“Either way,” Kayo soothed, “it is up to you, Ban, to remain true and canny. To be the Fox you’ve made yourself into. Help Elia as you promised, by bridging the break between Connley and Astore, while you have Connley’s ear—and find out more of their feelings toward Elia’s rule, what they might do if Morimaros backs her claim. I admit that as Elia’s uncle and also as Oak Earl, I would rather Aremoria remain an ally only, than a husband and conqueror. But it might come to that. And beware, Connley’s line is dangerous as snakes. I go to Astora first thing in the morning, because from my last conversations with Astore and Gaela I know they both want war, though for different reasons. Astore would like to crush Connley for their divisive history, and Gaela wants the test of battle, no matter the cause.”
“Do they not care that the island’s magic is fading?”
Brona had stared at Ban in surprise, then smiled with all the sorrow of a decade. “It will survive until the island unites again, under a crown of stars and roots. I do everything I can to keep it vital. Everything.”
He’d looked at her, and understood she meant all her choices as a mother, too. He knew, but it didn’t hurt less. “Regan Lear loves the roots.”
“She does not weave star and root together: she knows no balance in passion nor magic. But Elia knows the language of trees as much as the sky. You taught her, my son, to love the roots, and she also loves the stars. See?”
Kayo nodded. “She is what we need for Innis Lear.”
Ban thought of their certainty again as he knocked on the outer door of Connley’s rooms, the letter from one sister to another as cold as ice against his fractured heart. A maid of Regan’s retinue answered quickly, and Ban had only to say his name before he was ushered in to wait by a narrow hearth. Though he’d been prepared to state his purpose, the maid was only gone a minute before she returned: Ban was to join the duke and lady in their bedroom.
Though put off by the unusual intimacy of such an arena, Ban went in at the maid’s side. The girl slipped back out and shut the heavy door.
“Ban Errigal,” Connley said eagerly from the wide, raised bed. Woven blankets surrounded him in disarray. The duke was unclothed. Shocked, Ban darted his eyes across to Lady Regan, who stood at the ancient stone hearth in a loosely tied robe and held a goblet. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders.
Ban bowed stiffly.
The lady seem to float as she went to the round table and poured a third goblet of clear red wine. “Good evening, Ban,” she said in her cool, lovely, all-knowing voice.
“Highness,” the Fox murmured, as the duke too got out of bed, pulling a robe over his shoulders. He did not tie it closed, but let it hang in long, silky lines, framing his nakedness like dark blue pillars. Connley stood calmly and reached toward Regan, who placed the closest goblet of wine into his hand. Connley walked to Ban, and Ban struggled not to back away. He’d been near unclothed men before, but never one who used his nakedness like this, as a weapon. This was a message: You are no threat to me and mine; even naked I am not vulnerable to any danger you could present.
The Fox drew himself up and accepted the wine Regan offered. “Lord,” he said quietly.
“Join us, Ban. We’ve longed to speak with you outside your father’s rather gregarious presence, especially after the news my wife has given about your witch work.” Connley placed himself elegantly into the carved chair to the right of the hearth. The lord casually flipped the end of his robe over his thighs as Regan sank onto the arm of the chair, as straight-backed as the furniture itself, and as luxurious.
Ban sipped the light wine and sat across the hearth, doing his best to control how he moved and what his face revealed. He’d have rather knocked back the full goblet to relax himself in this sultry, unexpected space. The final rays of sunset carved burnt shadows against Ban’s eyes. Firelight flickered and candles, too, set onto the windowsills and in head-height nooks built into the old stone walls. This room was part of the old Keep, made of the ruins of Errigal, and appropriate, for it had been a Connley who’d first razed the place so many generations ago.
Regan said, “We missed you today.”
“I visited my mother,” Ban answered gruffly.
“How is Brona?” Regan’s smile warmed ever so slightly.
“Well.” He couldn’t stop searching for double meaning in everything. No more than he could ignore the bounty in front of him: the bared inner curve of Regan’s breast, the strong lines of Connley’s lower stomach. Ban took another drink.
“Several times I remember she brought you to Dondubhan. You met Elia when you were wee things, before you were born, even,” Regan murmured, her hand floating down toward her belly. Ban felt a bite of sorrow for the lovely, dangerous lady. The problem in her womb was clearly not for any desire lacking between husband and wife.
But Regan dismissed her melancholy with a delicate flick of her fingers. “My mother and I both have been fond of Brona and her potions.”
Connley finished his wine. “But we want you just for us,” he said bluntly.
Ban’s fingers tightened around his goblet, his skin all a-tingle. A hissed chuckle from the fire made him think there was residual magic in the room.
The duke continued, “You have promised wizarding and wormwork for my wife, but that is not all we want of you.”
“My lord,” Ban said.
“We want you, Ban, as Earl Errigal, once we are crowned. Not your loutish father. You are more to our style. Cunning and resilient. Your reputation is subtle and strong, and proves you could be a fine leader of men.”
Relief and astonishment dried out his tongue. Ban sipped the wine again, staring at Connley.
“Well, Ban?” Connley prompted.
“I … I never meant to be Errigal, or a leader of men,” he said, stalling.
Both Regan and the duke smiled identical sleek smiles.
Blood rushed in Ban’s ears, rather like the furious whispers of a forest. He wanted to smile with them, exactly like that. They were completely united, as Ban had never been in his life, with anyone. Not his parents, not his brother, not Morimaros. Elia, almost, perhaps, but she had been taken away before they could make anything as complete as this.
“As far as we are concerned,” Connley said, “you are already Errigal. Your father is vexing in his grief, a drain on this Keep and unfit to look past his personal stake to the greater ones of Innis Lear. He is inextricably attached to the wretched once-king. It will only be a moment before this earl steps beyond his means and we, in our power as Connley and as heir to Lear’s crown, will instate you. We care not for your bastardy. Your actions prove better than your stars.”
“My lord,” Ban said, unable to find further words. Only Mars had ever so directly discounted the circumstances of Ban’s birth.
“And more,” Regan said, her eyebrow lifting elegantly. “We offer you our youngest sister, furthering the alliance.”
“Elia?” he breathed. “She is in Aremoria. She will marry Morimaros.”
“We have counseled her not to, for it would weaken Innis Lear’s position. And Elia loves this island. She never before wished to leave it, and never would have, we think, had not our father driven her away in his addled state.” A wrinkle appeared about her nose, the only sign of Regan’s disgust. “Elia will return home, make no mistake, and when she does, she would be a good wife for the powerful Earl Errigal. A tempting offer to you both, because she loved you, once.”
Though some part of him was sure he was being manipulated, Ban could not help wanting all she offered. It was greater and more ambitious than anything he’d dreamed of, to be at Connley and Regan’s side when King Lear breathed his last, to welcome Elia home and then have her for his own. His wife. To share with her the way these two shared with each other, in heart and body and mind. Legitimately. To put down roots together here on Innis Lear—where with Regan and Connley—the island would thrive, the stars cease to command.
Drunk more on wishes than wine, Ban’s hea
d spun. He tried to imagine himself as an earl, rather than a wizard; a man at the center, not a boy on the outside, or a spy set apart. But for Ban to be Errigal, Rory could never be pardoned. This lie that he was a patricide must remain.
Caught up in the heat of his hopes, Ban reminded himself that there were always casualties of war, as he knew far better than Rory. His brother had served only as idle commander, while Ban had been sent as cannon fodder. Before he’d saved himself, proven useful to another, better king. What sweet revenge it would be upon the hated Lear for Ban the Bastard to father precious Elia’s children. Morimaros be damned.
With his wine halfway to his mouth again, Ban froze in sudden horror.
Elia was not his to long for. Her children were not his to claim. What would she feel if she heard Ban’s thoughts? He had wanted her to choose him, wanted to be chosen by her. She was not a pup easily traded between kennels, as Ban had been. She was meant to be prized—not just as a daughter or sister or wife should have been, but on her own. As herself. Ban swallowed and lowered his goblet so it rested on his thigh. He thought of Elia’s face, the night of the Zenith Court. Who are you? And then, who was Ban? Two nobodies. What did he want?
What a magnificent mess swirling around him.
Morimaros wanted him here to gain Errigal’s iron for trade at the least, and prepare for an Aremore invasion if possible. Likely wanted Ban at his side, in case of a war, and even if Mars got Elia for his queen, he would expect his best spy to protect them both with his knowledge, if not his magic. Kay Oak wanted Ban to be a bridge between the sisters, and between their lords, until Elia could be brought home as queen, in accord with her father’s mad heart. But Kayo had no further plans for Ban, and Ban had no interest in following the Oak Earl’s path, forsaking his own life for the plans of Lear. Regan saw Ban’s magic, as Mars did, but she saw beyond its usefulness to her. She understood it. She believed in it, and loved the roots and forests as he did. And she and her lord wanted him to unseat his own despised father, to marry Elia, and serve Innis Lear through his own heart. As himself.
He did not know if Elia wanted him at all, for anything.
Ban glanced up at Regan, then expanded the look to her husband. “I will join you. But not to win Elia’s hand, or even to earn my father’s title, which will be at your service still. I will do it because it is right for Innis Lear.”
Even as he said it, the Fox was not sure if he meant to betray Mars, or only to embed himself deeper where he’d been planted.
Regan rose, her brown eyes glittering, and she came to him. She took his goblet and set it aside. As Connley watched, she pulled Ban to his feet and put her mouth against his. She tasted sweet and sharp, her lips like flower petals, her tongue darting. It felt more like an earth saint’s blessing than a woman’s kiss.
Then she drew away. “You are so noble, Ban the Fox. We are glad to have you on our side.”
Connley joined them. He kissed Ban’s cheeks, first one, then the other, and then his mouth. There was more heat than had been in his wife’s touch. “Hail, Errigal,” the duke murmured against Ban’s lips.
Ban could not help the shiver that tore down his spine.
“Finish your drink, Ban, and tell us what the Fox of Aremoria would do next,” Regan said.
The letter from Elia Lear to her sister remained inside Ban’s coat, discarded across the arm of a chair.
SIX YEARS AGO, INNIS LEAR
“YOU CAN’T HIDE from me, Ban Errigal!”
The princess sang out her call, smiling all the while as she picked her way across the mossy meadow. She avoided crushing any of the tiny white sparflowers, but kicked at every dandelion gone to seed. Her trusted boots remained by the creek where she’d been dipping her toes, waiting for her sister Regan to finish collecting caterpillar husks and wildflowers. The water had been cool, the silt soft underneath her feet, and Elia wished to throw off her light summer layers and revel like a river spirit.
But the hanging branches of a willow had brushed her shoulders and said, Ban is near.
Not having seen her friend in several months, Elia splashed to shore and asked the trees for direction.
This was the edge of the White Forest nearest the Summer Seat, on land her uncle the Oak Earl tended. Wind-stripped moors and hard grazing land, except for under the trees, where it became a bright place with quiet meadows full of young deer and hanging sunlight, creeks spilling from fresh springs, and very few spirits. It was easy for Elia to listen to a whisper here and there, to trace a straight path toward Ban. Her breath came light and full, as she tasted the height of summer on her tongue, happy for quite a long stretch, and happier still to know who it was she chased.
When she came to the line of slate and limestone rocks turned upside down, the worms and sleeping beetles exposed, Elia said his name aloud, twice—once in the people’s tongue and once in the language of trees. No answer came back to her. But she saw the imprint of a narrow boot, thin-soled and supple enough to show where the ball of his foot hit and the toe brushed after. She traced the curve of it, and went the way it pointed, humming to herself a song with nonsense words like her father’s Fool would sing, but changed them to flower-names and root words, in a long cheerful pattern that all the birds appreciated. A half-dozen bluebirds and sparrows hopped from their nests to flit along behind her.
The meadow of sparflowers and white-puffed dandelions glowed with traces of sunlight and floating seeds, yet all was still. Someone had told these grasses and trees to be quiet.
Elia smiled. She was just fourteen and none on the island were better than she at listening, for none but she both understood and rarely demanded a response. That was Ban’s role: he asked, he spoke, he commanded. His mother, the gorgeous witch Brona, meddled and manipulated, twisting vines and flowers to her will with teasing and fair exchange. Regan had just begun to pull at roots, to weave them into hopes and messages, pouring her blood into the barren space left behind.
So Elia listened now, from the center of the meadow, her little brown hands caressing the grasses gone to seed, and the tufted dandelion heads, the kiss-soft petals of delicate white flowers. Her hair moved and shifted as she cocked her head, a mass of free copper-brown-black curls. She wore a gown her sister had once owned, and so it was three intricate and expensive layers, but all of them some kind of yellow, and Elia was everything summer-warm in the world.
One of the trees at the north side of the meadow shivered. It was so slight, so quiet a sound, Elia knew anyone else would not find him.
She leapt up, dashed to the alder, and put her hands on the grayish trunk, rubbing her fingers along the tiny horizontal markings on the bark, so like the written language of trees. Down the middle a fold pressed together, nearly four feet tall. Open up, she whispered, and the bark shivered, giggling at her wishes. Elia kissed it, and again. Open up, please! Though there was no true word for please in the language of trees.
Elia!
It wasn’t the tree complaining, but Ban.
She laughed. “Come out! I’ve not seen you in so long. Are you taller?”
The tree shivered again, and the fold opened like arms, revealing a triangle of a hollow between two wide roots, and there she spied him half crouched in the darkness.
He grimaced at her, wiping mud from his cheeks. But she leaned in too fast, and fell against him with a little laugh. They crushed together in the musty hollow, laughter echoing up to the tree’s heart. All the branches shook as they tickled the tree from the inside. Elia held tight around Ban’s neck, and he lifted her to her toes and dragged them both out.
They collapsed into the meadow, knocking elbows and knees, quite breathless. Ban smiled because sunlight found Elia’s horn-black eyes, making them shine, and she smiled because she had her hands on his tawny cheeks. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he said back, rather gruff for a boy.
Elia sat. Petals and dandelion seeds fell out of her hair. “Why didn’t you come see me? How long have you be
en near?”
Ban absently caught the leavings as they drifted from her hair. His own was long and rough, knotted in places from old braids he never untied, greasy as young men without parents are so skilled at maintaining. His fingers were already talented, though, and they danced as he wove petals and seeds into a wide ring with a strand of wind.
“Ban,” she said softly, touching the corner of his mouth with one finger. She pushed it gently up.
“My father told me to be more proper and keep my distance from the king’s daughters.”
“And you obeyed?” Horrified, Elia could only laugh again.
A slow smile crept across his face, showing off sharp little teeth. He tossed the ring of wind and petals at her, and it looped around her nimbus of hair. “If you’re to have petals in your hair, my lady, they should be a crown.”
She stood, then curtsied. Spreading her arms, she tipped her head back and asked the wind to bring her shadows and flicks of stars. Wind ruffled the canopy, and shadows collected in her palms. She clapped them together, and they exploded into a spiky circlet of wavering, reaching gray fingers. With a laugh, she snapped with one hand, and there sparked to life tiny white ghost lights, which she dotted about the crown like diamonds. Then she set it gently upon Ban’s unruly hair. “My lord,” she murmured, holding out her hand for his.
Accepting, Ban stood with her. He was a breath taller, and his rangy little-boy shoulders had broadened beyond hers. The plain linen shirt hung open at his chest, and Elia admired the soft line of his collarbone. She touched the point of the open shirt, skimming her hand up his sternum to flatten it over his heart. Ban cupped her elbow and slid his other arm around her waist.
The meadow hummed, and the bluebirds and sparrows and a few mourning doves chirped and sang.
Elia Lear and Ban Errigal danced. Slow, and with a rhythm none but those who heard the language of trees would recognize. Stops and starts, careful spinning, a pause and a turn, then looping a spiral out and out to the edges of the meadow; back again, the opposite way, and their quiet feet stamped words into the grass and sparflowers, knocking seeds into the air, and spinning through layers of light and shadow and light again.
The Queens of Innis Lear Page 34