Even at fifteen years old, he’d known the screaming firstborn Gaela was his best avenue toward more power. Astore only needed to be patient and wait for her, discover what sort of woman she’d be, how best to use her, and then how best to win her to his side. Prop or partner, vessel or queen, Col held all options open as she grew. He was always generous with Gaela and friendly, ushering her toward Astore, though never too overtly, lest some other (particularly her father the king) think him despicable.
Initially he did not want her for himself, outside his heated ambitions for the crown. That at least proved that, while his vices might be numerous, desiring a child in his bed was not among them. No, it was only when her mother died, when Gaela came to Astora as a furious young woman, that he very suddenly and violently recognized her carnal appeal. So for half a decade more he’d worked with the information he gathered on her likes and dislikes, biding his time, teaching Gaela as a mentor, welcoming her to his retainers, waiting for her to approach him.
Tonight, she’d asked to speak with him privately, coming up at the end of the morning’s training. Sweat had melted dust from the practice ground along the edges of her hairline, and she breathed hard from her sport. Her breasts heaved against the leather armor buckled across her front, and her eyes were wide and bright, a brown so deep and vivid Astore saw them in his dreams. When Gaela tilted her chin up and said, “I would have dinner with you tonight, alone, Col Astore, to discuss the future,” he’d kept his smile tame, despite the immediate desire and triumph, crackling up and down his spine.
“I’ll be honored,” he said, knowing what she wanted.
Gaela Lear had turned twenty-one that winter, and it was time for her to be married.
Astore expected to be her husband. They’d not explicitly agreed upon it when she came to his lands, but there had been an understanding that in return for allowing her full access to his warrior retainers, to live with them and learn what they had to teach her of battle and weaponry, Gaela would one day owe him in kind.
As he was the duke of the largest, strongest domain in all of Innis Lear, the only way to pay him back would be to make Col king alongside her—as befitted her stars, which destined her to be reliant on another’s strength.
So he met her as a king would, in his private dining room. Ready for her to submit to him, to repay his magnanimous patronage with a display of gratitude. Bold stone walls, decorated only with stately salmon banners; a warm, roaring fire in a hearth wide enough to roast a pig; long wooden table smoothly gleaming; two high-backed benches to either side of the single, narrow arched window that looked out over the lower yard and into the city of Astora beyond. This place was marked by symbols of his power, but not overwhelmingly so, not as the great hall would have been. Gaela was appreciated here, with room to weave in her own power and details. Col was vain enough to bathe carefully and dress even more so, despite usually bearing the trappings of fashion no mind at all. His best dark pink tunic that showed off the broadness of his chest and the strength in his arms, over black trousers that hugged his powerful thighs. He had his footman braid his hair in three furrows and trim his beard. Though he was not quite old enough to have fathered Gaela, it was a near thing, and he’d remind her of his might and virility wherever he could.
For several long minutes he debated bringing with him the duchess ring. In the end Col put it on his smallest finger; let her notice and be aware that he was just as ambitious as she. Then they could solidify any arrangements tonight: bargain and share drink, and she would take his ring, and he would take her to bed. Stars, but that would be glorious. Finally.
And in the small hours of the night, when he’d satisfied her and made her beg to have him, they would discuss the crown itself.
He allowed himself only a single short cup of his favorite Aremore wine while he waited.
Gaela arrived exactly as the sun set, entering on the tail of her name, as called through the door by the retainer on guard. Col did not usually keep one, being confident enough in his own ability to defend himself, but for this occasion, he’d thought it best to act as a king might.
She swept in wearing a bold, dark blue gown split at the sides so it appeared like a military tabard, and the arms quilted just as a gambeson would be. A belt of silver plates pulled all together at Gaela’s waist, and cuffs of beaten silver clutched her forearms, more like gauntlets than bracelets. Streaks of white clay hardened swirls of her short black curls into a crown.
Col did his best to moderate the lust and admiration in his face, though he did not want to hide it: let her see she impressed him, and that he desired her in her martial beauty.
“Gaela,” he said, standing and offering his hand. She gave hers, too, and he bowed over it, drawing her firmly toward him.
“Astore,” she replied, and allowed him to seat her on one of the hard benches beside the window. Before he could do aught else, she continued, “I assume you intend to be my husband.”
Taken aback, Col laughed. He did not let go of her hand. “I do, Gaela Lear. I assume you intend to allow it.”
“It would be in both our best interests. I will be queen after my father, and you are his closest ally. He does not question your strength, your loyalty, nor your faith in his stars.”
“All our stars,” Col said. “I have seen yours, Gaela, and heard the entire life chart read at your naming. It fits well with mine. I commissioned a joined chart two years ago: we will have a unique partnership, and successfully achieve our destinies.”
Gaela twisted her mouth and stood. It put her close to him, enough that he could smell the cool, earthy clay and a sharp soap lingering on her skin. He did not step back to make room between them. Her eyes were just beneath his. “One requirement for our partnership, Col: do not speak to me again of the stars.”
He frowned. “Stars speak themselves and so should not be ignored.”
“For men of Lear, those who would follow my father, perhaps, but I have never been served by stars, and neither was my mother.”
“Ah,” Col said, understanding. She was the daughter born to mark her mother’s death, by those same celestial bodies. An aversion to such things was inevitable; he minded not at all, so long as she did not swing so far as to worship the mud. “You can make your own destiny,” he said, to soothe her, and to prop her up.
A smile spread across her delicious, plump mouth. “I do, Col Astore, and I will make yours, too, if you join with me.”
“Yes,” he said, undeniably aflame at being told, instead of doing the telling. Discomfort rose in him, made rather delicious by the perversion. He put a hand on her waist, and she did not shy away, or even move. Instead, Gaela reached for his hand and lifted it so she could access the ring on his small finger. Still smiling, she tugged at it, and Col let her do the work, take this ring from him, and then slide it onto her own hand.
He ached for her, hot and ready, and he pulled her hips against his, pressing himself against her.
Gaela gasped softly, and Col nearly broke. He’d held himself in check so long, forced away these urges during the four years she’d been under his protection, while she trained with his men. Despite Gaela’s flaunting of her strength, her intensity and the way she walked, spoke, and carried herself, as if already she owned him and all his retainers. As if she tempted him on purpose, was made to be his challenge. Col expected her to be ferocious, expected her to resist giving herself to him, and this tiny breath of submission was almost too much.
He dug his fingers into her hips, holding her belly against him. Even that gentle pressure burned up into his face. His cheeks would be red, he knew, his eyes hot. But he did not care if she saw, if she realized how badly he wanted her. Would she taste all of Innis Lear, or some foreign flavors, too? Her mouth would be hot as his, and her depths like a well of the island—his island, his well.
Col kissed her, and Gaela let him, still and only moving to put her hands on his shoulders for balance. She gave little, but Col pushed her mouth open
; he kissed her with all his potency, reaching in with his tongue, dragging his lips against hers, wanting it all. Taking what he could.
In a moment, Gaela pushed back. She leaned her torso away, which pushed her hips more firmly against him. “Stop, Col Astore, and wait to touch me like this until we are united under the laws of Innis Lear and your stars. That is my second condition. That you stop yourself now, and we do not join in body until we are joined by ritual.”
With ridiculous effort, he listened. “Gaela,” he said, low in his throat, chiding and longing. But he smiled, because he liked her games and confidence.
“Col,” she said, holding herself against him, as if she could read in his face just how much he liked it.
“Do you have a third condition?” He strove to sound conversational, not as if he was near to bursting.
“I do.” Her hands climbed up his neck and she grasped his jaw, fingers in his beard. “Never rest until I am crowned. Destroy everyone in our path. Use all your power to put the crown in my hands.”
“Our hands,” he corrected.
“Yes.”
“I will never rest until you are crowned, Gaela of Lear. You will be the most glorious queen in an age.” Col meant every word, with every piece of his spirit and heart and body.
Gaela gifted him her wide, plump smile again.
He said, “I will set a date for our marriage.”
“Do so. I will go to my sister, now, and return for it.” A smile teased at her unteasing mouth. “That should make the wait easier for you, husband.”
“I would…” He used his hands on her hips to push her to the side, so her behind pressed against the stone ledge of the window. “I would have the wait made harder for you … wife.”
“I suspect things will be hard enough between us.” With a twist, Gaela freed herself. She walked smoothly, as if unaffected, back to the long table and grasped his bottle of wine. Turning to him, she lifted the bottle. “To the crown of Innis Lear, which will be ours.”
Col Astore believed her warning, and her promise, and relished both. Gaela bent her head with a play of obeisance—which only added to her haughty glory.
But he could see right through her, and in that moment, Astore knew.
This woman is going to kill me.
Nothing had ever felt more welcome, or more right.
AEFA
AEFA STUCK CLOSE behind her princess, disconcerted at the way the White Forest parted itself before Elia, offering easy passage through its ferns and mossy old trees. Sun shone prettily through leaves turning yellow and fiery orange at their edges, and the breeze was cold but pleasant with none of last night’s fury. Reborn wind, Aefa thought, free to be itself after the cleansing of the storm.
When Elia Lear had kissed Ban Errigal right in front of Aefa this morning, she’d been near sure her eyes would pop and she’d be blind forever. But her mother, Alis, hadn’t seemed concerned, dragging the two girls inside to feed them since Brona herself had vanished before dawn. The moment Aefa and Elia were alone, off to wash up at the well behind Brona’s house, Aefa had leapt on her chance.
“You need something to make sure Ban Errigal did not get you with child last night,” she said as they picked their way around onion beds.
“Aefa!” hissed Elia, looking all around.
Triumph had surged through Aefa, and she’d raised her golden brows, then laughed once.
“I should bleed in the next few days, I think. We’ll know quickly if there’s anything to worry on.”
“I want to know everything.”
“So do I! About your mother—”
“You first. About spending the night with Ban Errigal.”
“Once I begin, I won’t be able to stop.”
“But you did … like it?” Aefa danced a little in place, giving in to the impulse to be nothing but a girl, gleeful and anxious and begging her friend to confide in her.
Elia nodded fast and covered her mouth against the press of her smile. When her eyes met Aefa’s, though, Aefa could not deny the sorrow dragging at the joy. It cut at Aefa, and she took Elia’s face in her hands. “Nothing that comes after has anything to do with it,” she whispered. “If you loved it, and loved him, that’s all that matters. Even if he is unworthy of you, which he is, the dirty traitor—no, no, listen!” Aefa smiled and kissed Elia lightly on the mouth. “Everything is terrible right now, except me of course, so even if Ban is one of the terrible things, last night he wasn’t, so don’t let go of that. Even later on when I tell you again and again that you should have considered doing that with the king of Aremoria instead. Promise?”
Elia had looked up at the first true ray of sun pressing through milky-golden clouds. “I promise.”
And Aefa was certain she’d meant it. They’d washed, dressed, and eaten the breakfast Alis provided. Then Aefa had wound those amber beads back into Elia’s hair; now here they were in the forest, gone after Brona, Kay Oak, and the old king.
“Aefa,” Elia murmured suddenly, as wind tossed dappled shadows over her face, “I love you. You’ve been mine for years, and I’ve never acknowledged it, or acted it. I know how hard it’s been, being my friend, when I offered nothing in return.”
A thrum of pleasure zipped through the Aefa. Her grip tightened. “I adore you, Elia, and I think it won’t be long before I admire you, too.”
“I hope I earn it.”
“Only you control that.” The Fool’s daughter pinched Elia’s hip, but gently.
For nearly an hour they walked, toward the east. The forest whispered at them, through wind and singing birds, through the rustle of ferns and brushed tails, the buzz of crickets and chirping frogs. The gown Alis had found among Brona’s things was a little snug in the waist for Elia; it had been previously let out at the sides, and hemmed hurriedly this morning to accommodate the princess’s short legs. The unusual style did not matter, for its vibrant rust red color made it look velvet-soft instead of plain linen. Old turquoise silk laced it up the sides and the underskirt was a fine, warm cream. Elia promised she was comfortable, loved the discordant, bold colors, and the flick of the skirts as she kicked out with her boots.
To Aefa’s eyes, she was a piece of the forest come boldly and uniquely alive.
With the forest’s guidance, it did not take them long to find the king’s camp.
Brona crouched at a small fire, roasting a spitted squirrel. Beside her, Kayo leaned on an old log, filthy from the storm and in a hunter’s simple brown coat and tunic; only his very finely made boots suggested at his rank.
“Kayo!” Elia rushed forward, leaving Aefa to gasp at the earl’s injury.
A bandage wrapped his head, crossing over his left temple, cheek, and eye. A vivid purple bruise streaked beneath his right eye, and there was blood in the white of it, making the gray iris seem to shine. Sweat glistened at his upper lip and brow. The bandage was bloody brown at the lower edge, as if the wound beneath had bled in the night.
He smiled when he saw his niece, but it was a smile of sorrow and nostalgia, the memory of a smile more than the fact of one. “Starling,” he said, standing. “I will live.”
“If he does everything else I say,” Brona snapped.
“He will.” Elia pressed her fingers to his forehead. “I think you’re feverish.”
Her uncle shook his head and murmured, “You’re supposed to be in Aremoria.”
“This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Aefa’s father leapt up from where he’d lounged in restless sleep against an old stump. “You’re here!”
“Dada!” Aefa threw her arms around his lanky waist, then hopped up to kiss his cheek. Lear’s Fool looked gaunt and terrible, stinking like wet dog and sweat. “Mother will not approve of this appearance when you return.”
“Maybe you can convince the king,” the Fool sang softly, and let her go in order to hug Elia, too.
Kayo said, “If anyone can.”
“Is he near?” Elia asked. Birds da
rted from one bright tree to the next, arguing over something.
“Past that hill of hawthorns.” Kayo pointed weakly. “I’ll show you.”
“No.” Elia lifted her chin and even raised onto her toes to get more in his face. “Stay with Brona and obey her as you would a queen. As you would my mother. I will not have you die of some fever.”
Her uncle turned his head to the witch, Brona, who nodded, her mouth pressed in anger and distress. Aefa knew she certainly would do what that woman said.
Elia took off toward the hillock covered in twisted hawthorn trees. Aefa followed, unwilling to leave Elia alone for this confrontation, be it tender and forgiving or rotten and final. Beyond the hill, the forest opened onto a meadow where a small stream played over flat rocks, branching into tiny tributaries and keeping the grass soft and green. Sunlight shone down unmarred, and motes of leaves and earth floated amidst moon moths and brilliant blue butterflies that shouldn’t have survived last night and the cold morning. Ferns clung in bunches between the narrow streams, almost like giant pillows. And upon them lounged Lear, the king. “Wait here,” Elia said, but Aefa excelled at choosing the right commands to follow.
The king’s feet were bare; scraps of a robe and trousers hung off his thin frame as he leaned back on his elbows, face turned with a smile to the bright sky and clear sun, like a basking cat, unaware or uncaring of his surroundings, lost in the pleasure of light. That shock of silver-streaked hair spread around his shoulders like a mane, and greenery was woven into a crown upon his head. Aefa recognized the feathered leaves and clusters of tiny white flowers: hemlock. It was a coronet of poison Lear wore.