Son!
His mother called him to her. Ban grimaced, avoiding Curan’s curious eye. He was not ready to go to Hartfare, not yet, not before he set his games in solid motion. Brona would tease the truths out of him, attempt to convince him to stop. That, Ban would not do.
Shrugging off his thoughts, Ban turned to care for the iron.
*
BAN TOOK THE worn, black stone steps up to his chambers two at a time, eager to bathe and find his brother again. The Keep bustled with sudden preparations for a feast in Rory’s honor, to welcome him home.
There’d been no such feast for the older Errigal son’s return.
Ban shook away the hurt as best he was able, careful not to rub at his face or run fingers through his hair: dried mud flaked off as he moved, despite his having put his shirt back on over the streaks and cakes. The pain did not matter: this was a game, not a destiny.
The door to his chamber hung slightly open, and Ban went silent. He put one hand on the hilt of the long dagger strapped to his belt, carefully pushing the door open just enough so he could slip inside.
Rory stood, his back to the door, flipping through one of Ban’s thin books. The earlson’s wide shoulders were dotted with tiny drops of water, fallen from his washed and combed hair. He’d dressed himself in a clean tunic of pale blue, edged with leather and fine black silk from the Rusrike. His boots were polished deep brown, and he wore copper at both wrists and rings on his thumbs. A sapphire shone on the hand turning the thick vellum of the book cradled in his other hand.
Glancing around, Ban saw nothing else strange: his low bed was exactly as neat as he’d left it, pillow-free and plain; a trio of shields leaned like giant dragon scales below the open window; his desk was covered with books he’d hardly unpacked, though they’d arrived from Aremoria two days previous; the hearth was cold, for he’d not built a fire in it since coming home two weeks ago. Instead the space held boughs of juniper and a cluster of dried roses, two honeycomb candles, and a slice of oak polished to a shine he used for rubbing spells. Three of the five tiny ceramic bowls for offerings were empty, but one held salt and one a smear of white-burned ashes.
In the corner by his bed, an arched door led to a privy shared between his and Rory’s rooms; it was held open by a footstool, and beside it sat a wide wooden tub full of steaming water.
“Brother?” Ban said quietly.
Rory startled, fumbling the book he inspected, but he caught it and spun. “Saints! Ban, you’re quiet as a ghost.”
Before Ban could answer, Rory laughed at himself. “Of course you are, Fox of Aremoria. The stories got even better after I left.” He slapped shut the thin volume: a book of Aremore poetry, Ban saw, carefully copied out by Morimaros to use as a code key. Rory dropped it back onto the desk with the rest. “I had your bath filled for you, as soon as I was done with my own.”
“Thank you,” Ban said, unbuckling his belt to set it and the dagger onto the bed. “Have you seen Father?”
“Yes, and we’re feasting tonight.”
“Yet you’re in my room, not out flirting with the entire Keep.”
Rory smiled with more than a little wry acknowledgement. “I haven’t seen you in longer, so here I’d rather be.”
Ban paused as he crouched to remove his boots, gazing in surprise at Rory. “Just over a year.” He’d not thought his brother would miss him so, based on their farewell in Aremoria, and the lack of letters between them.
“So long!” Rory threw his head back and heaved a sigh.
With a small laugh, Ban finished undressing. He dropped his dirty clothes onto the floor and tested the water: perfectly hot. He climbed in, kneeling so the water hit his chest. It was a luxury to bathe in his room; usually he used the colder baths in the Keep barracks. Ban closed his eyes, relishing the tingle of heat. He cupped water up to his face, splashed it through his hair. Dirt changed to mud again, and he stripped it off his scalp, rubbing down his face and neck.
“You have more scars than I do,” Rory said softly, sinking down onto the bed. The ropes beneath the thick mattress creaked.
Ban met his eyes, unsure what to say.
Rory was unusually serious, almost sad looking. “Some of them are wizard marks?”
“I bled myself here.” Ban touched a small lightning-shaped scar on his left shoulder. “And here.” He lowered his hand into the water, where a line of scarring cut horizontal across his belly, just over his navel. “But most are from war.”
“Impressive.”
Ban grimaced. “Better not to have any. I get caught too often, blade through my armor.”
“You don’t wear armor sometimes, though, isn’t that right? Because you’re a spy and a wizard?”
“True, some. I have very good leather armor that doesn’t make the noise of mail or plates.”
The look Rory gave him insisted on Ban agreeing to the impressive nature of his scars, and Ban felt compelled to say, “Morimaros hardly has any scars at all, for he is so good a warrior.”
“Father wanted me to marry Elia, before the foreign kings offered,” Rory said, so abruptly Ban scrambled to follow the thought path.
He frowned. “I … can see how it would’ve been … advantageous. Better for Errigal to join our power to the king’s line that way, through Elia, than keep our contract with Connley. It might’ve made you king, eventually.”
“You loved her,” Rory said, ignoring the shift into politics, “when we were children.” His red hair caught the sunlight streaming in the window, reminding Ban of the fiery strands in Elia’s curls.
Ban’s eyes lifted east, toward the ocean, toward Aremoria. For a moment, he was stuck: no breath, no momentum, lips parted, thinking of her.
She would surely have his note by now.
“You still do,” Rory said softly.
Ban refocused, reaching out of the tub for the cake of soap perched on a small washstand. “I saw her, at the Summer Seat. Before she left with Aremoria.”
“And?” Rory leaned his elbows on his knees, oddly urgent.
“It’s been over five years. She’ll be safe with Morimaros, that’s what matters right now.”
“Did she truly deny Lear her love?”
Ban attacked his brother with a hearty splash. “Hardly!”
Standing and wiping water off the front of his tunic, Rory asked, “Then what?”
“The king has lost his mind; how do you not know that? You’ve served as his retainer for a year!” Irritated, Ban scrubbed at his arms with the soap and, in a fit of frustration, ducked down under the water. Small waves heaved over the sides of the tub.
“You should be careful what you say about the king,” Rory said, once Ban had emerged.
Ban scowled. “Why?”
“He’s your king.”
As if it were that simple.
“He was never mine,” Ban said, low and dangerously—half because he believed it, and half to shock his brother.
“Ban!” Rory loomed over him. “He can’t hurt you anymore, the way he once did. You’re the Fox now, and a wizard, and learning iron magic, too? I’ve only been home for an hour, but I already see how everyone in this Keep adores you, and you could take whatever you wanted of Errigal, with nobody to stop you! Why be afraid of King Lear?”
The earlson’s breath panted from parted lips, his hands held out where he’d flung them in his angry enthusiasm.
Ban sat naked in the tub of cooling water, gaping up at his brother. It was too near Ban’s actual intentions for him not to be impressed.
Suddenly, Rory closed his mouth, two dark spots of red flushing his cheeks, blending all his freckles together. He stomped toward the door between their bedrooms.
“Wait!” Ban surged out of the tub.
Rory stopped, glancing over his shoulder with his bottom lip between his teeth.
“Rory, I … just wait. Let me…” Ban glanced around for a clean shirt, or a robe or cloth.
With a little helpless sound, Rory returned. “You don’t have to do it.”