The Queens of Innis Lear

  Calepia said, “Daughter.”

  Ianta spun around with a long bottle in hand. “Cherry brandy.”

  “Oh, no,” Elia whispered.

  “Oh, yes,” Aefa said. “You need it.”

  Elia met Calepia’s eyes.

  The queen gave her a soft, sorry smile. “Ianta, Elia is safe here, and we know it, but how is she to know it? How is she to trust us when everything she trusted before was taken away?”

  Though the queen directed the words at Ianta, she watched Elia, and Elia knew they were for her.

  “You are safe here, Elia Lear,” Calepia said.

  Safe.

  These ladies offered safety to her as Morimaros did: like conquerors. Elia could accept it, sit here in their extended haven. Safety. But what would she be asked to exchange, what was the trade? Kindness and honesty were easy things to give when you were secure. Promises were safe. But safety was also inaction; it was a privilege granted, not won. Elia should’ve been safe with her sisters, yet she could not depend on it. Because they did not trust her—allow her—to be at ease with them, had not permitted her to share comfort. She had never been safe with Gaela and Regan, and they would never be on her side.

  Admitting it, even for a moment, broke something open inside Elia, and it pushed out from her heart like a great wind. The hairs on her arms raised.

  “Thank you,” she said to the queen and her daughter. “I think I’ll accept your brandy.”

  Ianta smiled large and rejoined them with her bottle, pouring it all around.

  Elia sipped the sweet cherry brandy to cover the cold rain in her stomach. She asked, “What do you believe in, here in Aremoria, if you don’t have stars or earth saints?”

  The Elder Queen said, “Our king.”

  “Is he so … worthy of it?” Elia forced herself to ask.

  Twice-Princess Ianta leaned toward her. “If he reunites Innis Lear and Aremoria, he will be considered the greatest king we’ve had in a thousand years.”

  Elia froze.

  “That is how Aremoria holds faith,” the Elder Queen said, more gently. “My husband’s father, King Aramos, proclaimed an end to the crown’s reliance on the stars or the land. He said we were stewards of the land, partners with it, not subject to it, and certainly not subject to the stars, which never suffer with us. He did not raze any chapels or close any caves or springs. He merely told the people they did not need to worship or sacrifice.”

  “It worked? The land … did not…” Elia thought to say cry or rebel.

  “It worked. But Aramos did something else to unite everyone behind him: he gave Aremoria enemies. We had always had border wars; there has always been pushing and pulling against Ispania, Burgun, Diota, even the Rusrike at times—and of course, your own island. But Aramos made our enemies definitive. Instead of being Aremore because we live with this land, because our families always have, we are Aremore because we fight to keep Aremoria. We are Aremore because we are not Ispanian, Burgundian, Diotan, or Learish. Do you see?”

  Elia did see, and was horrified.

  By this, Morimaros had to invade Innis Lear, or lose a piece of what made him who he was. The golden king of Aremoria. Their destined leader. A would-be god to his people. And when Elia had asked, Mars had offered several strong reasons he should invade. Political and martial, and economic, even going as far as arguing that it would be the clear best choice for the future growth of Innis Lear. But he had not revealed this reason. This destined one. Draining the brandy, Elia clutched the cup and looked straight at Ianta. “In Morimaros’s council meeting, did you urge him to invade my island? And was this why?”

  Ianta lowered her cup. A tiny hint of brandy stained her bottom lip before she licked it away. “No,” she said. “I urged him to marry you instead.”

  “He might do both.”

  Calepia nodded. “Indeed, if you let him.”

  Why is it me who must allow or stop or end or choose?

  But the words did not leave her, for she knew the answer: it was because no one else would—or perhaps, no one else could. Her sisters chose long ago to make themselves rigid, and her father chose to give all to the stars. Morimaros had chosen his path in becoming king, and even Aefa had chosen, and would choose again, to stay with Elia and support her. Everyone was pointed in some direction, of their own choice.

  Always Elia had been aimed and set by others. Accepted what was given, absorbed into their wills—especially, though not exclusively, her father’s. She’d borne any consequence by detaching from her own heart, unwilling to examine her actions in case they might clash with the need to be still. Elia let the stars decide the course of her life, despite her bold words framing them as distant guides.

  She was exactly like her father.

  Elia stood and poured more brandy for herself. She lifted her cup. “To choosing for ourselves.”

  One of King Morimaros’s soldiers appeared at the library door. He saluted crisply and murmured a message in the ear of the nearest lady-in-waiting. The lady passed it to the queen’s ear, who then glanced at Elia with slight surprise. “You have a messenger come urgently from Innis Lear.”

  Already! It couldn’t be from her sisters yet, unless letters had crossed. Had something happened? Worried, she set her cup on the table and turned to face the door. Before she could proceed, a travel-worn young man pushed in, one with reddish hair and a face more freckled than not. Beloved of the stars. “Rory!” she said, shocked. “Errigal. What are you…”

  The heir to Errigal dropped before her, knees hitting the floor hard enough the sound echoed like a knock on death’s own door. “Elia,” he murmured, hands reaching out, eyes cast down.

  She took his face instead, forcing him to look at her. Dread filled her heart. “Tell me what has happened.”

  Behind her, she heard Aefa quickly explaining that Rory was somewhat of a cousin to Elia: that she’d known him since they were babes, and he was as honorable as any man. Trust Aefa to be ready to defend against even a hint of censure cast on her princess. Though Rory was known to the court, as a cousin of the Alsax. Elia found it hard to focus on their words over the frantic beat of her heart.

  Elia took Rory’s hand. He was a good friend, and she’d seen him more frequently this past year than the last five, since he had come the retainers’ barracks at Dondubhan, near where she’d studied at the north star tower. Rory was broad and handsome, freckles overwhelming his face like the most crowded arm of the firmament. His characteristic slouch was appealing instead of indolent, promising friendliness, not malfeasance.

  But now he stared up at Elia, haunted. She reached for her cup of cherry brandy and offered it to him. He drank it all.

  Beside Elia, Aefa thrummed with expectation but held her tongue. Elia felt herself calm, but it was a patience borne of dread.

  “My lady,” Rory said haltingly, then bowed to the Aremore royalty. “I … I apologize for interrupting.” His short, yellow lashes brushed his cheeks, and he frowned mournfully, then opened his eyes and met Elia’s. “My father has disowned me, El.”

  It was a sharp kick to her heart, and she clenched her hands together. “How did this happen?”

  “Truly, I know not! I am betrayed, that is the only thing I am certain of. Ban came to me and said—Ah, god!” Rory shoved his fingers into his hair.

  “Ban?” Elia prompted, avoiding Aefa’s pressing eyes.

  “Perhaps we should go elsewhere?” Aefa whispered, careful of the royal women at their back. Elia shook her head, her stare locked onto Rory.

  The earlson said, “Yes, my brother, Ban. He came home from—well, from here, you might know—and he warned me that our father was furious at me, for some fault Ban had not yet discovered. I wanted to go to Father immediately, but Ban swore him to be unsettled and murderous, and entreated me to lay low for some time. I agreed, though only because Ban promised to calm our father’s fury. I left to go back to my friends among the king’s retainers, allowing Ban to stay behind to u
ncover and mend any transgressions in my favor. I planned to beg Lear for aid, as my godfather and liege—but my heart was weak, and I grew fearful thinking of your circumstance, that you might understand and give me shelter. The king had banished you, of all the truest, kindest ladies in the whole world! Why would he find sympathy for me if there was even a breath of possibility I’d scorned my own father? Ah, stars, Elia! What has changed our fathers so hard against us? A thing in the sky? Or a cause of the wind?”

  The words poured out of Rory, fast and near incomprehensible, though she understood their core. She leaned forward and took Rory’s large hands. His fingers were rough, his knuckles scarred and thick. Elia looked up at him. “I am so sorry.”

  And Aefa said, “Was it only the word of Ban Errigal that made you flee? Only a promise from your brother?” Her voice was tight, and Elia knew what the girl was thinking: Ban had promised already to prove to Elia how easy it was to crush a father’s love. And here was Rory, banished from his father’s heart where previously Errigal had only words of pride and easy trust. Alarm rang in Elia’s blood.

  “Yes, my brother,” Rory said wearily. “I thank my stars for him. Whatever the cause of my father’s anger, Ban warned me, saved me, most like. He cared not that it would likely make him again the object of our father’s wrath. A traitor! That my own father would believe it of me—of my stars.”

  How had Elia forgotten so easily the complete words Ban had spoken? Having been consumed instead by his exhortations, by his—his raw belief in her—she’d neglected to think on the objects of his rage, and passion, and pain. His fierce vow—in her name—to prove how fickle was a father’s love, that Lear’s madness was not a fault in Elia, but in the stars. That Ban would tear apart Innis Lear, as her heart had been wrecked.

  I keep my promises.

  If Ban Errigal was working against peace, Elia’s simple letters to her sisters would be like whispers against a gale.

  “Well, Elia?” Aefa demanded. Her tone drew Rory’s attention, and he glanced between them, confused.

  Holding her voice calm, too aware of the threat to Innis Lear in the form of the Aremore ladies, Elia addressed Rory as if he were in her command already. “You must remain here, for now. I am certain you will be welcome with me at this court, or with your Alsax cousins at their estate. For your own safety. If you have a death sentence on your head, you must be careful in how you address this, and I must be careful my sisters do not see your flight as a desertion.”

  He nodded, neck loose, mouth woeful. “What a disaster these stars have been. Elia, you should write to Ban, to see if there has been news.”

  Elia flicked a glance at Aefa, whose lips were pursed so tight they seemed a little pink bow. But they could not share any suspicions regarding his brother, not without breaking Rory’s heart further or revealing weakness to the Aremore court. She would write to Earl Errigal himself, instead. There would be nothing bizarre about that, as he’d written her first, and she’d yet to reply. Perhaps she could mend the damage on her own, without wounding either brother more. “I will.”

  “Thank you,” Rory said, then he flung his arms around Elia.

  Because she knew not what else to do, Elia allowed him hold on to her as tightly as he wished.

  SIX YEARS AGO, INNIS LEAR

  BY THE TIME he was old enough to understand anything, Rory Errigal understood this: the best way to learn what mattered, in any place or among any people, was to make friends with the women. The oldest women, the youngest, and those with the most secrets. In Errigal Keep, Rory began with the kitchens, using his smile with innocent abandon, and repaying extra cookies and kindness with a willingness to sweep up messes and offer information about his father’s schedule in return, and even once taking the blame for a broken cup that was his mother’s favorite. The housekeeper had made certain Rory’s punishment was mitigated as best she could. He moved on to his mother’s companions next, instinctively knowing when to smile and bring them buttons they thought they’d lost, or mention how he’d noticed his mother admiring a particular shade of blue recently. He made himself beloved of the townsfolk, too, carrying little cups of holy water from the Errigal navel well to the homes of newborns, just because of how the families would cheer. And because they trusted him after.

  He was an only child, the earl’s son and heir, pride and promise of Errigal’s future. It was easy for him to love, easier to be generous. What Rory had, he had in plenty enough that sharing cost him nothing.

  Until the day his mother left, and Errigal brought Ban into his life.

  That day, Rory finally understood some things could not be shared. Sharing was what drove his mother to Aremoria, to live with her sister forever. Rory had too many friends in the kitchens and rear halls, among the wives and children of Errigal’s stewards and retainers, among the bakers and hunters and barrel makers of the Steps, not to hear again and again that his half-brother was a bastard. Discovering Ban’s birth had offended Rory’s mother so greatly, she refused to look upon Errigal’s face or the stones of their home ever again.

  He understood his father should not have shared this particular thing, because it hurt his mother, but all that was overshadowed by how entirely wonderful it was to have a brother.

  Ban was older, smarter, quieter than Rory, and afraid of absolutely nothing.

  For years, the two played at adventures together. Sometimes they snuck into the White Forest, where the spirits whispered secrets to Ban, and then Ban told Rory where to aim his arrows. Sometimes they hid together in the guard stations at the Summer Seat, peering through crenellations to search for sea monsters or an enemy army. Sometimes Ban convinced Rory to do wild things like leap into the deep black waters of the Tarinnish, and sometimes Rory had to punch one of the retainers’ sons for calling Ban a bastard.

  Rory thought for a little while that he was in love with the princess Elia, but it didn’t take him long to realize his feelings were only a reflection of his beloved brother’s.

  The month every year all three were the same age fell in the early spring, and it was Rory’s favorite. Ban and Elia had not yet had their anniversaries, so remained fourteen, but Rory’s passed, letting him fly older like a loosed arrow to meet them. Errigal brought his two sons north to Dondubhan after the ice broke, to be with the king and journey to the Summer Seat together, not realizing it wasn’t the chance to spend time among the king’s retainers both boys longed for, but Elia. Though to be sure, Rory, at least, delighted in the soldiers just as much.

  Since they’d seen her at the Midwinter festival, Elia had grown to exactly Ban’s height, as Rory pointed out to them when the three dashed off early on their second morning together, across the moorland to the ruins of an old watchtower settled around the eastern shore of the Tarinnish. Ban frowned at Rory’s declaration and stopped walking. Wind ruffled the dark water of the lake, and the first yellow flowers spotting the moor nodded. Then Elia put her toes against Ban’s toes, her hands in his hands, and leaned in until the tips of their noses kissed. She blinked, and Ban blinked, and suddenly Rory felt terribly alone.

  He flung his arms around them both to make up for it, and Ban, who’d stopped allowing Rory to push him around with his greater size years ago, released Elia to tackle Rory. They went down, wrestling hard and fast, until, as usual, Rory ended up on top. He laughed in triumph, and Ban growled like a cat. Elia said, “Oh, be careful,” bouncing excitedly on her feet. She clutched the skirt of her dress.

  Pride at his win made Rory blush, and he leapt to his feet again, rubbing dirt off his cheek. He stood before Elia exactly as she and Ban had stood, only Rory was taller and had to bend to put their noses together. She was beautiful and smelled like spice cakes and flowers, and her faded red dress was ever so slightly too small for her growing body, tight at her hips and little breasts. Rory knew why he felt as he did, knew what his parts were telling him, thanks to all those years of being friends with the women in the kitchens and the town, his familiarity wit
h all manner of gossip and talk. And Rory also knew that it was just how the world worked, and he wanted to love his body and everyone’s, because despite his parents’ problems, or because of them, Rory remained generous.

  And so Rory kissed Elia.

  He kissed her, and he smiled, touching her face with both hands before stepping away. Elia stared, lips parted, and then her black eyes darted behind him toward Ban.

  Rory glanced over his shoulder and saw perhaps the worst thing he’d seen in his entire life: Ban, his brother, still as stone, and staring at Rory as if the wind had frozen, the new-budding meadow flowers had withered, and the sun had turned black. As if everything Ban was or could be had been snatched away, and it was Rory’s fault.

  “Oh,” Rory said, then grimaced. “Oh.”

  Ban did not move, nor did Elia.

  Heaving a sigh of intense martyrdom, Rory said, “I don’t have to do that again.”

  The words snapped Elia out of her daze. She touched her mouth, then touched Rory’s chin. She said nothing, but her agreement was clear. Strangely, Rory didn’t mind, because she smiled, and so they were still friends.

  Elia walked to Ban. She took his hand, and put it against her heart. You know, she said in the language of trees.

  Though she spoke to his brother, Rory knew also. He saw it suddenly in Ban’s every breath: love and love and love.

  It didn’t break Rory; instead it seemed to knit something tighter inside him. Ban would be happy, and so Ban would stay.

  With a smile and a merry yell, Rory grabbed up a flat stone and flung it into the lake. He marched along, toward the ruins, expecting they’d follow or not.

  That night, after dinner and the king’s Fool’s fantastic recitation of a battle poem, one that Rory knew several verses to already, he followed Errigal when the earl retired. He very seriously, very earnestly, told his father that Ban and Elia would be a good match, that their babies would be iron strong and star bright. Errigal turned red but said nothing.