Elia did: she could always see the patterns of their world.
In the evenings, the whole family dined in the great hall, included in a warm mess of retainers and servants, along with visiting earls and local barons, or the sons and daughters of their neighbors; whomever had come to the long gray wall of Dondubhan Castle, crossing the Star Field to pray for the spirits of their dead. And after the meal, if Elia was not too sleepy, the princess was welcome to curl beside her parents as they listened to a harpist or oliphant player, poetry in at least three different languages, or the Fool’s riddles. Elia’s head would lean upon her mother’s or father’s lap, and the youngest Lear would drift away to the sights and sounds of her family at peace.
The memories felt like a story now, a tale of earth saints and music and happiness that had lived in some other princess’s heart.
On the sleepy ramparts of Lionis Palace it hurt Elia less to think of what had never changed: Regan’s pinched smile when she sipped hot coffee, for Regan loved the bitter drink; Gaela slipping a small, sheathed knife into the hidden pocket of her gown. She thought of Aefa dotting red paint down her cheeks and making a poem from any three words Elia offered. She thought of the scrape of a quill against paper, the smell of pine boughs covering the hall at Dondubhan, the lapping waves of the Tarinnish. She tried never to think of her father.
She thought of Ban Errigal.
Be bold, he had said.
She thought of the stars—but no, no, they could not be relied upon. Not her birth chart or dawn signs, none of it. Not even Calpurlugh.
When the wind blew, she listened for the whisper of Aremore trees. They did not speak to her. Whether she’d gone deaf to the language, or they refused her on some rooted principle, she did not know. Ban had said the trees of Aremoria laughed, but she had not yet heard them.
The tempest inside her raged, and Elia bound it tight.
All she could do was breathe.
Carefully breathe, in and out, and tell herself nothing was over.
GAELA
IN OVER A decade Gaela had never been so glad to be back in Astora. Rain had plagued her for the entire ride north from the Summer Seat, and a three-day journey had stretched to a week, thanks to her father’s old bones and the hundred retainers lengthening the party. Lear’s men were not nearly as efficient as Gaela’s own, and by the fourth day, she’d left camp before they’d finished clearing their tents.
As she rode into the city, all Gaela wished for was a hot fire, a hotter bath, and an entire bottle of that dark wine Astore always kept cellared. She supposed she’d have to dine with him, the husband who’d left the Summer Seat a day before Gaela, and no doubt had been home and settled and working since the Sixday of last week.
Water dripped down her scalp, for Gaela had lowered her hood as her horse took her beneath the heavy city gate. Behind her came her captain Crai and her personal retinue, then the hundred Learish retainers in dark blue tabards, and several wagons with all their goods and belongings. Gaela would already be slipping into her private bath by the time the last stragglers made it to the outer garrison where they’d be housed.
Astora City filled this small mountain valley in patches of cream and gray. Most buildings and houses were whitewashed and roofed with slate tiles, though some bright yellow glowed where thatched roofs leaned short and happy against their more elegant neighbors. There was no order to the roads and blocks of homes, though taverns appeared at regular intervals. One could find clusters of blacksmiths sharing wide stone yards, and then a row of tanners’ alleys had tucked themselves by the south plateau, where wind rarely blew their stench throughout the rest of the city. The old castle keep and the newer castle stood tall and proud at the northeast corner of the valley, where a mountain pass led out of the Jawbone Mountains, and a strong arm of the Duv River poured in with fresh water, churning several mills. Only three water wheels had been kept turning lately, for the villages that brought their grain here had so much less such to bring. So it was across the island, Gaela had discovered when working with her father’s stewards, collecting numbers for her return to Astore territory. The island of Innis Lear was in for a lean winter, again.
The old castle keep was a square of thick walls and arrow slits, poorly ventilated, but Gaela’s husband loved it passionately, knew every history of its stones. His grandfather had begun building the more refined new castle with technology from Aremoria; it would perhaps be finished with construction by the time this Astore was a sixty-year-old graybeard. But it was more than livable already, with taller ceilings and fewer drafts, a magnificent hall and bright solar he used for his office. Yet unless Astore died in battle, he’d sworn he’d die in the black keep, as all his ancestors had managed to do. Perhaps he would, but not until Gaela was crowned. She needed him still, as she’d needed him after Dalat died, when she dragged herself and her sister Regan here to command the duke to put her among his retainers and teach her to be a warrior king. As she’d needed him when she was twenty-one and finally forced to admit her father would never officially name her his heir so long as she was unwed.
Now she was officially an heir, but Regan remained childless at Connley’s side, and so Gaela needed Astore still to prove the relevance of her stars. But not for long. Soon she’d not need any of these men who saw her stars over her self. Once the Longest Night arrived, Gaela would kneel in the black waters of the Tarinnish. The island would bless her body and heart, and she would seem to give herself to it. Then, only then, could she kill Lear.
The uncomfortable old keep was where she’d put her father and his top men, too, though she herself had rooms in the new castle.
Gaela lifted her gauntleted hand as she entered the wide yard between the two seats. She nodded to Crai, who knew what needed to be done now for her father’s welcome. They’d sent runners ahead this morning, so all should be well prepared. And Gaela gave her horse over to a groom, grabbed her saddlebag and helmet, and headed straight into her own castle.
At her rooms, Osli waited. “Welcome home, lady. We’ve heard so much about what happened. Is it true, Lady Elia’s gone to Aremoria?”
“Bath first,” Gaela said, and pushed into the front room.
“Yes, it’s ready. The girls started it as soon as we knew you’d entered the city gate.” Osli took her sword belt, and two house maids stripped Gaela down as Osli carried the weaponry to its rack. Gaela went naked to the tub and climbed in, already grasping the rough soap. She flattened her lips and leaned back into the steaming water, but only gave herself one long moment before making a lather to wash herself swiftly and thoroughly.
“Elia?” Osli nudged, dragging a short stool near the tub.
Gaela sat up and waved over one of the house girls, who began the careful work of unbinding the mass of twists weighing down Gaela’s head. She’d not washed it since leaving for the Summer Seat, except to scrub at the scalp with clay powder. Now, they’d mix the clay with rosewater until it was a smooth, refreshing paste to be massaged into her head and hair. Gaela carefully closed the door to memories of such moments with her mother and Satiri.
“Elia is in Aremoria, yes,” Gaela said, relaxing under the girls’ ministrations. “Regan and I share the inheritance, according to Lear. And he’s come home with me, until the Longest Night.” She groaned in approval as one girl dug fingers hard into the muscles at the base of her skull. “Then I will finally be king.”
“And Regan’s claim?”