Starting at the streams and tiny reddish puddles, at the shards of clay, Regan saw flashes of hardened brown flesh, pieces of herself sprawled broken there. She clenched her fingers into fists, bruising her palms with her nails. The hurt relieved her.
“Why?” Gaela asked in a low, dangerous tone. She leaned back against the table, gripping its edge.
“I don’t know, Gaela,” Regan snarled.
“Is it Connley?”
“No.”
The eldest sister stared unblinking, waiting with the gathered fury of an army.
Regan refused to be cowed, returning the gaze, cool and still.
Silence stretched between them.
The very moment sorrow slipped in to replace anger in Gaela’s eyes, Regan spoke again. “I consulted with Brona Hartfare at the start of the summer, and have done all I know to do, but there is…”
Her sister stepped forward and embraced Regan again, tighter and with a shaking intensity.
She wept, with a weariness that dragged her toward the floor. But her sister, as always, held her upright. A tower, the strongest oak, the true root of Regan’s heart.
“I won’t give up,” Regan said, leaning her cheek against Gaela’s shoulder. She drew a deep breath, awash in the familiar scent of iron, clay, and rich evergreen that clouded Gaela. A fire crackled in the small round hearth that split the wall between the rooms they’d shared as girls: the one full of weapons and cast-off leather armor, bits of steel and pots of the soft, scented clay Gaela used to shape her hair at court; the other near empty, as Regan chose to sleep with her husband now. Though there still was a trunk left behind, filled with girlish dresses and flower dolls and Regan’s first recipe of herbal secrets she’d saved for her own daughters. Uselessly, it seemed.
“Sit at the fire,” Gaela ordered, with her Regan-reserved tenderness.
Regan removed her slippers and lifted a wool blanket from the hearth, gathering it about her shoulders as she sank into a low chair. “I will find a way to look inside myself, Sister. To find the cause of my … difficulties. There must be some magic raw and strong enough to speak with my body, to demand conversation with my womb.”
Gaela dropped herself into the chair opposite Regan. “If not, we must consider Elia,” she said bitterly. “Those kings courting her would not work, for they would want her issue for their own people, but perhaps … perhaps she could marry that bold boy, Errigal.”
“Rory,” Regan said. “It would be a strong match, her blood and his iron magic, though the boy himself has little power, or never developed it much, thanks to his milky mother.”
“I cannot confide in Elia,” Gaela said suddenly, vehemently, protesting her own suggestion. “Our baby sister is too like Lear. Takes his side, always. Would she want the crown herself, instead of making her children my heirs? Or fill their heads with starry nonsense? Would her ways weaken the children? She gave up your wormwork, too, after all. Is there any of Dalat in her? Any fire of adventure or conquest?”
“And what of my Connley, should Elia’s children inherit your crown? What of him, and us?”
Gaela snorted. “I care not for Connley’s prospects.”
Regan bit the inside of her lips to hold her expression cool and unconcerned. This was an old ritual, and she no longer argued on Connley’s behalf to her sister. Connley’s future was up to Regan alone. She said, “Elia can never threaten us for the crown. She has kept herself too hidden in the star towers, as our father’s starry shadow and acolyte. Some will love her for it, but not enough to follow her against us. Connley would swallow her up if she tried, even with Errigal her husband.”
“On that Astore will agree.”
“Let us eat, then, Gaela, and have this mess cleared.”
After marching to the door, Gaela flung it open, half calling already for a servant, but there stood Elia instead.
Their youngest sister froze, startled, a hand poised to knock. She wore the drab robes of a star priest, but her hair was rolled up and decorated with a net of crystals.
Gaela’s fury at the sight of Dalat’s jewelry flashed in the sudden tightening of her mouth, and Elia put her hands protectively up to her hair. She said, “Father put it in this afternoon, before I went to meet the kings.”
Silence stuck between them, the muscles of Gaela’s jaw shifting as she controlled her anger and instincts. Regan knew that set of her sister’s shoulders, and she joined Gaela in standing. Regan did not hate Elia as Gaela did, but pitied her. She touched a hand to the back of Gaela’s neck. “Did you choose one king or the other?” she asked Elia coolly, as if she cared not at all.
Elia shook her head. “I came to see if you had eaten.”
“We’re about to,” Gaela said, and stepped closer to Elia, blocking her entrance.
Though occasionally Regan thought of their mother and how Dalat would prefer her three daughters united, she remembered keenly enough that Elia forever refused to believe Lear had taken part in their mother’s death. She had betrayed Dalat, and her sisters. And yet she dared arrive wearing Dalat’s starry accessory. Besides, Regan’s womb ached, her joints throbbed, and she could not fathom allowing the cherished, na?ve Elia to see such weakness. So Regan did not protest Gaela’s obvious denial of their youngest sister’s overture.
For her part, Elia only frowned gently; surely she’d expected this response, if even she’d hoped for better. “I’ll … see you in the morning, then. I wish…” Elia lifted her black eyes and made a determined expression she could not possibly know was reminiscent of Dalat. “When you’re queen, Gaela, you must let me take care of him.”
Gaela breathed sharply. “If he needs to be taken care of.”
Elia nodded, glanced at Regan with a tiny sliver of unforgiveable sympathy, and left.
After a moment, Gaela called in a girl to clean up the broken pot and bring them more wine, and supper. They waited in silence, until every spilled puddle was mopped up, and each sister held a fresh clay cup full of wine.
Regan sighed. “Was she right, Gaela? Will our father name you heir tomorrow? Is that what your summons said?”
Drinking deep, Gaela glanced into the fire. Her pink tongue caught a drip of wine in the corner of her mouth. “That is what we will make happen, no matter what Lear says. I shall set all my daughters in their places.”
“Whatever game he plays, we will stand together and win.”
Together, they raised their glasses.
ELIA
ELIA WAS LATE to dinner.
The great hall of the Summer Seat had been built into the keep’s rear wall so that nothing but sky and cliffs and sea appeared through the tall, slim windows behind the throne. The low ceiling was hung with dark blue banners embroidered with silver stars shaped like the Swan constellation, Lear’s crest. Rushes and rugs covered the entire beaten earth floor, adding warmth and comfort as winds howled for most of the year, even in the height of summer. Long tables spread in two rows off the king’s table at the west end, and benches were full of earls and their retainers, the companions of the visiting kings, and all the resident families. A small side door to the north of the throne, hidden behind a wool tapestry of a rowan tree, led through a narrow corridor to the guardhouse and beyond to the royal tower so that the king and his family did not ever need travel outside from their rooms to the court. Everyone else was expected to enter through the heavy double doors far across from the throne. It was through the small door that Elia arrived, alone.