Gaela glanced sharply at Osli. “She will not challenge me, but will be my royal sister, as ever. Her word, too, shall be law. Our husbands will accustom themselves to this arrangement, or kill each other trying.”
Osli said nothing, and Gaela peered at the young woman’s face: oval-shaped with a small nose, with the sort of skin that pinked if the sun but glanced at her. Brown hair short as a boy’s. Those thin lips turned down.
It was five years ago Osli had presented herself to Gaela in the shift and apron of one of the house staff. The girl had lifted her chin and met Gaela’s eyes proudly. She’d said, “I do not want to serve you in this fashion.”
Gaela, well acquainted with communicating without clearly voicing her needs, had heard the message behind the words, and smiled. “How would you serve me instead, girl?”
Osli did not return the smile. “As a warrior, like you.”
After a brief study of Osli’s hands (strong and big) and posture (solid though skinny), Gaela jerked her chin toward the door. “Take your things to the barracks, then, and if you can make your way back to me by that route, you will get your wish.”
It took only eighteen months before Gaela saw her again, beaten to the dust of the arena, but learning. A year after that, Gaela made her a captain, both for the girl’s sake as well as to stir up Gaela’s own ranks. Not once had Osli asked for help or expected special treatment for being a woman. She followed Gaela’s example as best she could, served well and without complaint, and for that Gaela now spoke. “Ask me what you will, Osli.”
“Folks are saying the bad harvests are because the king stopped taking rootwater, and stopped giving his blood to the island.”
Gaela shut her eyes and leaned in to the house girl’s massage. “Who? Who are you listening to that says such things? My retainers? My husband’s?”
“My father,” Osli confessed.
“Your father wants the wells open again.”
“Yes. He’s lost more sheep this year, and it could be coincidence, but those who still hear the voices of the trees … the things they say of the king … my lady, I only wonder what you intend.”
Gaela sat up swiftly, sending waves of hot water lapping over the wooden edge of the tub. “Do I not give my blood to this island?”
“You do.”
“Was I not born under a conqueror’s sky?”
“You were.”
“Do you doubt I am fit for the crown of Innis Lear?”
“Never!” Osli grasped the rim of the tub. “Never, my lady. It is only your father, and he is here now. What should I say of him, what should we say to him?”
“Say nothing of him, and nothing to him. He is old, and I am his heir. The time of witches and wizards is passing, Osli. We will be as great as Aremoria one day, as great as the Third Kingdom itself. They do not need magic, but only strength in their rulers and unity in their people. I’ll keep this island unified, under my rule, with my sister at my side. With me, you shall see it.”
Gaela held Osli’s steady gaze, willing the captain to let go of hundreds of years of superstition, to see how star prophecy was only a tool, and the rootwater just water. The island was an island, and earth saints, if they’d ever been real, had left long ago.
The young woman nodded eagerly. Gaela smiled.
A knock at the door jolted Osli to her feet. She answered it, fetching back a message from Astore that he would see his wife before they joined the king at a feast.
Gaela resigned herself to it, though she told Osli to pour a cup of wine for both of them to enjoy as she finished her bath. She drank deeply, imagining how it would feel when she wore the crown of Lear, when she sat on the throne at Dondubhan. How many days after the Longest Night would she wait before Lear died? An hour, or a week? Perhaps if Gaela chose to be merciful, she would grant Elia the goodbye none of them had been allowed with their mother.
When she drained the wine, she stood. “The split gown,” she ordered, “with that dark blue underneath.”
Stepping out of the bathtub, she was rubbed down with cloth, and then another girl spread cinnamon oil along Gaela’s spine and arms and belly; it stung every tiny open scratch, and Gaela relished it. That was why she preferred cinnamon. And that it cost her husband.
These were the small prices he paid for ever having loved her, for thinking she was his.
The dark blue wool underdress slithered over her loose and long, its hem curling about her bare ankles. The girls tied the cream gown on over it, arranging the split skirt carefully with ribbons that tied it in place. Laces pulled it against Gaela’s breasts, leaving her collar and shoulders bare for a thick silver necklace that pretended to plate mail. Her hair they twisted wet and bound low at her nape, with tiny silver combs tucked around the thick knot.
With fine fresh lady’s boots tied onto her feet and her Astore ring on her right thumb, she left her rooms and sought out her husband. A satisfying hour since he’d sent for her.
Astore waited in his study, a bright room just off the great hall that should’ve been a solar but that he’d cluttered with scrolls, maps, dusty books of war philosophy, and his own journals. South-facing windows were thrown open to the early evening sun, for Astore preferred to write by daylight.
Gaela did not knock before entering. Her husband sat behind his desk. Letters were scattered about, and several ink pots. A dagger for cutting wicks and opening seals weighed down a pile of the thin paper he used for jotting notes and observations.
“Ah, wife,” he said, coming around the desk. “While I waited long and longer still for you, I wondered if we should leave immediately tomorrow and take Brideton? Before Connley can even blink? It could be done in a pleasant afternoon, I think. What word from your sister? Did they go straight for Errigal, or stop at home first? And Elia, will she be cold enough to refuse the king of Aremoria, or shall we prepare for him, too?”
Gaela did not answer, but only lifted an eyebrow. Astore stopped suddenly, a step away from her, and dragged his hand down his beard.
“My stars and worms, woman, you’re beautiful.”
She tilted her chin just slightly higher. Astore closed the step between them. His mouth brushed the hollow of her cheek, and he breathed hot against her ear. Gaela held still as a hovering hawk. She hoped he would not force his desire now; she did not have the mood for it, nor for arguing.
One of Astore’s hands settled on her hip.
“Regan will take her husband home to Connley Castle first, and we will all settle in to this new arrangement,” Gaela said softly, though not tenderly. “Then they will to Errigal.”
“Damn them for sharing a coastline.”
“Do not worry on it, Astore. The throne will be mine, and if you still refuse to trust me on that, let us march to Dondubhan tomorrow and I will sit myself upon it before all the island. I will drink that black water, and be queen in all ways.”
His hand tightened on her hip. “Do not be so arrogant or impatient, Gaela. There are rules and traditions, and we will have the throne, in four months.”
“I make the rules, Col,” she snarled, leaning in to him, lining up their bodies. “The traditions will be mine to change.”
“Some things are carved in stone, like this island itself. There is blood in the roots, and you must respect that. Innis Lear was built on magic, and united with it. With magic it can be sundered.”
Gaela glared into his heated brown eyes. “The blood of this island is in me, Col Astore, and in your veins. None will take the crown from us.”
“Half your blood is from a desert. You have to show the people here that you bleed rootwater.”
She grabbed the collar of his tunic and made a fist. “How dare you suggest my mother’s line does not belong here! My birth was predicted by Lear’s stars, and her death confirmed it: we are intimately woven into the breath of this island.” The final words panted out of her, and Gaela struggled to remain calm.
Astore kissed her, hard, and nodded against her mouth. “Yes, my love, that ferocity is pure Innis Lear,” he whispered, tugging at her.