He nodded, voice stuck in his throat.
“I loved that silly bug. At first, after you were taken away, I searched for them on my own. I imagined, sometimes, when looking at the stars with my father, that the stars themselves were tiny bright beetles, crawling across the sky. The heavens were the same as the island mud, and all those stars my father worshipped were bugs like the one you put on my finger.”
Ban turned under her arm until he lay on his back as she leaned over him. Firelight gilded her hair. Her eyes were deep enough to dive into. She was frowning, her brow furrowed by sorrow.
The silence dragged: something was wrong. He didn’t want to ask; Ban wanted to exist here without the Fox, without questions and plotting, without everything he’d been made to be.
Her thumb stroked his collarbone.
“Elia?” he whispered.
The words tumbled out of her, then, hard and fast: “I know Morimaros sent you here, on his behalf. I know you’ve been an Aremore spy, and you intended to get the iron for Aremoria.”
Shock silenced him, and behind it a wave of shame. Elia knew. But beyond that, Mars had told her: it was the only way for her to know. What else had they shared?
Ban opened his mouth, and nothing came out. The two of them in this bed, having been together like this, was another betrayal of that noble Aremore king. But Ban had loved Elia first.
“I…” Ban’s voice was hoarse. He swallowed, reaching for some explanation that would keep her in his arms. “I … I needed Aremoria, and I needed his—his respect. I had none of that here, and even you … even you let me go. Being the Fox meant something, and I was recognized for it. Not as a bastard, but a soldier. A friend, even.”
“I respected you. I needed you.”
But an old hurt welled up Ban’s throat and found its way out of his mouth. “You didn’t write to me,” he whispered like a child. “You never wrote to me, in all my time in Aremoria. I thought you loved me, but you let me go. Because your father told you to!”
“I shouldn’t have. I am sorry, Ban. I did not know how alone you were. How … abandoned. No wonder you gave yourself to Morimaros, abandoning Innis Lear in turn.”
“I didn’t do it to abandon Innis Lear! I did it for Morimaros. Because he asked me, and because he treated me like I was worth asking.”
Elia frowned, and Ban saw the struggle as she fought to hold his gaze. She, too, must be thinking of Mars now, while naked and sticky from sharing this bed with Ban. He desperately wanted to ask what was between the two of them, if they’d made promises.
Finally, Elia sighed softly. “I know Morimaros is good, Ban. Better than Connley, better than my father. But he’s still the king of Aremoria. He wants…” Elia looked away again. “He wants to marry me, too, and I believe he has not lied about what he wants.”
“Innis Lear. And you.”
“Yes.”
“He’ll make himself the king of Innis Lear, if you marry him. Even if he swears not to lay siege, your sisters will take it as an act of war—Regan at least, who I’ve spent these past weeks with. And everyone knows Gaela looks for reasons to fight.”
“So what should I do, Ban? Will my sisters hear me? They are poisoned with hate. I’ve tried telling myself they will listen, they have to, but with you here, now, like this … Ban. I am so very afraid that they will refuse me, drive me away again. Or worse!” Tears washed her eyes. “And what of Innis Lear? It is crumbling!”
“Regan will listen to me. I can protect you,” he whispered, desperately.
Elia drew away, even as he held her naked in his arms. “Like you protected Rory?” she asked, carefully.
Ban flung himself out of the bed. He paced away, unsure where to put his hands, scuffing his bare feet on the dusty earthen floor.
Behind him, silence.
Hugging himself, he faced Elia again. She’d sat against the wall, legs drawn up under the quilt. Ban said, suddenly, hopelessly, “I think my father is dead.”
“No,” she whispered.
“Father was allying himself with you—with an invading force. With Morimaros. I told Connley and Regan. And I left him there, between them; they were in a killing mood.”
“Oh, Ban.”
“I’m not sorry. He never once put me first. My father did not defend me, and if he ever loved me it was less than he loved Lear, or himself, or those fucking stars.”
“But you—”
“Errigal betrayed your sister, his queen, no matter why, or how, Elia,” Ban said ferociously. “He pretended to be loyal to Regan and Connley, then went behind their backs to treat with Aremoria. He is a traitor.”
“Done in by the same.”
“I’m no traitor to you,” he lied.
Elia scoffed, and wiped a tear off her cheek with a sharp flick of her hand.
“I never forgot you.” Ban returned to the bed and knelt near enough to touch her if she wished. “And what I said before—I didn’t do all of this for Mars. I did it for me, and for you, and because of the roots. I had to come home, Elia. You’re right: we cannot leave. We’re both part of this island. It’s my blood and the air I breathe: even in Aremoria, it was always Innis Lear. I wished it could be anything else. I swear I did. I wanted it to be Mars, so much I believed it myself. But—I can’t change who I am.”
“Neither can I. I’m the daughter of the king, and I love him, I love Innis Lear. I have to help my sisters, and fix everything. Somehow.”
“It needs to burn, Elia. This island is broken, and you can’t piece it back together; you need to remake it.”
“That can’t be the only way. The roots have to be capable of regrowing. It’s only been twelve years of breaking.”
“No.” Ban shook his head. “It’s been longer than that, and the roots are not strong. They’re weak and begging; the trees want to glory in themselves again, and in the hungry wind. They need heat and passion and sun, not just coldness and hesitation and stars.”
“I came home and listened to the trees and wind for days, Ban Errigal. The trees have asked me for help, the way they want, and I will see it through. I must convince my sisters to listen, too. Together we three must be able to find the right balance, the right weave to pull Innis Lear together again. We need a—a fulcrum, not a poison root. But first I need to find my father.”
“You forgive him.”
“Yes.”
“I do not, Elia.”
“I know.” She was slipping away from him. Back to Lear, as always.
“Your father did this! And those like him, unwilling to cleave away from their rigid, starry ways, the ways they have no evidence serve the world best. What does it matter for my mother and father not to have been wed? Nothing except what men pretend it matters! What does it mean that I was born under a dragon’s tail moon? Nothing but what priests have decided it means.”
“You hate him so much,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Then you will do nothing to help me.” Her voice was dull. The passion, the eagerness from before had all drained away, and Ban did not know what to do.
“Understand, Elia, please,” he said. He took her shoulders.
There it all came, blazing back. Elia’s eyes widened, and she tore free of him, launching to her feet. “I do not. Why do you hate him so much?” She thrust her hands out. “Look at you! You are strong and famous! I heard your name spoken with respect in Aremoria, by the king himself! You did that—your actions made you a name outside of Errigal or my father! Earned you trust! Respect! So what if my father and yours scorned you as a child. It was cruel, yes, wrong, yes, but, Ban Errigal, look at you. You made yourself better than them! You could be so worthy of leadership and of love, but you can’t do it. You believe what they said of you.” Fury shone all around Elia, like a halo of lightning.