The Queens of Innis Lear

by Tessa Gratton

  He stood up behind her; she heard a quiet rustle as he did what she’d instructed. Elia’s breath was taut and fast, and as she listened she pictured it; pictured Ban stripping off his trousers and smallclothes, hopefully wrapping up in a blanket or something Brona kept, for surely he knew where such things might be found.

  The fire’s heat tightened the skin of her face, especially her dry lips, but Elia built it up, unblinking, no matter how the flames blazed in her eyes.

  “Are you real?”

  Ban’s voice, so close behind her.

  Elia dropped the iron rod as she stood and turned to face him.

  He was naked but for the blanket around his shoulders like a cloak. Barely taller than her, barely broader, and bruised, scraped raw, and dirty. His brow furrowed and he watched her with those forceful mud-green eyes. Firelight caught in them: the flicker of a faraway bonfire through miles of black forest, a candle trapped at the base of a well.

  “I’m real,” Elia whispered, finally.

  “I didn’t expect … to find you here.”

  She stepped nearer to him. “Nor I you, but it is … right. This is where you’re from, and the storm…” If it had brought them both here, was the island itself responsible? Here, the person she needed most right now. Ban was everything wild and cherished about Innis Lear: the shadowy trees, the harsh stone pillars, the windy moors and deep cutting gorges. The aching, curling waves of the sea. The danger and secrets. Of course he appeared tonight, reminding her what she needed—loved—about this forsaken place. Compared to the sun-warm coast of Aremoria and its equally bright, powerful king, Ban Errigal was everything she’d missed of her home. No matter his intentions, or perhaps even more because of them. Lies and secrets were part of Innis Lear, too.

  “It brought us here,” Ban murmured.

  Elia kissed him, surprising them both.

  She pressed her entire body to his, and grabbed his sopping, unruly hair.

  His lips were cold, but he opened them, and his mouth was hot.

  Elia had never kissed anyone like this: hungrily and in a rage of sudden passion. It overwhelmed her, and she clung to Ban’s head, to his neck. She kissed the corner of his mouth, sucked at his bottom lip. He tasted like mud and salt, and ever so slightly of blood. She wanted all of it, to consume him, to make him part of her, like the island was part of her.

  And then Ban was kissing her back, truly and eagerly. His arms came around her, and Elia wrapped hers around his neck, leaning up onto her toes. The blanket fell away from his shoulders and flapped to the earthen floor. His skin was so cold, but he was hard and lean as a sword. She felt her belly against his, her breasts flat against his chest; but for her thin wool shirt nothing separated their skin. Elia could hardly breathe at the realization. Her fingers dug into Ban’s shoulders, both excited and afraid.

  She knew—from crude things Gaela had said, from Brona and Regan that week when Elia was thirteen, from listening to her father’s retainers when she shouldn’t have, from stories Aefa told, and her own cautious curiosity—she knew exactly what her body was asking for, and what the dangers were, what the joys might be. Elia slid away from Ban and said his name softly.

  He studied her face, panting barely, just enough so she could see the pink promise of his tongue and a crescent shine of teeth in the firelight. “Elia,” he breathed back.

  There were so many years and lies between them. They were practically strangers, but for memory and hope.

  It was enough.

  She pulled him to the low bed, holding her eyes on his face because she was too panicky and delighted and inflamed to look anywhere else. He allowed himself to be led, to be shoved gently down. Elia climbed on top of Ban, stretching out along his whole body. It was so dark but for the glow of firelight, and her curls fell around her face as she leaned over him, making them a private chapel of hair and eyes, noses and mouths.

  Elia kissed him gently. Ban tentatively touched her hair, petting it reverently as she kissed, as she brushed her lips on his again and again, like tiny sips, shallow gasps of love. He dug his hands into her curls until he found her skull and tilted her head before leaning up off the pillow to kiss her more deeply.

  Then Ban sat up, carrying Elia with him.

  Her legs fumbled to either side of his lap; she gasped at the feel of him, his skin, his strong thighs, his belly, the rough hair and flesh rubbing against her. Elia clung to him from inches away. Their noses nearly touched, and she could hardly look into his eyes for being so close.

  “Elia,” he said, and she felt his voice in every part of her: her name in his mouth raised the hairs all over her body, made her neck and arms and breasts shiver, her toes flex.

  “Ban.”

  “Stop” was his next word, and Elia felt that, too.

  She jerked. “I don’t want to stop,” she whispered. “I want this—you—I want all of it, and I know it’s dangerous, and I don’t know how exactly…” she shifted her hips forward, because maybe she did know how.

  Ban pushed her farther away. “You don’t know this is what you want.”

  “I do, though.” Elia smiled.

  This huge feeling was not grief or fury; it was warm, it enveloped her whole being. She did not want to diffuse it or let it go, but to instead let it overwhelm her. “I do know, as sure as I know anything. I want you, and this.”

  “It isn’t what I want.” His voice was scorching.

  Elia froze, and so did the world. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to pause in its licking. In the next moment Elia climbed away from Ban Errigal. Her chest ached; she pressed a hand to her stomach against a blossoming nausea.

  “Wait,” he said.

  There was no place for her to go. Elia stood still and held herself with her back to him, her mind empty because she refused all thoughts. Ban quickly rustled about, and then appeared wearing his damp, muddy pants to face her.

  Because she was the daughter of a king, Elia Lear kept her chin high and met Ban Errigal’s wretched, burning gaze.

  He said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I meant … El—Elia—I mean I don’t…” He shook his head, his mouth turned into pain and sorrow. “You kissed me, and we almost … I’ve never wanted that, except with you. But I do. Want you. I want—I just want something for myself. Free of consequences. You.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. She wanted it too: no plans, no future, no consequences.

  “But I can’t. I know what kind of creature a bed like that makes.”

  “Creature?” she said, her voice high as a sparrow’s. “You’re not the sum of your birth and stars.”

  “You don’t know what I am, what I’ve done.”

  Rory Errigal’s image appeared in her mind, as did that of Morimaros, Aefa, and the soldiers she’d seen in Aremoria, the world beyond this bed, beyond Hartfare and Innis Lear. She did know much of what he had done, and she wanted him. She knew what he was, and it was enough. She reached for him.

  He let her touch his face, even brought his hands up over hers.

  “Do you hate me for being my father’s daughter?” she asked softly.

  “I could never hate you,” Ban said, and his entire body shivered.

  He kissed her gently, slow as a sunrise, and trembling. She felt tears slide under her fingers where she held his face. And then he pulled roughly away, a curse harsh on his tongue. He scrubbed at his eyes. A scratch on his forearm glinted red with fresh blood.

  “Ban, I know what you’ve done. I know what you are. And I do not hate it.”

  “I am what I made myself,” he said.

  Elia’s cheeks remained hot, her body too aware of him; she was flooded with embarrassment and desire still, and most of all, joy. Elia wanted to make Ban feel better, be better. She wanted him to see what she saw, but she didn’t know how.

  Grief or rage or love: why did Elia never have the right words to speak?

  A queen would have them.

  So that was what she decided to say.

>   “Everyone wants different things from me, and it is never enough: my father wants that I be a star, only his, and not even my own; my sisters require that I submit to them, or to never have existed at all; Morimaros wishes that I be his queen; and Brona and Kayo want that, too, but for them! Even Aefa wants me to rule, if it makes me safe. You’re the only one who ever asked me to be something for myself. And there is a chaotic web of danger all around us—war and spies, dukes and kings, and even just this storm, this breaking island—and I don’t know how to make any of it better. I just know that I want to. I want to make Innis Lear strong, to help the land revive and the rootwaters clear, and I want you to kiss me again, and always.”

  “Why?” His voice cracked.

  “Because I…” Her shoulders lifted; her voice drained away. “Because this is the only way I know what to say to you. We’ve never needed words.”

  “I think you’re so beautiful, Elia, it hurts me sometimes.”

  It hurt her, too, the hearing of it. Morimaros had said she was beautiful, gently convincing. This was so different. With Ban it was a struggle. It was selfish to take and take.

  Elia closed her mouth, stopped trying to speak. Instead, she pulled Ban back to the low bed. She sat on it, her head level with his waist, and untied his pants again. He held still, the long line of his muscled belly trembling, hands frozen at his sides. Elia focused on the work, and when the laces were free, she grasped the band of the pants and gently tugged them down over his hips. Her eyes flicked to his because she couldn’t quite look at the rest of him.

  Ban’s lips parted. “Elia,” he breathed.

  “We’re in the heart of the White Forest. Whatever we need, Brona can help with.”

  “She’s not perfect with prevention,” he said bitterly. “She had me.”

  Wrinkling her nose, Elia said, “Because she wanted you, Ban! And I want you, too. I always, always have.”

  His shoulders hitched as his breath went ragged, and Elia leaned back onto the bed, pulling the long shirt up her thighs, holding his gaze. All her skin was tight, and tingled: her lips, her nipples, the small of her back, and the damp well of her body, aching.

  “Ban,” she said.

  He gave in, kneeling on the edge of the bed. Elia reached for him, and Ban bent over her. They scooted together, and Elia spread her thighs, pulling up the shirt to get it off herself. She had to wiggle where it stuck under her back, twisting her arms until it slipped up over her head, dragging at her hair. Ban did not help at all, propped over her on hands and knees. His breath was hot, skimming around her breasts and along her ribs.

  In the dim orange firelight, Elia shivered. She touched Ban’s chest: scars pale against his skin, some random, others in obvious designs of the language of trees. One of them spelled out his name, and Elia leaned up to kiss it, put her tongue there, making Ban groan.

  He hardly moved, letting Elia do what she would, still hanging over her, every part of him awake and hot with desire.

  She recalled Aefa’s specific instructions: Whatever else you do, make sure you’re damp enough, if not from exertion and lust, then spit or grease or something, don’t forget that, especially your first time. Try to relax! Not your strong suit, I know. I hope you’ll have some wine.

  Oh, stars, and her friend was only a cottage away.

  Elia smiled suddenly. Ban did not smile back, but something in his eyes brightened.

  She touched her belly, and then petted the wild hair at the top of her thighs, at the crest between them, and slipped her fingers between the folds, showing him. “Ban,” she whispered, using her other hand to caress his chin, nudging his face down so he would look.

  With a little gasp, his entire body shuddered and he put his hand over hers, between them. At the first touch of his finger against her unbearably tender flesh, Elia whimpered, her hips lifting off the mattress. “Ban,” she said again. More urgently, louder.

  He shifted, panting, and carefully, shivering, they moved together, focused so precisely either would have been embarrassed to realize. Elia put her hands against his ribs, widened her hips, and whispered his name in the language of trees.

  THE NIGHT BEFORE the island shattered, there was a raging storm.

  Wind cracked the sky, drawing thunderclouds impossibly tall, like castles for lost earth saints, throwing black shadows over the whole island, coast to coast. All living on Innis Lear hid, tucked heads beneath blankets or huddled in nests or tree hollows, shivering, wretched; the sharp trick of lighting bit at tongues and fingernails and the napes of necks.

  Those forced to venture out did so with clenched teeth and layers of protection, sticking carefully to known paths, holding hands, bracing against the ferocious wind and squinting through driving rain.

  Those lost clung to anything they could find.

  One let rain cut against her cheeks like cold daggers, preparing herself for what was to come. She was glad for such a roiling, starless sky.

  One raced in such a terrible frenzy she could not feel the rain at all. It was only desperate tears, hot on her cheeks, and a storm of panic, lighting her from the inside.

  One found, finally, the balance she’d long overlooked; branches stretching between all she’d ever loved. It was not a choice, or destiny. It was not storm nor sea nor rootwater well. It was only—always—a heart.

  Another screamed for the stars to reveal themselves, cursing their distant impotence. How dare they allow a storm, a force of nature, to diminish them, to muffle their voices that should have called to him, should have whispered prophecy for comfort or action or—or anything! He would take anything now.

  “Where is my wife?” he cried, and, “What have we done to her?”

  At his side were two others, a foolish brother and a fraternal fool, lifting the man when he fell, stumbling through the storm with him, exhausted and heart-sick all.

  The island held for a breath, gathering strength, pulling wind and power. The darkness overwhelmed.

  The old man pushed on, or tried to, as fast as he could run through cold aches and the sheets of rain tearing through the canopy of trees. The light was shattered; there was no moon, and only the occasional burst of lightning that to dazzle his eyes: still, in each flash he saw her, his lost love, then she would vanish again into the black night.

  In a meadow, the man spread his arms, yelling into the darkness that he could not be killed by a mere storm! Not without the stars’ permission!

  But the land didn’t care. The island stormed. The island knew what this king had done, and not done, what he had betrayed—it knew his veins no longer bled rootwater.

  He had lost all.

  He had nothing.

  No crown, no castle, no daughters, no wife.

  The stars had abandoned him, even his most favorite star. He was nothing.

  The island was all.

  Roots, rocks, trees, vicious sky and clouds and rain—the fire of lightning. Between him and his beloved stars, slicing them apart.

  Nothing can come from nothing.

  The fools there, holding his elbows, wept and promised they would see him safe, but the old man knew what the island knew: this was an ending night.

  Thrusting free of them, the once-king ran on. Flying, it seemed, over mossy wet earth, between trees that creaked and dripped, that bent in the rain. He did not breathe air but fire, choking on it, covered in water and mud.

  Lear! screamed the storm. Where is your crown?

  The poison crown!

  Lear!

  The storm drove him, with rain and wailing wind, with flashes of light, exactly where it wanted him. The massive black cathedral, ruined and reclaimed by the forest, the heart—the heart of Innis Lear.

  The king had been here before.

  Lear!

  The thick wooden doors hung crookedly. He ducked inside.

  The walls of the cathedral boxed him in, but the rain still poured down: there was no roof, and yet there were no stars. Music rose from copper bowls fill
ed with rainwater; different sizes sang different songs. He smelled mildew and rich, fertile earth.

  At the cross far down the aisle was the ancient navel well. Water pooled on the granite cap, and the rain splashed constantly.

  He stared, breathing heavily through his slack old mouth.

  The cathedral was so very dark but for a gentle glow like moon or starlight, which was impossible with the solid black sky above.

  Witness! cried the storm.

  The hairs on his neck and arms raised.

  The once-king’s world cracked again in an explosion of light and a roar of thunder.

  Thrown back, he hit the stone floor with a cry.

  Wind screamed, laughing, overhead, and through the shadows the once-king saw the smoldering navel well: the thick granite cap, scorched and broken perfectly in two. Each half had fallen away so the mouth of the well opened toward the sky.

  Terrified, he got up and turned away. He squeezed outside again and ran. Mumbling prophecies to himself, he ran until his bones would break and he was truly blind.

  The storm slowed to a churn. It stretched its cloudy wings.

  Innis Lear sighed: cleansed, restored, and more than prepared for what came next.

  THE FOX

  BAN TRIED TO let the whole world slip away, curled in a bed with a fire crackling bright and warm, and Elia Lear pressed to his back, her cheek to his shoulder, her arm around his ribs. And the storm blowing itself to sleep outside. He closed his eyes.

  Could he find a way to take this moment and make it last? Nothing mattered when she was with him; nothing, besides her. It had always been so. The feeling was a seed of something Ban did not recognize, but craved. The pale promise of a morning when storms would clear, the sun would rise, and he would see a new future stretched before him like a golden road. Peace. The end of vengeance, the end of this tense imbalance of loyalty, not knowing where he belonged or who loved him. It had always been Elia.

  They’d have to leave to be free of it all, to fully dig the roots of Innis Lear out of their hearts and blood, to strip away the clinging history of stars. Ban would marry her, travel with her far away from Innis Lear and past Aremoria, and find a place where they could be only themselves. Whatever they chose to be, without all this fate and history and obligation. A hired soldier and a goat girl. Or perhaps a farmer and an herbwife, or two shepherds. Shopkeepers or tailors or bakers or a blacksmith and his loyal wife, mother to their wild brood.