaela said. The thrill she felt was nothing of terror, only anticipation. “I am Gaela Lear, daughter of kings and empresses, and these men around us belong to me and my island. Not to you—unless you are mine.”
“Restrain her,” Astore said, confident in his authority.
Standing in her stirrups, Gaela called, “Do so yourself, if you would be more a king than me.”
Her husband lost all the remaining pink in his face, lips blanching straight and white as worms. With a sharp jerk, Astore pushed his horse right up to hers.
Gaela stared at his pale eyes and smiled. She swung down off her mount. Though not in full raiment, Gaela had traveled in dark leather armor and a mail skirt with heavy wool trousers. Hanging from the saddle was her grandfather’s own broadsword. The pommel was shaped like a swan, and set with blue topaz in the simple cross guard. She strode the short distance to Astore’s horse and gripped the ankle of his heavy boots. “Arrest me, if you are able.”
He nudged her away and climbed out of his saddle. Because Gaela did not back off, he landed a hand from her, their chests aligned.
“I came here,” Gaela said, “to lead a charge against Connley and take this north for us, husband, but you greet me as if you do not know me, as if you could be anything without me.”
Astore gripped the handle of his sword in its piscine sheath. Softly he said, “You betrayed me, Gaela, years ago in deed, and now in defiance. Our marriage was a lie, and you have proved never to care for Astora or my people. You’ve cared only for your own ambitions. When my men sent word of what you did to the Oak Earl—your own uncle—I knew you’d lost yourself as your father did. I will join with the Kayo to take this island back for Lear. Elia will be a fine—gentle and womanly—queen for us.”
Gaela said nothing: a prescient regret silenced her.
She was going to kill her husband this afternoon.
The thought made her dizzy, but she relished it.
Astore put his hands on her shoulders. “I will keep you very well, or even, if you like, arrange for escort to your mother’s people. But here, near power, you are a danger to yourself and this entire island. And can be no fit wife for me, because of what you’ve done to yourself.”
“You would put me aside in favor of drooling babies?” she murmured. “Choose children of your own line over ambition and a crown? Oh, I misjudged you, Col.”
“Yes, you did. I have ever wanted that crown, and I mean to fight for it, still. But what is the point of a crown without a legacy?”
“Power, together, to make a legacy for every child on this island, Col.” The depth of her disappointment in him surprised her, and that surprise stirred matching anger.
“You lied to me from the beginning. You never wanted me. You have never wanted any man. Though you professed to want a king. What kind of partnership is that, to have worked together based on such a lie?”
Baring her teeth in a mean smile, Gaela said, “I wanted a king—that much was true. But I have always intended to be that king myself, and toward that, on this cursed island, my stars provided a singular path. I have what I needed from you now, you foolish man, and I can finish the rest myself, without the need to share my crown.”
“I loved you,” he snarled, as if it would make a difference to her.
Gaela ended her smile. “I respected you, but no more.”
His face blazed red with his outrage, and he yelled again, “Seize this woman!”
Gaela eyed his retainers. She met their gazes with her own severity. “No one here has the authority to arrest the ascendant queen of Innis Lear, Col Astore, but she can challenge you herself.”
He put his hand again on the pommel of his sword. “I would die before I let you drag me down.”
“Same, husband.” Gaela reached, and the soldier Dig was at her side, putting her sword in her hand.
She did not wait, but swung it instantly, and with all the strength of her body. Astore barely blocked in time, stumbling. Gaela followed through with her shoulder, knocking him aside. He grunted, and before he could react, she drew the knife from her belt and stabbed it expertly between the buckles of steel plate, directly under his arm.
Astore’s mouth gaped open, and he looked down at her hand on the hilt.
Gaela pulled the knife free. Blood gushed through the quilted wool of his gambeson, pouring red and hot. She had learned from him, that very first year, how to always find a mortal stab.
“You misjudged me, too, Col,” Gaela murmured, opening her arm for him to slump against her. She caught him under his opposite shoulder, and carefully lowered Astore to his knees. “You always underestimated my ambition and my commitment. I would do anything for my crown and island, even let you paw at me, let you put your seed in me, thinking that it might ever take root. You’ve looked at me since I was a little girl like I was the thing to bring you what you wanted. But always you were the tool to bring me mine. I married you, and then I became you. Remember that as you die. Your honor is to have made the strongest king Innis Lear has ever seen.”
Breath wheezed from his lips, but Astore couldn’t catch enough air to speak.
“Men of Astore and Lear!” Gaela cried, standing with her dying husband against her hip, the murder weapon brandished and dripping a single long line of blood onto her wrist. “You have until his blood stops running to choose. Against me, and there will be a massacre here today, all the legacy of the fine Astore spirit become one of death and waste. Or with me, and we will ride out this afternoon to take all of Astore’s ancient lands back in the name of our duke, husband to the new king of Innis Lear.”
A gasping silence answered her first, and Gaela gripp
ed her husband’s neck, wishing for battle, hoping the men chose poorly, that she would be forced to throw Astore’s body to the ground and let her rage free. To let herself go, to finally unleash and fight until triumphant or dead.
Her smile was fearsome to behold.
Astore held on to her hips, face pressed to her side. She stroked his hair, tugged it in the way she’d learned he liked, during their long marriage. But he was past such desire; he slid forward, blood spattering the packed earth as he slowly fell, but caught himself on his palms. His body shook with effort; Astore collapsed.
Several cries of sorrow rang out, but none leapt forward to attack.
More of Gaela’s retainers had by now pushed into the forecourt, pressing hard and crowding.
“Gaela Lear!” yelled Dig in his bearish roar.
“Gaela Lear!”
“Gaela Lear!”
She held up her hand for silence. It fell, swollen and ready to burst again with further violence. Gaela shook her head in mock sadness.
Finally, one of the duke’s first captains knelt, drawing his sword. He held the blade in one gloved hand, then kissed its guard. “Gaela of Astore and Lear!” he said, opening devoted eyes to her.
Gaela nodded regally, then crouched to grasp her husband’s shoulder and roll him onto his back. He groaned. Blood coated his front and side. His chest hardly rose. Gaela touched his mouth gently, brushed her knuckles along his jaw. Strange how numb she felt, though a recognizable flutter of angry grief waited behind the coursing thrill in her heart. She would feel it soon: a sorrow of necessity, a lost ally. Men were fools, with backward priorities always turning their heads. Astore would have gained everything by letting Gaela reign as she wished, if only he had curbed his own desires.
Then the duke of Astore died, and his wife placed the knife that had done it across his heart.
SEVEN YEARS AGO, ASTORA
COL HAD BEEN the duke of Astore since he was twelve years old, when his father died from a broken back during routine military exercises. It meant Col had been Astore a mere two years fewer than Lear had been king. He remembered the clear morning at the Summer Seat when the prophecy had been read, foretelling both the arrival and doom of Lear’s true queen. And Col remembered his first sight of Dalat, her gentle warmth and lovely joy seeming so alien to the harsh moors of Innis Lear. He remembered her swaying walk as she left the star chapel, a wife and queen, and Col remembered where he had stood when he heard that her first daughter had arrived.