“To the trees?”
“They listened to me, and I to them,” Ban said, eyes bright with fervor. “They spoke differently than the forests I am used to, but they offered me solace, as their Learish cousins would have.” He whispered something else, and this time Mars recognized some of the hissing; it was part of the prayers for the dead on Innis Lear, a piece of the blessings still carved onto the oldest star chapels in Lionis. The earth faith was mostly purged from Aremoria, but not the original buildings, though most now had more governmental or ornamental function. Mars had read much about magic and earth saints when he was young, still enamored with ancient romances.
“The language of trees still exists,” he said.
The Learish soldier nodded. “I asked the trees to hide me, my lord. They protected me, keeping me alive, feeding me water, holding me in among their roots beneath the ground as I healed, until the Diotans had made camp over me. I was already in the center, already behind their lines. And the trees then helped me keep to shadows; the wind blew to cover the sounds of my movement. That’s how I found the commander’s tent, and his maps, his orders, and that letter from his king.”
“And his underclothes,” Mars said.
Ban smiled slyly.
The king of Aremoria studied Ban, called the Fox to tease, and wondered if it was fate that had already given him his name. Mars said, “Do you think you could do it again?”
The boy stared back, lips parted, dry and cracked and needing succor. “That and more, with the help of your earth and roots,” he finally murmured.
“Good.” Mars put his hand on Ban’s uninjured forearm. “Make yourself well, then come to me.”
Mars stood to go.
“Your Highness,” Ban said, “you … believe me?”
Lifting his brow, Mars said, “Should I not?”
“I…” The boy’s eyelids fluttered; he needed rest, food, time to heal. “I am not used to being taken at my word.”
“Because of your parentage?”
“And due to the stars under which I was born,” Ban said. “They—”
“Stop. I don’t care about your birth chart. I care what you are. What you do. And what you’ve already done. And especially I care what you will do next, at my side.”
It might have been fever making the soldier’s eyes glassy, or tears. He tried to sit up, and Mars crouched again, gently pressing him back onto the cot. “I see what you are, Ban the Fox. Heal, and then come be yourself for me.”
“Myself,” the boy whispered, nodding. A low sigh escaped him, whispering like breeze through winter grass. With Novanos close behind, Mars allowed himself to finally escape the hospital tent, back out under the sun. He blew a soft whisper, like Ban the Fox had done, and wondered what it would feel like to speak to the land itself.
And he wondered if the wind and sky and roots of Aremoria would reply to the crown.
ELIA
IT WAS INSTINCT, perhaps, that woke Elia Lear every morning before dawn, then drove her from the luxury of her bed in the Lionis palace to perch on the ramparts of the westernmost tower and watch the stars fade and die.
From this pinnacle, Elia could see the entire valley of Lionis. The rising sun caught the water of the great, wide river first, gilding its slow current. The river curled through the city, golden beneath the slips and ferry boats and barges, beneath the fine slick passenger vessels and grand royal cannon ships. The capital city spread white and gray up either bank, climbing with winding cobbled streets and narrow terraces into the steep hills. Called the Pearl of Aremoria, it gleamed in the sun like mother shells and the lips of sea snails, built mainly of chalk and pale limestone, with pink coral roofs and slate shingles.
Atop sheer chalk cliffs that cut up from the inner elbow of the river was the king’s palace. Its outer wall rose high and strong, capped with brilliant white crenellations, like a massive, toothy jaw ready to swallow the interior whole. Five towers marked the edges of the main building, lifting high and supported by elegant curving buttresses. Glass windows winked in the pink dawn light, and shadows slid off the steep blue-slate roofs. Courtyards and gardens created a hive of privacy, along with small crescent balconies hooked against the pale walls.
Every morning Elia faced Innis Lear as the sun obliterated the stars, though every morning she wished she could bring herself to turn any other way.
Dawn breeze off the river now chilled her wrists and bare fingers, ruffling the curls of hair she’d picked loose from her sleeping braid. This tower seemed nearer to the sky than ever she’d been, though Elia had once visited the Mountain of Teeth with her father and sisters on the Longest Night. Then, surrounded by jagged stone and ice along the narrow pilgrim path, by snow and low clouds, she had felt the sky descend to meet her. Gaela had grimaced to show the mountain her own teeth, and Regan had howled at the power of it. King Lear had spoken twisting star poems, while Elia had cried in silent wonder.
She thought of it now, and at every dawn, stuck in reverie, unwilling to step outside of it. As if to unlatch herself from the memory would be to forget, to let go. To begin something new.
Elia Lear was terrified of a new beginning. This dawn moment was not the start of a day, but the end of a night, or both, or neither.
Her father refused to wake before dawn; he hated to see the stars die.
She’d made the mistake at first of pretending everything could be normal; she woke in her bed and remained there, then ate her breakfast of cheese, fine cold meat, and delicate bread, allowed Aefa to dress her body and hair, and attempted to go about a lady’s day. As if Elia chose to be in Aremoria, as if she had not been cast away from Innis Lear. The result had been sudden, severe moments of pain throughout the day, brought on by unpredictable words, a glance, or merely the sight of a bird the likes of which she’d known before. Elia could barely control herself at those times, shaking with the power of this inner tempest.
To calm herself, she thought of her mother, and her childhood, before Dalat died, before her family fractured. In those days, Elia had been allowed to wake slowly, so long as she was fed and bathed by the time the queen expected her—waiting in the solar if it snowed and iced, or the garden if it did not—for several hours of reading, writing, and history lessons together. The queen had encouraged her youngest in learning, as she’d done with both elder daughters, and Elia was the one, finally, to appreciate any story, no matter how foreign or strange. Both had cherished their time alone, before a quick lunch with the king, and afterward Dalat would leave Elia to the star priests, for further lessons. The queen had spent her own afternoons supporting her husband’s rule: attending the king’s hunt, meeting with his clerks, inspecting new spices and goods from Aremoria or the Rusrike, or sometimes even the Third Kingdom. Often, Dalat’s duty had included embroidering with the other ladies of the keep, sharing the sort of gossip that greased the wheels of any government, and collecting information to use in other cases.
When Elia had been very lucky, she’d been allowed join her mother at this womanly task, so long as she worked quietly and did not repeat what she might learn. Her elder sisters joined them occasionally, hand in hand. Regan had excelled at the art of sewing with gossip, keen enough to participate despite her relative youth. Gaela had worn trousers and a soldier’s gambeson more often than not, and excitedly would explain to Dalat and the ladies what the earl Errigal or earl Glennadoer—or even the ladies’ own retainers—had taught her recently, of defense and the sword and the way of men. Possibly Gaela had not yet realized how vital her occasional dropped detail was to the women’s network.