Just then a great triple knock sounded throughout the hall, echoing through the wooden north wall. A signal that the king approached.
“Not for long,” Regan answered her sister. “Get up, Fool, and make way for the king.”
THIS IS WHAT they say of the last King of Innis Lear’s Zenith Court:
The day held itself bright and bold, a brisk wind rising off the sea in fragile anticipation. All had assembled by the noon hour, but the king arrived late. He shoved in through the slender private entrance with his youngest, favored daughter at his side. They swept directly to the throne, and few noticed Kayo, the Oak Earl, brother of the fallen queen, follow behind and settle himself at the rear of the dais.
Lear wore ceremonial robes crusted with deep blue and star-white embroidery, brushed and glistening. His gray-and-brown hair shocked away from his face, hanging down his back, and his scraggly beard had been shaved. Kingly gold and silver rings weighed down his gnarled fingers, and a sword with a great round pommel carved into a rampant swan hung from a jeweled belt at his hip. The youngest princess was a delicate slip of daylight as she took her place beside the throne, across from her two vibrant sisters.
The king smiled. “Welcome.”
Courtiers returned the greeting loudly, with calls and cheering. They expected great things from the next hour: a future queen, and a resettling of alliances. And hope. For far too long Innis Lear had faltered and run dry; for far too long there was no named successor; for far too long privilege and fate had danced unfettered as the king drifted further and further into the sky.
Lear called out, “Today is an auspicious day, friends. As my father obeyed the stars, and his father before him, so I bow to them now by offering this announcement: The stars have aligned to provide your king the understanding that his reign comes to a swift end. It is time for me to divest myself of cares and responsibilities, to pass them on, as time passes, to younger and stronger persons.”
Murmurs of general accord and interest skittered about the hall, but no one interrupted as Lear continued, “Therefore we must see our daughters settled before the end, which comes at Midwinter.”
Yes, here was the moment of destiny:
“Astore, our beloved son.” Lear turned to his eldest daughter’s husband, who nodded firmly.
The king then looked to the middle husband. “And you, our son Connley.” The Duke Connley murmured, “My king,” and nothing else, for all knew the lie of any love between them.
The king continued grandly, “You have long held discord between you, and we know that when we die very likely war and strife would erupt between you as you each would try to claim more of the other’s.”
“Father,” said Gaela, “there is a single sure way to stop such an outcome.”
He held up his hand. “To stop this, we will divide our lands now between your wives, according to the stars, and our youngest daughter, Elia, whose suitors have waited patiently to hear her choice.”
“And would wait longer still, good Lear, for the chance,” called the king of Burgun with a smile in his voice.
Lear returned it. “Indeed.”
The king of Aremoria said nothing.
Kay Oak stepped forward, a hand hovering protectively near the youngest daughter’s shoulder. “Lord,” he said, going briefly to his knee. “Your kingdom wants for a single crown. Why—”
Lear cut him off. “Worry not! We will name our heir now, as the stars have prophesied. And our heir will be crowned at dawn after the Longest Night, as has been since the first king of our line.” Lear looked at Gaela, his ferocious and tall eldest, then cool Regan, the middle child, then Elia, his precious star, finally in her turn. That youngest stared rigidly at her father. She did not even seem to breathe.
Did she suspect what was to come?
The king spread his hands again, chest puffed and proud. “The stars of heaven proclaim the next queen of Innis Lear shall be the daughter who loves us best.”
In the silence, nearly everyone looked at Elia, for all knew she was the king’s favorite. But Lear had not said, the daughter I love best.
Though all three women were practiced at projecting to the world the face they chose, each gave something away in that moment: Gaela her hunger, Regan her pleasure, and Elia her utter disgust.
“Eldest,” the king said, “it is your right to speak first.”
Gaela laughed once, loud as a man. “My father, my king,” she called, moving before the throne to perform for the entire court. “I love you more than the word itself can bear.” Her voice made the phrase into a growling threat. “My devotion to the crown of Lear is as great as any child ever bore for her father, more than life and breath, and I will defend my love with all the strength and power of Lear and Astore behind me. The truth of my words is in my stars: I am the Consort Star; I rise to the Throne of Innis Lear.”
Nodding with elaborate satisfaction, Lear said, “And you, Regan? How do you answer?”
Regan did not immediately move to join Gaela before the throne, but her husband put his hand on her back and gently pushed. She spread her hands in a simple gesture of supplication. “I love you, Father, as my sister does, for we share a heart and we share stars. I ask that you appraise me at her same worth.” For a moment, her words hung in the air. Connley’s hand slid up the brown arch of her neck, and Regan frowned, then smiled up at her father as if she had only just now realized some vital truth: “Yet, Father, in my deepest heart I find that although Gaela names my love, she stops short, for there is no other love that moves me so much as my love for you.”
The king smiled magnanimously at Regan, then Gaela. The sisters glanced at each other, as if they could sharpen their smiles against each other’s teeth.
“Well said, daughters,” said the king of Innis Lear, before looking to his youngest.
She stared back.
“Elia, our joy?” the king said tenderly. “What will you say?”
Silence thundered throughout the great hall.
Courtiers leaned in, to hear the first breath she took in answer. All she had to do was be honest, and the island would be hers. All she had to do was tell the world what it already knew: she loved her father, and always had.
But when Elia Lear spoke, she said, “Nothing, my lord.”
“What?”
Lear’s calm demand echoed in the mouths of others. What had the princess said? Why? What was this game? Did the king and his daughter play it together, or was it a trap?
Elia spoke up. “Nothing, my lord.”
Lear smiled as to an errant puppy. “Nothing will come from nothing. Try again, daughter.”
“I cannot heave my heart into my mouth, Father. I love you … as I should love you, being your daughter, and always have. You know this.” Elia’s voice shook.
“If you do not mend your speech, Elia,” the king said, glowering, “you will mar your fortunes.”
Swallowing, Elia finally took a very deep breath. She smoothed hands down her skirts, and said, “If I speak, I will mar everything else.”
Lear leaned toward her. A wild thing scattered in his usually warm blue eyes. Wild and terrifying. “So untender?”
“So true,” she whispered.
“Then let truth be your only dowry, ungrateful girl,” he rasped.
Elia stepped away in shock.
The king’s demeanor transformed like a rising phoenix, hot and blasting and fast. He pointed at Elia, finger shaking as if she were a terrible specter or spirit to be feared. “You false child. You said you understood me, you saw the stars with me.…” Lear threw his arms up, catching fingers in his silver-striped hair. “This is not Elia! Where is my daughter, for you are not she. No princess, no daughter! Replaced by earth saints, cursed creatures!” He shook his head as if appalled, eyes wide and spooked.
“Father,” Elia said, but before anyone else could react, the king cried out:
“Where are Aremoria and Burgun? Come forward, kings!”
Elia did not move, rooted to the rushes and rugs, trembling, as if holding back something so great, that to move would be to unleash it.