The Queens of Innis Lear

  “Then Morimaros will have both king and daughter, and plenty of reason to attack. What if sending the king there is exactly what brings the invasion?”

  “Perhaps, but Lear needs his crown back! The stars are clear.”

  “Give the crown to Elia, at least.”

  Errigal spared his son a pitying frown. “She is only a girl.”

  Only by years of constant practice was Ban able to keep calm. But barely. He said very pointedly, very slowly, “Did you tell Connley?”

  “No, bah! That man is slave to his cruel, cold wife, and she would have me stocked, or killed, for treating with Aremoria, even if it is on behalf of Lear himself. Oh, my poor king. My letter aligns us—Errigal—with Elia and Morimaros, if that king will clear the way for Lear to reclaim his throne. You should be glad to hear it; I’ve heard tales of you riding proudly at his side.”

  Ban stared at his father, thinking it was true: he should be glad to hear it. War coming to Innis Lear, and from an army Ban knew well, an army he had a place in, still, if he kept his first promises to Morimaros, if he let his admiration for Regan Connley fall away. If he pretended he did not hate to hear of Elia married to Aremoria. But …

  Ban would die a thousand humiliating deaths before he stood by and watched Lear put on the crown again.

  He would not let it stand. Ban refused it, summarily.

  If Errigal, who even yet preferred a son he believed to be a traitorous murderer over his proven, reputable, strong natural son, had to be a casualty of Ban’s schemes, Ban supposed that was only the final evidence of his father’s stars.

  * * *

  ANGRY WINDS SLAMMED against Errigal Keep as the sun lowered against the horizon, obscured by the coming storm. Only a few desperate rays shot free, reflecting off the silvered western hills. Black clouds, roiling air, and tiny spitting raindrops were a proper manifestation of Ban’s mood.

  Standing at the open doors of the great hall, he stared out into the crescent yard as dust in the cracks between stones became mud, as men dashed from black gates to stables and tower doors to black gates, at the change of watch. As soon as the sunset hour rang, the gates would swing closed for the long, stormy night.

  Behind Ban, a house girl prodded the fire into a grand blaze; soon this hall would be full of retainers and families, seeking shelter together and warmth and some food. “Go,” Ban said to her. “Fetch my father here, and when he’s come, and after the duke and his lady arrive, shut the door.”

  She bobbed and fled, though he’d been gentle in tone.

  “Fox.”

  Curan the iron wizard walked across the stone courtyard, unhurried, disregarding the force of the wind and splattering rain. A flash of light caught on the iron coins braided into the wizard’s blond hair. In his hands he held a sword.

  Ban’s new sword. His breath picked up its pace.

  “Here, young lord,” Curan said, and Ban ducked with him into the great hall.

  Taking the sword, Ban drew the blade and handed the plain sheath back to Curan. Ban lifted the sword: the steel gleamed like a shard of sunlight through the storm clouds.

  I burn! whispered the steel.

  A smile of absolute joy lit Ban’s mouth. As do I! he answered, and cut the blade through the air.

  It laughed, and Ban asked, “You forged her yourself?”

  Curan nodded. “She was ready, and you are sure to need her.”

  “I do already.” Ban squeezed the leather-wrapped hilt. He set the edge of the blade against his left forearm, holding the sword flat to inspect every inch.

  Thunder rumbled overhead.

  The vibration made the sword ring, settling down through Ban’s bones. His pulse raced, and he knew, absolutely knew, for one clear moment, that he would die with this sword in his hand.

  This sword would destroy; it would cleanse; it would change everything.

  No, it was Ban himself who would do all those things. Soon.

  Now.

  As if prompted, Connley and Regan swept in exactly then. Ban could hear her skirts against the rushes, and Connley called, “Ban the Fox, we’ve come, as you asked.”

  Ban turned. Wet wind shoved at his back as he made his way forward. “My lord.” Tension edged his voice. He glanced at the iron wizard, who nodded and left.

  “What ails you, sir?” Regan asked when they were alone. She reached for him with a lovely hand decorated with several slender silver rings that set off her winter-brown skin. Today she wore a silver-threaded violet gown, edged in white fur he suspected came from his animal namesake. Despite Regan’s distraction, her grief—the pink rimming her irises—Ban thought she was everything a queen of Innis Lear should be: powerful, sharp, beautiful, like a raw ruby mined from the guts of the island, set into smooth iron.

  The lady touched his face tenderly. “Tell us,” she coaxed.

  Connley put his hand against Ban’s other cheek, casual and intimate. “Tell us,” he said, more commanding.

  Ban removed a letter from his coat. Unlike the last time he’d betrayed a family member with a letter, this one he’d not needed to forge. Once Errigal had returned to the Keep, the Fox had stalked the young star priest out of the Steps. He leapt upon him, killed him quickly, and took the letter Errigal had written to align himself with Aremoria, Morimaros, and Lear.

  “My father has betrayed us,” he said, relishing the sharp stab of guilt and the thorny pull of triumph all at once.

  Connley took the letter and spread the paper so his wife could share the view. She read more quickly than he did, or perhaps rage blinded Connley. Before Connley did more than drag fingers through his fine slick hair, Regan lashed out, catching Ban unawares. Her nails cut his cheek; her rings would leave a red bruise. “He names you, too, in this dangerous missive, Ban Errigal,” she said.

  “Regan,” Connley said, voice strangled. “The Fox brought this to us.”

  Ban held his gaze on Regan’s, face hot. “He does name me, but that man cannot speak for me anymore than your father can for you.”

  Her smile was a vicious creature. “Well said, Fox.”

  The duke crushed the letter in his fist, strode to the strong fire, and cast it in. “We shall see what your father will claim for his loyalties, or if he will lie.”

  “We should hang him instantly,” Regan hissed.

  “Leave him to my displeasure,” Connley said. “Ban, you may go. You need not witness this.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I will stay.” He wanted to look in Errigal’s eyes and show the earl exactly what he’d wrought by never choosing Ban.

  “Brave boy,” said Regan, lovingly, but Ban knew this was not courage.

  Just then Errigal dashed through the open doors from the courtyard, cursing the rain that plastered his hair to his face, dragged at his beard, and turned his leather coat dark in long grasping streaks. “What is this storm? Unnatural, I say.” He looked to any of the others for an ally in commiseration.

  They would not need to summon him, in the end, to his end.

  “Not so unnatural as your actions,” Connley coolly returned.

  “What?” Errigal stopped short, shaking off his hair like a wet dog.

  “You have betrayed us,” Regan said.

  Ban’s heart beat hard enough to break. Every stab against his ribs fueled Ban’s anger, drummed up his turmoil.

  “No—never you, lady,” the earl said, changing instantly to a penitent, his hands out and palms down. “You’ve heard of the shelter I gave your father, but surely you must know the old king needed it. I’ve only brought him to Hartfare, so he might find rest with Brona—this son of mine’s mother. It was kindness to a king I have loved, my lord, my lady. That is all.”

  “Is kindness what made you write to Aremoria and offer allegiance against ourselves?” Connley asked, smooth and low as a wolf’s warning growl.

  “Filthy traitor,” Regan said.

  “Lady, I am none!” Errigal stepped to place himself nearer Ban, who noticed it with a si
ck sort of satisfaction. He fought against a terrible smile; he mustn’t show his hand too soon, but remember when Errigal came to Hartfare and tore Ban from his mother, without a care to what Ban needed or wished; when he shoved his son onto a horse, taking him away from love forever, saying it was for their own good, that Ban was too low for Elia’s glory; every fondly applied description of base and so many hearty, easy laughing other sons, as if Ban would cease to exist if his father were to do so.

  Connley said, “You deny your words?”

  Errigal broadened his shoulders, ignored the remnants of rain trailing down his face and beard, and lifted his chin proudly. “I do not; though I deny—only—that they make me a traitor.”

  “We thought you were our friend, Errigal.”

  “You betray us by siding with my father!” Regan said. “You betray even murdering, terrible Lear and the entire island by turning to Aremoria!”

  Errigal pointed a thick finger at her. “You betrayed him, and yourselves, and this island first, lady, by casting your king out, by treating him as the enemy—him who was nothing but father to you! You put yourself opposed to Lear and goodness, and the stars themselves, and so you opposed this island and its crown.”

  “No,” Regan said. “My sister and I are crowned here. By the stars and our own father’s word, him who you obey like an unthinking dog.”

  Ban caught his breath. Surely Errigal would leave, attack, something, now—he could not stand for such talk. Ban’s palms tingled for action. He realized he stood poised on the balls of his feet.

  Errigal seethed through his teeth and said, “I would never allow a man—a father—to suffer as you have allowed it—it is cruel, unnatural as this storm! You are unnatural.”

  “Draw your sword,” Connley commanded, drawing his own. “You will die tonight, at my hand.”

  Only Errigal wore no sword.

  “Son—” Errigal said, reaching for Ban’s.

  Ban felt lightheaded, abuzz with lightning energy. He was the storm outside, and he gripped his sword, pulled it a handspan free, then stopped. He stared at his father’s desperate face, at the uneven line where beard hung from cheeks, the damp corners of his big eyes, the handsome nose, his still-youthful mass of dark blond hair. How many times had Ban been so desperate, and his father refused to see or care?

  Ban shoved his sword home in its sheath with a sudden, sharp snick. “I’ve seen no sign from the stars I should help you, sir.”

  This moment was the last drop of honey, the first whisper from a beloved voice. Worth every betrayal, without space for regret.

  “Ban!” Errigal cried.

  The Fox smiled.

  “There is no place to flee,” Connley sneered. “For my retainers are here, and yours will follow the Fox.”

  Regan said, “He is become Errigal, old man.”

  Anger drained from Errigal’s eyes as he looked to his bastard. “Ban,” Errigal said, his voice a husk of its old rich self.

  “They are your sun and moon now, Father,” Ban said, sickly triumphant, afire with revenge. “Your fate is in their star-sharpened hands.”

  He could not stay, could not remain indoors, sheltered from wild nature and the reveling wind. Turning even from the duke and his lady, from the hot, raging fire, from the warmth of the room and his own father, Ban the Fox walked out into the storm.

  ELIA

  “WILL WE ARRIVE soon, Elia? I don’t know how much longer these thighs can hug this beast,” Aefa called from behind her. They rode single file, for this track to Hartfare was narrow. Branches reached down for them, while ferns and sharp bushes reached up, making a constant scratch at shoulders, knees, boots, and their horses’ backsides as they pushed through.

  Rain drizzled through the thick black trees, heavy enough that Elia was glad of the hunter’s hood, for her hair did not react pleasantly to being wet. Water drained down the back of the hood, occasionally pooling forward at the tip just above her eyes, then loosing a fat drop onto her breast. As with the ocean, this rain distorted the voice of the trees, and so she only could hear a jumble of the White Forest’s words.

  Elia lifted her hand to wave her understanding back at Aefa. The girl did not like horses, but she had kept her groans to a minimum, since this was faster than walking. They’d borrowed the horses and Elia’s hood from Lear’s own retainers, whom they’d met at the outskirts of the forest. The men had set up their tents there, until their king would emerge again. According to Captain Seban, the king and his Fool had been led into the forest by the Earl Errigal himself, only a few days past. They couldn’t bring their entire force to Hartfare, and so there they camped on the plain.

  Though Seban wished to send some guard with the princess, Elia insisted she did not need it, for she’d visited Hartfare before, and knew the way. At Elia’s first blood, Regan had brought her, reluctant to travel so far without Gaela, but determined to give Elia what their mother had once given Regan.

  Upon arrival, Brona had offered Elia a small glazed urn. The true gift had been the memory attached: of sitting in her own mother’s library, just herself, the queen, and Brona. Dalat had given Brona this same urn.

  That was the extent of the memory, but it was enough. Elia had felt a homecoming, and unexpectedly, felt loved.

  Brona had hugged her, then hugged Regan, too—who allowed the embrace, surprising Elia more than anything. The sisters spent two days in the little village, under thatched roofs bursting with spring flowers, learning songs from the trees, drinking honey water and a very fine, delicate alcohol Brona promised she made only for new women and the sisters they brought. Those few days were the only time in her life Elia had spent with only Regan, without Gaela. She’d believed, then, that Regan had enjoyed it, too. When they returned to Dondubhan for the winter, however, Regan had become as cool and disregarding as ever. Though every once in a long while, she would seek out Elia, making a point to force her into an opinion on some thing or another, and Regan would, if often disdainfully, listen. But then came Connley.

  Elia shivered as wind found a way into her cloak and set a chill to her spine. She flexed her hands, regretting her lack of gloves. But of course, the retainers had none to fit her.

  She wished for her sisters to come here to Hartfare, so the three of them might peacefully determine what was best for Innis Lear, in this safe, warm, center. Elia worried that peace was more impossible than it had ever been, now that she had chosen to come home without consulting them first. She did not want their throne, but they would never believe it. Especially not now, when the island whispered its unhappiness to her, and called her queen. And what could Elia tell them about the king of Aremoria? And his spy?

  Wind whipped suddenly, spilling a ferocious fall of rain upon them. Elia’s horse jolted forward a few steps before settling, and she thought she spied the flash of fire glow through the bending, shifting blackness ahead. Elia smiled, despite the terrible evening. Hartfare was a good place. Her father was ahead of her, and sheltered, though she knew not how his mind might be. A warm hearth would allow Elia an easy chance to speak with him, comfort him, and perhaps smooth the terrible fissure between them. She was ready, if not to forgive, then to understand. And that was ever the first step.

  The trees opened up, finally, revealing a rain-washed clearing. Thunder marked their entrance with a roar, and a flash of lightning on its heels cast the village they faced in a frozen moment of silver and fire.

  Aefa pushed around and ahead of her, calling out to the village that their princess had come. Elia pulled her horse still, patting her soaked neck. Aefa managed to rouse enough people out in the rain to listen to her, saying she traveled with Elia Lear and requested someone to take them to Brona. There followed a flurry of very wet motion, and Elia was lifted off her horse, a cloak thrown over her, while the horses were led away into one of the nearest buildings. She and Aefa ran with their escort to the distant edge of the village, splashing mud and gasping as rain slapped their eyes and leapt into their mou
ths.

  The door to Brona’s cottage was propped open, promising warm, fiery sanctuary. Elia stumbled across the threshold, looking wildly about the room. There was the long, scarred oak table, there the hearth with its welcoming fire, over which hung a pot of soup and two pots of boiling water; the whitewashed walls and bundles of drying herbs dangling from black rafters, the scattered shadows up on the tangled underside of the heather thatching. There, the empty doorway that led to the mudroom and a privy out the back.

  Her father was not here.

  Wind slammed the door behind Elia. Lightning flashed, and suddenly the storm was a violent monster, a devourer. What had it already destroyed?

  “Kayo?” called Brona, hurrying in from the rear, hair gorgeous and wind-tossed as ever, wool wrapped around her as a mantle. A wildness brightened her eyes, but the witch’s face fell into a flash of despair before she tightened her expression. “Elia. I should not be surprised by this, given the talk of the trees.”

  “Are you all right? What’s wrong with my uncle? Where is my father? He was supposed to be here.” Elia clamped down on her own rising fear.

  Brona shook her head “The old king ran into the wind, before the storm was so terrible. Some hours ago now. Your uncle Kayo and the Fool ran after.”

  Elia started for the door again, but Aefa was there blocking the way, windblown and waterlogged, frowning through long strands of hair plastered across her face. Aefa said, “I want to go after them, too. But that’s madness, Elia! We must wait.”

  “Warm yourself here, and wait as Aefa counsels.” Brona took Elia’s shoulders with an urgency Elia did not feel was deserved. “None should be out in this. Not your fathers, nor—nor Kayo.”

  “Why?” Elia asked softly, hearing, or sensing, a thread of panic in the saying of her uncle’s name.

  “Your…” Brona stopped. She let out a breath, then said, “He is badly injured. I’ve been caring for him and it … he should not be out of bed at all, and much less so on a night like this.”