“It is the king,” the woman said. “Lear and his court, his daughters, and some foreign guests, come to light a new year-candle at the fallen queen’s celestial bed.”
Kayo’s brow pinched and his jaw tightened with grief. Every candle flame was a star, wavering and flickering across the valley. Though other memorial fields dotted Innis Lear, this was the grandest. The loved ones of the dead needed only supply a candle, and the star priests would light it every night. King Lear provided gifts of candles for any who asked, Kayo had heard, so that the Star Field was always aglow, always twinkling its own heaven back to the sky. A fitting memorial for a woman like Dalat.
“Come,” the woman said.
“Who are you?” he asked, voice rough with sorrow.
“Brona Hartfare, and I was a friend to your sister the queen. I remember you, when you were more of a boy, solemn and secure at her side, far south of here at the Summer Seat.”
“Brona,” he said. It was a name that expanded to fit every nook of his mouth.
They walked carefully down into the Star Field, circling wide so as to join the rear of the congregation as it wove through the candles and standing stones to a broad slab of limestone that shone under the full moon. Brona took Kayo’s hand, holding him apart from the crowd.
King Lear looked as Kayo remembered, though perhaps with more wrinkles at his pink mouth. Maybe that was the result of so many separate candles pressing together with their competing lights. His hair was brown and thick, woven into a single braid and pinned in an infinity loop. A white robe hung from his tall frame, over white trousers and a white shirt and white boots. All the royalty and many of the rest wore white, too, or unbleached wool and linen. Very little jewelry adorned them, but for simple pearls or silver chains. Moon-and candlelight turned all their eyes dark against pink and cream and sometimes sandy skins.
The king held the hand of a small girl whose curls were big around her head, some copper-brown strands flaring in the candlelight. Her focus was on her father and the monument slab they approached. Behind her came the two older sisters, arms around each other, leaning together as if a single body: one barely a woman, soft and graceful; one strong and dark as Dalat. Kayo caught his breath at her—the eldest, Gaela—whose face was so like her mother’s had been. He remembered Gaela as a whip-strong child, competing with the sons of retainers and lords in races and strength, wearing pants and her hair cut short to flare exactly like his own had done. He’d enjoyed teaching her wrestling holds and a better grip for her dagger, but the girl had taken it all seriously, no games or teasing allowed. Now her hair was longer and braided into a grand crown, and though she wore white, her clothes were a warrior’s white gambeson and pants and boots, and a long coat decorated with plates of steel too far apart to be useful. Her sister Regan dressed like a fine lady, despite being only a slender slip of womanhood. Kayo’s memories of her were so much gentler; Regan had been ten years old when he left, though already reading and writing as well as a scholar. She had the least of Dalat in her, outwardly: the palest brown of the girls, with brown hair thick and smoothly waved.
And the little one, whom Kayo had hardly known: her small round face pulled into sadness, her tiny fingers caught in Lear’s as the king knelt at the memorial slab, tears obvious on his cheeks and chin, glittering in his dark beard.
Kayo felt tears pinch his own throat, crawling up into his nose. He clenched his jaw, and Brona leaned into him, her shoulder against his chest. She smelled like fire and rich moss. What a comfort to breathe her in, her hair brushing his mouth, though how weak of him to let her feel his trembling.
A star priest with a flickering torch lifted his arms and called out a prayer. Kayo could only just hear the sounds, not comprehend the words: he was unpracticed these days. The rhythm, though, was familiar, the crying, sharp intonation the priests of the island used to speak with the stars. All the gathered company murmured and mouthed along with the priest, except for one young man several steps back from the king’s daughters. This was a prince in the burnt orange of the kingdom of Aremoria, the coat sleeves wrapped with white in deference to the mourning traditions of Innis Lear. He wore a solemn expression and a heavy, jeweled sword, a simple band of gold at his brow. No older than Gaela Lear.
As the prayer lifted, Kayo pictured Dalat, imagined her here in a dress of the finest red cloth, spiked through with orange thread and a brilliant turquoise like the surf of the inland sea. Red and black paint on her eyes and mouth, streaked into her hair. Her eyes were stars, and the hundreds of candles here glowed only to reflect her glory.
Kayo looked to see the king bow his head and clutch at his youngest daughter’s hand. The little girl’s brow furrowed in pain. Her fingers were squeezed too hard, but she said nothing, and did not pull away.
AEFA
AEFA WAS INORDINATELY anxious as she entered the great hall of the Summer Seat the morning of the Zenith Court. She’d left Elia with her father, despite arguing hard for several long moments in the corner of the king’s chamber. But Elia insisted upon arriving with Lear, unconcerned by the visual it would create, and the statement it would make, particularly to Gaela and Regan. “My sisters have already made up their minds,” Elia insisted, which was true. “I will stay at my father’s side, because he needs me.” Which was also true, no matter how Aefa wished otherwise.
At least Elia had allowed herself to be laced into a new, bright yellow overdress, one that pulled at her hips and breasts pleasingly, because, Aefa said, “You have a much better set of both than either Gaela or Regan.” Elia had pursed her lips, embarrassed, but it was also true. And Aefa had spent over an hour with the princess’s hair, creating an elaborate braided knot at Elia’s nape, twisted with purple ribbons and the net of crystals. She’d smeared red paint on Elia’s bottom lip and dotted it at the corner of each eye, and insisted upon a silver ring for every finger and both sapphires for the thumbs. Aefa lost the shoe debate, but Elia’s reliance on her old thick-soled leather boots was at least practical. Though Aefa thought she should look into several more pairs, just as sturdily made, but perhaps dyed gray and black to better compliment a variety of gowns, or even plain priestly robes and stubbornness.