Maybe it was bile, maybe it was hatred, maybe it was love; Ban swallowed it. He grasped the plain round pommel of his plain sword in one hand, forced the other loose against his thigh. “Help the king? Connley forbade it.”
Errigal waved the priest away and dragged Ban inside, kicking the door shut again. “That is why, don’t you see? Connley forbids me—me, his most loyal retainer—to tend the king? He and his lady will not do it, Gaela Astore will not either, and so I put the king himself to bed in the mud-brick house of my old mistress? That will not abide.”
“Her bed was good enough for you once,” Ban snapped.
His father clapped him on the shoulders. “Don’t be dull, boy. This is no insult to Brona, but to our island, our king himself.”
“He causes insult, Father. To all of us, to the island.”
Errigal growled wordlessly, brow lowered, mouth pressed tight behind his beard.
Ban needed to rein the situation in, control it, before he lost sight of himself. So the Fox put on a stare of disbelief and said, “Connley has been your patron. A good one, too, who recognizes what must be for the good of Innis Lear. And you—what are you doing? What does this priest have to do with it? Will you tell me and let me help you?”
“Ah, boy, I follow the sun of loyalty to my king, and the moon of careful deceit. It is not in you to aid me in that.”
“Not in my stars, you mean? That I cannot follow your same sun and moon?” His play-acting was nearly consumed by the truth of his bitterness.
Errigal hugged him suddenly, hard and rough, with his large arms a vise pinning Ban against him. “You keep yourself clear of this, for I do not know what they may do if I am caught out. If I go, Ban, if I die, you must find your brother—call him from his cousins—and make him come home to take his title, over my dead body as he had professed to want.”
“What?” Ban shoved at Errigal, honestly surprised.
“I know,” the earl said darkly. “It would not be my preference now, but the line must hold. Rory must keep his place, and rule then as Errigal. It’s in his stars, you know, and meant to be as such. We must end this terrible cycle of child against father! This disaster with Lear and his daughters has shown me, Ban. I should have known, and looked past my rage to find forgiveness. In truth, for what comes, Rory is what I would have.”
“Only he.”
As always had been before, Errigal fondly patted Ban’s head, cupped his face. “You’re strong and good, Ban, but not my true line, not the star-ordained right of Errigal. Would that you were, Ban. My son, firstborn by season, if not bed.”
“But Rory wished to murder you,” Ban managed to say, the words grit and sand in his throat. “At the end of it all, after everything you have said, wishing I was your legitimate … You would still rather a patricide and traitor, a murderer, as your heir. You are so resolved to choose other than me.”
“Ah.” Errigal lifted his eyes as if he could see through the roof to the stars. “We are men, Ban. We kill, we send men to kill and be killed. We are all murderers here.”
Ban put his hands to his eyes.
“Do you cry?” his father said, incredulous.
“I am drunk,” he muttered, wishing his father was mad like Lear, not this constant, certain coward, this devotee to rules of destiny. Errigal was such a rotting follower. Ban needed him to be magnificent, like—like Connley and Regan. Like Mars. How could a woman like Brona have ever admired this man?
Errigal laughed his hearty, generous laugh. “Good. I heard such good things of you today on the battlefield, and I am proud to have you back on these lands.”
“Tell me,” Ban choked out. He dragged his hands down his face. “Tell me at least, the contents of that letter. If I am a good son, as you say.”
Nodding, Errigal said, “I had word, too, from Alsax, here. They say Aremoria will set his navy to winter down, but he and Elia have been negotiating over his invasion of this—our!—island. And now the stars, too, say it will happen: the king of Aremoria will come here before the month is out. And also, the prophecies say that we must get Lear to Elia. She will keep him safe; she is all the hope we have left.”
“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.