Ban stepped out of the tub and grabbed a shirt from his trunk. He patted himself dry before pulling it over his head to hang down over his thighs. “Do what?”
“Earn a place here. You have one.” Rory said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ll always belong here, with me,” Rory continued. “My brother, captain of my soldiers, uncle to my sons, a husband to some fat, gorgeous wife, whatever you want. And if anyone says a slant word about it, I’ll make them regret it.”
The words played dully on Ban’s heart. They were meant well. Rory wanted to reassure him, to display his affection. But the very fact that Rory felt he needed to say it, needed to show him, only proved that Rory, finally, could see the bastard brother’s lesser position.
Ban smiled, but it was tight. A fox’s smile, narrow and sharp, with hidden teeth. “I know, brother. This is where I belong.”
“Good. Good.” Rory clasped Ban’s shoulders, shook him once, and let go. “I’ll see you in the hall for the feast. Drink hearty, for I plan to compete with you story for story, and I won’t let you get away with burying me under the Fox’s exploits.”
“You have a bargain,” Ban said softly.
His brother departed, and Ban slowly dressed, a realization blossoming with every movement.
Rory was the widest chink in Errigal’s armor.
Though sickened to think it, Ban could immediately see the spiral of an elegant, simple plan.
Limbs heavy, a frown pulling at his mouth, Ban skimmed his fingers through his ragged black hair and prepared to sacrifice his brother.
Sister,
I well hope your first week in Gallia has helped you calm yourself. Our father certainly is not happy with the outcome of his mad policies, which should make you feel relief or comfort, but I greatly suspect will only worry you more. Ever were you loyal and blind to his flaws, both as a father and king. Never mind, for he is neither to you now.
I will not horrify you with further talk of his death, but despite his new wildness that takes no rest, his seeming loss of composure, he will not change his mind about the crown or you. Both Regan and I are his heirs; we will work it out between ourselves. Mulish inflexibility is the name of his birth star, and where you used to out of kindness call it tenacity, I will name it truly now: the old man indulges in simple childish tantrums. Already my own retainers resent his contradictory orders and the slovenliness of his men. Would that you were here, for you alone might calm him and talk him out of his furies. My captain found him burning his eyes staring for hours at the sun in the sky yesterday afternoon. But you cannot return. As I said, we will read it as hostile intent, little sister. The crown is mine, but once I am confirmed, you will be welcome. So long, that is, as you do not marry Aremoria.
Keep yourself to yourself, and be strong. Give him no reason to bring his army here, or think he can take Innis Lear. When you return, we will find you a husband worthy of you: one of the Errigal sons, perhaps, for by then Regan will come around to it. One loves our father, and so you must get on well; the other is a fine warrior, and you thought you loved him once already. So.
This letter goes with the Oak Earl, and comes with a promise of his speed and safety, the one of which I can expect, and the other of which I can personally assure. It will not be long before we meet again, little sister.
Gaela of Lear
*
Elia,
Though our martial sister likely would not share my assessment, things are well for now in Innis Lear. This time of transition will not be so dire as some would predict. Though the harvest has gone poorly the past two years, I hear signs from the wind that we will do better this year, that the island rallies itself under my and Gaela’s joint rule. The first day after the Longest Night, the navel wells will be opened again.
It has never been a strength of yours to see what is not obvious, to be aware of the edges of words, the double and triple layers in all purposes, but you must turn your attention to developing such skills. I should have taken you greater in hand after our mother died. Taken you farther from his influence. In our grief and unforgiving natures, we allowed you to be coddled, as perhaps is right for a young girl, but no longer for a woman or sister to queens. Now you must look past what you are told, what you are given, and you must rely on your own mind, your own heart. Suspect Aremoria, but give him enough that he maintains hope of alliance through you. If you love him, do as you will, but accept the consequences. That is what I have done. The consequences may be severe, little sister. Marriage to Aremoria would allow him an avenue through which to take the island, unless you stand against it. And remember, if you are his, so will your children be, and belong to the roots of his kingdom.
Probably you are amazed at these words, and narrow those eyes at my lettering to see if this is truly your sister Regan’s hand. Worry not: I harbor my doubts that you will be able to do these things. This is no confession of hidden affection or respect. I love you as I always have: reluctantly, and knowing we might someday be rivals for this crown. Gaela assumes that in your core you are made of the same mettle as we, but I assume nothing, and it has served me very well.
Guard yourself, and guard us. Guard Innis Lear. If your own eyes, Morimaros of Aremoria, trace these words of mine, take them as the threat they are.
In sisterhood,
Regan of Connley and Innis Lear
*
To the Princess of Lear and Maybe Queen of Aremoria,
Let this be a comfort, an assurance to you, dear lady. We love our poor King Lear greatly, and know in time he will forgive whatever fault he has seen in you and bring you home. Until then, consider our cousins in Aremoria to be as your own. Their name is Alsax. My son Errigal, who you have known as Rory, would speak for them I am sure, as he fostered there with them for three years. Our other, less spoken of, son, whom you also know, was with them longer. He carries a reputation there himself, as the Fox.
Good lady, look to the heavens. Surely the answer to all our terrible times must hang there. As the stars and dread moon have given life to misfortune this season, so shall they bear the means of our triumph.
Earl Errigal
*
My daughter Aefa,
I know you will share this with your lady, she who is intimate with all your thoughts, though perhaps not prepared for what I would prefer not to speak of. As such, I keep my words brief, though already this introduction has drawn out what might’ve been the truth of brevity into a surplus of concision. So.
I am well.
The king, less so.
I fear he suffers for his unwise decisions to send away both his brother and his daughter. His faith in his stars is shaken, bent, and I cannot tell if breaking it will also break him, or, like bursting a boil, relieve us all. He waits for providence to save him, as he ever has, but he speaks more of Dalat. Both speaks of her, and speaks to her, apologies and regrets, though I cannot discover the core of them. Tell your lady—hello, darling child—he loves her still, and it is a wound in himself he sought to heal when he made all his daughters choose, not a wound in her. He believed in two things: stars and Elia, and to his foolish mind both seemed to turn against him in unison, while the two more like to join in opposition to his will stood hand in hand with smiles in their hearts.
We go tomorrow to Astora, but I know not how long it will last. The eldest daughter of Lear is strong in everything but patience, and Lear As He Is would try even the patience of the sun. I fear soon the king will drive himself away from Astore to Connley, where you know as well as I his welcome will not be assured. But he is not in true danger immediately, from anything but his own stricken madness.
Daughter, I would have you home, but I more would have you wise, and wisdom should keep you in the rich bosom of secure Aremoria. One day soon I will riddle the king into rightness, or he will see a star sign that allows him to pretend I did no such thing, and we will be together again all.
Your father