It was ridiculous how focused Aefa allowed herself to be on such matters, but better this than spinning her mind tighter and tighter around all the dreadful gossip she’d gathered last night. The rumors about the king and his temper were terrible: he frequently lost his way in conversations, or would say one thing and then directly do the opposite. Not in any way that seemed politically motivated, or even with the casual carelessness of men, but more like he’d asked for roasted bird only to rage at its presence, insisting he’d always preferred venison and to say otherwise was treason. Lear had punished two reeves last month for skimming profits, but there’d been no hearing: the stars alone had cast judgment, via a single prophecy the king himself charted. Most of the court thought the reeves guilty, but so too did most think that wasn’t exactly the point. The clerks were afraid, and admitted drunkenly to a steward, who told Jen in the kitchen, that they’d been working with Gaela and Astore on the island’s finances without the king’s permission. But what else should they do, when the king did nothing? Retainers were enjoying themselves, for the most part, secure in Lear’s goodwill. So the king had a happy army, at least, if a lazy one. Then Aefa’d heard all the crows were gone from the Summer Seat and Sunton, and honestly she couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard one. It shouldn’t have been the worst of the news, yet she couldn’t shake the eerie nature of it.
Aefa had longed to sit Elia down and unload all the anxiety that had built up in the people of the Summer Seat, and in Aefa’s own heart, but Elia’s eyes had never once welcomed honesty this morning, instead tripping again and again out the window, toward the horizon, distant and cool. So Aefa kept her mouth shut, though she did not hesitate to touch Elia’s wrist, or linger gently with her hands on the princess’s shoulders. That was how it always was between them: a silent promise, evidence that sharing comfort could be a strength, when Elia was ready to see it.
She’d also poured every drop of Brona Hartfare’s rootwater into Elia’s morning milk.
Because without Elia, Aefa was not part of the family enough to use the private doors, she let herself in to the great hall by the much heavier forward doors. Dragging one open, she was glad enough at the retainer in dark blue who held it while she slipped quietly in, that Aefa winked at him in her more usual manner.
The Fool sat in the king’s throne, far across the hall from Aefa, wearing a tattered blue dress with trousers beneath, rings in his ears and paint on his lip and eyes. He cradled a shallow bowl in his lap, in which Lear’s tall bronze and ruby crown sat like stiff porridge.
If she’d not already been walking on edge, the sight would’ve cut her feet to ribbons.
Aefa mirrored her princess by taking a deep breath, pasting on a bright but neutral smile, and so made her way down the central aisle to her father.
The courtiers and guests had arrayed themselves throughout the hall in the patterns and pieces of their island and alliances: Dukes, earls, and ladies, the alders and reeves from nearby towns, and further representatives of all the king’s retainers, too. They divided into groups of friends and cousins, to either side of the throne dais, depending on if they favored Astore or Connley. All the feasting tables were gone, and benches lined the long walls, pressing the thick tapestries back. Light blazed in, white and salty, from the tall windows along the west and south walls.
Of great interest to Aefa were the kings of Aremoria and Burgun, waiting separate here by the far end with the door, their retainers and escorts in clusters five men thick. Ullo of Burgun gleamed in ermine and leather heavy enough to add a glisten of sweat to the overall shine of his smile and bright teeth and slick long hair. He caught her eye, and before Aefa could so much as raise a brow, his glance fell to her breasts. She scowled and thought to herself that he wouldn’t recognize elegant beauty if it landed him on his ass.
Across from Ullo, firmly set among his men, Morimaros of Aremoria flicked his eyes over Aefa, too, information gathering and nothing else. As if she were a strip of land that he must face his enemy upon, and he would quickly sum up its boundaries and flaws. Just like his letters. She let her smile quirk up on one side, recalling his dry descriptions of Aremore agriculture. Unlike Ullo, he did not flaunt his crown, but matched his retainers in leather armor, just lacking their orange tabard with its lion crest. The only sign of richness were the heavy rings on his strong hands.
“Aefa!” called the Fool from the throne. She bowed elaborately at her father, and skipped a step or two, before slowing to a more respectful pace: Near the throne dais stood the eldest daughters, Gaela and Regan, shoulder to shoulder.
They were terrifying.
It galled Aefa to be afraid of them, but she’d never shaken it.
Strong in body and tongue, Gaela had spent her earliest years with soldiers, driving herself hard enough to grow wide through her shoulders and solid flank, to hold her own against nearly any warrior. Even now, in a gown of blood red and purple, the oldest princess wore a bright silver pauldron over her shield shoulder, made of chain mail and steel plates. Her black hair was molded into a crown with streaks of white clay, and laced with dark purple ribbons. Aefa needed to talk with Gaela’s girls about the styling. Earrings shaped like knives hung from her lobes, tiny little threats.
Beside her, Regan was rather like a knife herself: pointed and sharp. Regan’s brown waves fell under a cascade of glass beads and pearls. She wore a high-waisted gown with layers and layers of cream and violet velvet that would be impossible to keep so pristine. Her slippers had tiny heels, and her girdle was woven of silk and lace. Keys and coins and an amethyst the size of her fist hung from it. Regan wore a ring on every finger, and her nails were colored crimson. She was jarringly beautiful, like jagged crystal or vengeful ghosts.
Aefa managed a moment of steady pleasure that she’d inadvertently put Elia in complimentary colors. It would anger the sisters, but be just as much a statement as Elia arriving on her father’s arm.
The sisters’ husbands waited to either side of the dais, and there was not enough space between them given the depth of their rivalry. Astore loomed to the right, grinning and loudly conversing with a handful of men out of the Glennadoer earldom, and their retainers in attendance, too. Across the other side of the dais were the Earl Errigal and a dark, quiet slip of a man in the sky blue of Errigal’s banners. With them was the Earl Rosrua. With Astore, the Earl Bracoch.
Oh, stars and worms. Aefa paused in place, realizing the man with Errigal had to be that son she’d heard so much about—the bastard. Brona had been correct in her warning of his return. Elia never spoke of him directly, but everyone in the king’s service Aefa had ever met during her time with the princess was more than happy to do so. Before she could say—she wasn’t quite sure, but something—a hand caught gently under her elbow.
“Aefa Thornhill,” said the Duke of Connley, “allow my escort to your place.”
He was six or seven years her elder, and as handsome as his wife Regan was beautiful, but in a fully Learish way: sharp white cheeks and coppery-blond hair slicked back from his face, pink lips that might’ve just been kissed, and eyes as blue-green as the ocean around Port Comlack, steady under a serious brow. Someday his face would be cragged and rough, but now it was perfect. His blood red tunic fit the sort of shoulders a girl longed to climb. Too bad he always gave Aefa a shudder; she couldn’t help but imagine him stripping her down, past clothes and even skin, to her very bones, if she ever said the wrong thing.
“Thank you,” she said, with no hint of a flirt.
“Elia hasn’t arrived with you,” he said, solicitous but quick, for it was a brief walk to the throne.
Aefa smiled like it meant nothing. “She attended the king all this morning, so presumably will come with him.”
“Presumably.” Connley smiled back at her, a charming wolf in the woods.
Yes, there it was, the shudder. Aefa disguised it with a curtsey, relieved to be already at the dais. “Lord,” she said steadily.
“We hope your lady proves as considerate of your father’s needs after this morning, and into the future,” Connley said, gently squeezing her elbow. He stepped back and nodded in a way that was not quite a bow, but managed to suggested such. “And her own.”
“I’m sure she will be,” Aefa said, mildly irritated through the general chill of his presence.
“Someone will make sure of it,” he said quietly, and she had no chance to react, for there was her father, leaning off the throne.
“My girl!” the Fool crowed. “Tell me: what is this crown in my lap made of?”
“Love,” she called back. “Love and rubies.”
“The bronze is for the love, then?”
“The bronze is the island metal, the rubies its blood. What else is love but mettle and blood?” Aefa grinned.
The Fool lifted the crown, as if to offer it to his daughter.
“The crown of Innis Lear is not made of love,” said Gaela Lear, soft and challenging. “It is made of dying stars, and lying mouths.”