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 filled 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.
Anything but a bastard and a princess, anything but a star priest and a traitor.
Ban touched the back of her hand, where it lay relaxed against his stomach, her fingers skimming his skin in tiny strokes. At his touch, she stilled, and he flattened her hand beneath his. Was it even possible to purge Innis Lear from their hearts? Who could they be without stars and roots? “Elia.”
“Ban,” she replied, lips brushing his shoulder blade. Her sigh was soft and warm, skating down his spine to settle like a hot brand in the small of his back. He fought the urge to grip her fingers too tightly, to turn in the bed and press against her again, or to beg her without words to crawl onto his lap and move as she had before. To weave their spirits together again and again until she couldn’t leave him even if she wanted to.
He opened his mouth, and words came out in a rush: “Go with me, as soon as the sun rises. Far away from this island. We’ll start over, be only what we make ourselves, without pasts, together.”
For a long moment, Elia was silent and still. Then she said, “But I am a piece of Innis Lear, and so are you.”
“It’s broken,” he murmured. “Innis Lear. And we are broken, too. But if we left, maybe we could fix each other.” Ban touched the ends of her hair, pulling the curls out and releasing them to bounce back.
She pressed her face against his shoulder; he felt tears. She said, “We have to fix it all.”
“Why? Why us?”
Elia’s voice sharpened. “Do you remember that beetle you dug out from under the stone in the Summer Seat meadow? It was iridescent green, with rainbows of blue and yellow? You put it on my finger like an emerald ring.”