I am well.
The king, less so.
I fear he suffers for his unwise decisions to send away both his brother and his daughter. His faith in his stars is shaken, bent, and I cannot tell if breaking it will also break him, or, like bursting a boil, relieve us all. He waits for providence to save him, as he ever has, but he speaks more of Dalat. Both speaks of her, and speaks to her, apologies and regrets, though I cannot discover the core of them. Tell your lady—hello, darling child—he loves her still, and it is a wound in himself he sought to heal when he made all his daughters choose, not a wound in her. He believed in two things: stars and Elia, and to his foolish mind both seemed to turn against him in unison, while the two more like to join in opposition to his will stood hand in hand with smiles in their hearts.
We go tomorrow to Astora, but I know not how long it will last. The eldest daughter of Lear is strong in everything but patience, and Lear As He Is would try even the patience of the sun. I fear soon the king will drive himself away from Astore to Connley, where you know as well as I his welcome will not be assured. But he is not in true danger immediately, from anything but his own stricken madness.
Daughter, I would have you home, but I more would have you wise, and wisdom should keep you in the rich bosom of secure Aremoria. One day soon I will riddle the king into rightness, or he will see a star sign that allows him to pretend I did no such thing, and we will be together again all.
Your father
ELIA
ELIA LEANED INTO the corner crenellation of Morimaros’s westernmost tower, letting it dig into her stomach painfully.
Sheer clouds slipped over the sky, like dawn lifting a cowl to shutter the stars before they vanished entirely. She stared out from her isolated perch, searching into the last curve of nighttime. It was still dark to the west, over unseen, distant Innis Lear. Stars twinkled, drops of ice on smoky glass; the Salmon nosing over the horizon, the Net of Fate beside it, stretching out toward Calpurlugh, the Child Star. Her star.
Her tutor Danna would always say messages that came with the Salmon needed fast response. Then there would be variations to the prediction specific to the day of the season, measured on distance to the equinox, the exact angle at the starbreak over the horizon; all kinds of details she could not calculate without paper and charcoal, without digging into a sheaf of schedules and seasonal records. If she asked, all such would be provided. For Morimaros’s mother, Calepia, and his sister, Ianta, were determined to give her anything to make her smile. But Elia would not ask: she refused to live her life this way anymore, governed by star sign.
Yet she woke every morning and could not help searching the sky for only those most obvious of signs: star streaks or vanished stars or the rings around the moon.
There! A star shot just past the Salmon’s nose and vanished. As did the final twinkle of Calpurlugh.
A tiny cry escaped Elia, and she bent fully over the crenellation, pressing her cheek to the cold limestone. What was she to do with her days? These terrible aching storms gathered in her stomach all night long. Releasing them out into the dawn was the only way to function, to politely eat her breakfast, to join the Elder Queen and princess for hot chocolate and study in the airy Queen’s Library. The only way to face all the Aremore lords and ladies, the bakers, soldiers, maids, all of the cheerful court who believed she would marry their king, yet judged her lacking.
At her feet, Aefa shifted and murmured. Elia held her breath, not wishing to wake the girl. Nearly every morning Aefa dragged herself up to this tower, too, without much complaint, and waited in sleep or silence while Elia mourned. After the first time, Aefa brought the feather quilt from Elia’s fine, spacious bed, and—damp stones be damned—made herself a nest. The other maids and even the few guards who passed or noticed were appalled enough that Elia could see it on their otherwise well-trained faces. Things were more formal in Aremoria, with layers of etiquette and a carefully established hierarchy of service, lordship, royalty, and the delicate dance between. The courtiers overlooked Elia’s Learish manners, but with a raised brow or shared glance; Elia was a foreigner. And although they were more used to dark-skinned people from the Third Kingdom here than on Innis Lear, somehow, that made it worse.
She wanted to go home.
Pressing her cheek harder to the stone, Elia imagined being able to leech the castle rock up and into her body, fashion it into armor, into a beetle’s iridescent carapace or better: a chrysalis in which to take refuge until she was transformed. Take strength from that, not those unfeeling stars and their shattering prophecies. Make herself a shell of Aremore stone, a shield to protect her heart, still rooted beneath Innis Lear.
“Lady Elia,” said a low voice from just around the curve of the tower.
Though she startled hard enough to knock her nose to the stone, Elia managed not to whirl about. She did nudge Aefa too roughly as she rose and turned more slowly to face the king’s Soldier in Charge of Royal Security.
La Far was the saddest-seeming man she’d ever seen, and Elia had thought it before she’d even spoken with him. She suspected he was not truly sad, that it was only the way his eyebrows drooped to either side and the perpetual searching frown on his scarred, peachy face. The king’s age, La Far had risen through the military ranks beside Morimaros, and had recently taken over the palace guard. He slipped in and out of class hierarchies, coarse and warriorlike in his scoured orange leather armor, or elegant in the velvet jacket of low Gallian nobility, his rich accent capping off the trick. Aefa idolized him for this smooth facility—for that, and for his very clear blue eyes—for she wished to learn the art of being both servant and low lady. Her father, Lear’s Fool, held a position of high regard and shifting nature at home, after all. But Aefa was too stubborn and unable to hide emotions behind artifice.
The girl scrambled to her feet, swearing under her breath so softly Elia only knew it from the tone and her maid’s habits. Elia drew her shoulders tall and smiled dimly. “Good morning, La Far.”
“The king has sent for you.”
Her heart clutched briefly. “So early. Is something wrong?”
“You have a visitor.”
“Who?” Elia asked, pressing her folded hands at her sternum, refusing to cast her gaze skyward for a hint of what was to come.
“I do not know, but your presence was requested immediately.”
“She’s got to dress,” Aefa said, feather quilt bundled tight in her arms like a bulky babe.
Elia glanced down at her gown, the same she’d worn yesterday. A pale green thing, one the Elder Queen Calepia had insisted brought out some illusive flecks of green in eyes Elia had always understood to be solid, impossibly dark brown, seeming black from any distance. In Lear she’d only owned four dresses at a time, besides her priest robes, and two were for mud and rain and riding. Here Elia was expected to change from morning to evening, and keep a wardrobe of countless fine clothes provided by Calepia. She’d intended to return to her rooms to change before going out into the palace proper.
“The lady seems well dressed to me,” La Far said, his eyes lingering at Elia’s feet where her heavy boots peeked out from under the folds of skirt. “Well enough for this king.”
“Oh my,” Aefa said, disagreeing clearly with every part of her being. La Far studied Aefa with his sad eyes, and the Fool’s daughter wrinkled her nose. “Let me fix her hair, at least.”
Elia touched her hair helplessly, not knowing how she looked. “Aefa, it’s all right.”
“They’ll judge me, Elia, if you don’t look as perfect a queen as theirs, and fit for Morimaros,” Aefa said firmly.
La Far nodded, and so the girl dropped her blanket and climbed onto the crenellations to kneel there, precarious and frowning. The soldier’s eyes widened enough to briefly banish the sorrow, but he caught himself back from clutching Aefa’s elbow in support. Aefa grabbed a handful of Elia’s hair and started undoing the loose, messy braid it had been pinned into. Elia’s scalp
tugged as Aefa used the same pins to make thick twists and quickly wrap them into a bun, complaining under her breath that there was no oil at hand to pinch into the ends. Elia closed her eyes and thought of her father’s blotchy anger, the cold detachment on Regan’s face, Gaela’s proudly curled lips, and the incandescent passion sharpening Ban Errigal’s mud-green eyes as he pushed with all his strength against the ancient standing stones. She was well versed in ignoring dull pains.
Elia thought of Aefa, too: wearing her heart aggressively for all to see because she thought pretense was as impractical as poetry. And she thought of Morimaros, the opposite; Elia had rarely seen emotion on his face, though it was sometimes to be heard in his voice. Three days previous, they’d walked in a garden, and when he said he’d like her to be happy in Aremoria, it had been with such a quiet, thin tone, as if he was barely able to speak. Surely I don’t make you nervous, she’d said, and the king replied, Surely not, but the self-deprecating humor had warmed Elia’s whole body.
“Done, though it will barely do.”
Elia opened her eyes as Aefa spoke, and she was surprised to find La Far watching her openly. The soldier nodded once. “Thank you,” she said to Aefa. “I’ll go to Morimaros and you take that blanket back, have the morning to yourself if you like.”
Aefa paused only long enough to gather up the quilt again and use the motion to hide a quick squeeze of Elia’s fingertips. Then she dashed off, glancing back over her shoulder to take in all of La Far from behind. When she noticed Elia notice her do it, she flushed bright pink. She dove into the dark arched stairway.
La Far offered his gloved hand to Elia, and she placed hers lightly atop it. The guard led her carefully to the steep stone steps and turned nearly sideways to support Elia as she came down after him. He did not require talk of her, for which she was grateful. The narrow tower stairs spiraled tightly, and it was dizzying despite the growing light coming through the archer slits. They’d been carved through to the outer wall with whimsy: not just plain thin rectangles but cut like simple flowers or candle flames. So many parts of the Lionis palace surprised her thus. Cornerstones carved with curling trees, tapestries of nothing but flowers instead of bold lines or rampant animals or hunting scenes. Windows of cut, colored glass and ceilings painted with clouds and tiny saints and winged lions.
Elia and La Far went from the tower into one of the vast hallways lit by tall candlesticks with as many silver branches as a tree. The floor was elegant lines of polished wood, lacking the coat of rushes atop soil or stone that was still used on Innis Lear. Such was the display of Aremore wealth and power, she supposed, though it all felt distant, impersonal. Formal, perhaps, was the word. In Lear she’d eaten meals at long tables with her father and sisters, with earls and retainers, with priests and apprentices, but also with the families of the retainers and castle servants. Elia knew the names of the dairy girls and the familial relations strung like a net between every person in her father’s households. This Aremore castle did smell only of roses and river wind. But Elia had loved the scent of pine boughs brought in to cover the winter floor, the cling of perfumed hair and candle fat of Innis Lear.
La Far took her past the Queen’s Library and into the luxurious corridors where the king kept his personal rooms and greeting hall, to his study and private dining room. They veered left, on an upper level of the main building. She’d never been inside it yet, though she’d seen the balcony from the central courtyard directly below.
“Sir,” La Far said as he opened the heavy door by shoving with his fist.
“Novanos, good,” Morimaros called from inside the study, and the soldier handed Elia in, remaining himself at the entrance.
Though the tall room immediately engulfed her with its rich red and orange colors, it was impossible for Elia not to see King Morimaros first.
He stood like a soldier at attention, hands clasped behind his back so his shoulders showed even wider. Here in his castle he rarely wore armor, but his orange leather coat was thick enough to serve as such if needed. As ever, Elia was struck by the hardness of him, from his boots to the dark hair sheared so close to his skull. In the past two weeks she’d become rather amazed at the control with which he made every gesture, from unbuckling his sword belt and looping it over the back of a chair to kneeling for a hug from his nephew Isarnos. Morimaros limited his speaking to the fewest possible words, and although he was unceasingly polite, he never hesitated to get physically close to her if he wished to tell Elia some quiet thing or point out a private joke.
This morning dawn light angled through the edges of the balcony windows onto the bright wooden floor. It streaked toward Morimaros like an eager friend, but he waited just outside the direct rays, avoiding the gilded light. “Elia,” he said, and nothing more. His dark blue eyes flicked along yesterday’s dress, but unless he owned a dozen identical orange leather coats, Morimaros wore the same thing every day and so wouldn’t judge her as harshly as others might.
She bowed her head, but before she could offer a word, Elia noticed the other man in the room.
It was her uncle, the Oak Earl.
“Kayo!” Elia cried.
“Starling,” he said, sweeping toward her.
Embracing, they remained silent for a long moment. Elia pressed her cheek hard against the rough leather knot-work on the shoulder of his coat. But the king watched, so Elia slipped her arms back to her sides and tilted her face up to Kayo’s. He did not let go of her shoulders.
It seemed he’d aged a decade. Was that new steel gray in his tight black curls? Reddish shadows pressed under his eyes, and he watched her with a pinched brow. Kayo managed a smile. “You look horrified, starling,” he said with wry humor in his voice.
She shook her head and touched her fingers beneath his weary eyes. “Banishment is not a mantle that suits you.”
“And so I shall shrug it off. I return to Innis Lear immediately.”
Shocked, Elia looked to Morimaros.
The king said, “He will not be talked out of it.”
“Uncle.” Elia took one of his hands from her shoulder and gripped it tight. “Your death rides on it. Stay here with me. I know you’re welcome.”
“You are,” Morimaros said, as if he’d said it before.
The Oak Earl shook his head, though Elia thought painfully, wistfully, that he no longer carried any such title. He was only Kayo. Like her.
“I want to go home. But I cannot. My sisters…” She paused, surprised by her own low vehemence. “They ordered me to stay away until they’re crowned.”
“I will do what I can, starling, rest assured of that.”
“Kayo, stay with me here in Lionis. My father promised to kill you. And though a month ago I’d have sworn he never would, I don’t know what goes on in his mind now. What if he would go through with it for his stupid, terrible pride?” She caught herself curling her fists against her stomach to hold in the growing ache, and forced her hands to smooth down the soft skirts of her gown.
“Innis Lear is my home, Elia, and I love Lear as my brother. No matter what he says as a king, I have never betrayed him in either guise. I won’t begin now, when he is lost in a storm of confusion.”
Elia said, “Uncle, I want you to be careful.”
“I have your sister Gaela’s help,” Kayo admitted, bitterness tainting what should have been a hopeful thing. “She’s promised to break any sentence on my head. More for her disdain toward Lear than for any belief in me, but at least I’ve yet allies.”
“Good. Gaela can protect you. She’s stronger than he is now.”
Kayo’s eyes lifted toward the ceiling. “We are as strong as the people who love us, Elia, and nobody loves Gaela Lear.”
It punched her, and she stepped back from him so her hip knocked into the king’s heavy table. “Regan does. I do,” she said. Her uncle’s mouth pulled in regret, but Elia shook her head, refusing any arguments. “Though I have little enough strength to offer.”
With a
weighty sigh, Kayo said, “She will not accept strength from love, then. And she should, in this mess of a time. Your father threw everything into turmoil by removing you, by naming them both, and by giving himself into their care. He is still technically king until they’re crowned at Midwinter, so Astore and Connley will plot and scheme until the last moment if your sisters let them, with no one left to side for Lear.” The Oak Earl shook his head. “They’ve never stopped such scheming before now, I don’t see why they would now. But maybe it’s in their letters. I’ve brought you some. From Gaela, and Regan, and, strangely enough, from the Earl Errigal. Also one from the Fool to his daughter.”
“Errigal?” Elia took a deep breath. The study smelled of cinnamon and sweetness. Probably from whatever was cooling in the ceramic mugs on the table. She’d written several letters to Ban, but she’d never had the confidence to give them to anybody for delivery. All had ended up ashes in her hearth.
Kayo turned away to rummage in a worn cloth bag. He pulled a flat bundle of letters free and offered them by reaching over the curve of the table. Elia accepted, hugging them to her chest.
“Elia,” Morimaros said, “I would like to know what Errigal has to say to you, but it is only a request.”
She glanced at the king. His close-trimmed beard hid what subtle expression she might’ve otherwise found in the clench of his jaw or the fair skin about his mouth. There was nothing but control to see in his eyes. He was standing very near.
Unwrapping the letter bundle, Elia nervously freed the third letter, closed only with a smear of wax and her name scrawled by a hand she did not know well. Elia set her sisters’ letters, and the one for Aefa, onto the table and unfolded Errigal’s.
A tiny slip of paper fell out of the middle, fluttering toward the floor.
Fast as a cat, Morimaros caught it. He looked up at her from his crouch, proving his eyes did not stray to the note. But Elia nodded her permission. The king read it; his lashes flickered in either surprise or displeasure.
The Queens of Innis Lear Page 21