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 mouths.
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.”
“What happened to him? Will he be all right?”
“If he comes back safely, yes, perhaps. Or perhaps he will be blind.”
“Blind!”
“Everything I can do, I have done.” Brona met her gaze with such force of certainty, Elia let her eyes drift closed. For tonight, that was true of herself, as well. Everything I can do, I have done. But when the sun rose again, so much would rise with it.
“Your mother lives two cottages south of this one,” Brona said to Aefa.
Elia said, “Go, see your mother, Aefa.”
With a frustrated little press of her lips, Aefa nodded and dove back into the rain.
“Tell me how my father is, or was,” Elia asked, as Brona sat her down beside the fire and began pulling off her hood and coat with quick, efficient movements.
“Lear is lost in himself, and in the stars inside his head, much worse now than at this time last year, or even from the start of summer,” Brona said, after she’d stripped Elia of the wettest outer layers, and poured hot water into mugs for them both. Elia huddled in a blanket at the ancient wooden table while Brona pressed dry her hair and picked out the worst tangles.
“My sisters,” Elia whispered. “They set him out into this.”
“Your sisters…” Brona’s hands paused, but the words continued. “Lear was on this path before Gaela or Regan did anything. It began long ago.”
“Their choices did not help,” Elia said stubbornly, gripping her clay mug, seeking the warmth as if she could draw it through her palms and into her heart.
“No, they did not help. They let anger and hurt drive them.”
“They should be better, if they would be queens.”
Behind her, Brona sighed. The scrape of the pick was gentle on Elia’s scalp. “No, neither should wear the crown.”