“Then believe that I do not want to be queen. I never have wanted such a thing. I want my life to be my own.”
“We do not always have a choice in that matter. Even kings.”
“Do not take that choice away from me,” she commanded, or tried to: her voice shook.
He studied her for a moment. “Your uncle, the Oak Earl, wants the same as I. He argued in my council today that Aremoria’s best move is to put you on the throne of Innis Lear, and have a friendly neighbor, open trade without offense to the Third Kingdom. That it is what your father wanted, what he expected to have done at the Zenith Court.”
Horror stalled her voice. Elia closed her eyes. “I do not want to be queen of Lear. I do not want to vie with my sisters for the crown. I do not want to face their furious disdain. I have never wanted this. I want my father safe, and at peace for the last years of his life. I want—I want to do some good. Let me write to my sisters, negotiate with them. For my father, and for peace between them. They will choose one to rule: it will be Gaela. As is her birthright. If they know you are not readying your warships, they might relax enough to listen. To calm their husbands.”
“You believe your sisters can create balance? Can make Innis Lear strong? And do fair business with me? I do not see it.”
“And yet what do you see in me that makes you so certain I should be a queen, so certain you can trust me?”
“Elia.” His voice was hot suddenly, lacking his usual reserve. “I saw it the day we met, in small things, things you would not remember because they were so naturally part of you. And I saw it blossom when you stood before Lear and did not play his game. Not for power or aggression or anger, but for love. You can bring people together, instead of dividing them. That is what strength is. And what love should be.”
Elia, fighting tears, said, “Then for love, let me try to save my father, and resolve these things between my sisters to make a strong country before you wreck it.”
“I will not be the one to wreck Innis Lear.”
Desperation compelled her to say, “Don’t go to war, Morimaros. Say you won’t, and I’ll marry you. Make me your queen, keep me here in Aremoria, but never go to war with my sisters.”
The king released her suddenly. Some strong emotion rippled across his face. “You would marry me for your island’s sake, but not my own?”
“Your sake?” Elia’s heart clenched, and her fists followed. “I thought marriages between kings and queens were for the sake of alliance. I thought you wanted my position and leverage over my island, Your Highness, not my heart.”
“I find … I would have both,” Morimaros said.
She stepped back, her hip pressed to the stone rail.
Her sister Regan’s voice hissed at her, Use this to our advantage, little sister. Use his heart to gain what you need. And Gaela’s triumphant, disparaging laugh echoed.
The king waited as she thought, his eyes taking in every detail of her.
Shivering, Elia said, “I would prefer that, too. Both, I mean.”
Morimaros leaned in to her, bringing his hands up to cradle her neck. His thumbs touched her jaw. They were so close, too close. He was all she could see of the world, and his desire to kiss her was painted clear on his face. She hoped desperately he would not. She couldn’t imagine what she would feel if he did, or how his kiss would change her. She only knew that it would. She wasn’t ready.
“I see many possible consequences to your father’s choices, your sisters’ choices,” Morimaros said softly. She smelled the sweet, clear wine on his breath. It made her want to lick her lips; his nearness pressed her anger in too many directions. The king continued, “Your choices are more mysterious to me.”
“Everything I do is so simple,” she whispered. “I only want to live and practice compassion, and follow the path of the stars and earth saints. I cannot be responsible for the lives and deaths and rages and regrets of others.”
“I want…” Morimaros leaned away from her. He shook his head and turned to gaze at the shadows that overtook his city, turning it violet and blue and gray with deep twilight.
She waited, but he did not continue. As if the king of Aremoria did not know what he wanted, or could not quite bring himself to say the word aloud. “Tell me what you want.”
He leaned on his hands, gripping the stone rail of the balcony. His head dropped, urging her to touch his arm. She did, then slid her hand down the orange coat to place her fingers delicately atop his. Turning his hand up to put them palm to palm, Morimaros said, “I want … to only care about what I want, Elia Lear.”
The words were both heartbreaking and offensive, and yet when her name was in his mouth, it sounded like a queen’s name.
She withdrew her hand and left him below the new-pricked stars, understanding something more about rulership, and rather less about love.
Sister,
I would rather we be together than entrust these words to you by messenger, a fallible man who may read or lose or take too long. But always has it been so, and so always have I put ink to paper and written regardless.
There is a bird haunting my dreams, sister. A great predator clutching the windowsill beside my bed, or standing at the center of my northern altar, talons scoring the granite so that it bleeds. The bird stares at me, stares inside me, and I ask it what it sees, but its hissing words are in no language I understand. I think it is an earth saint, perhaps, in the guise of a tawny ghost owl. I shall ask the forest when I pass through, for we are soon to Errigal Keep.
Connley Castle and the surrounding lands are secure. My husband sent runners to every village and town, to the star towers along the coast, and to his retainers near Brideton especially, darling sister. Be sure to tell your husband. You will not catch us unaware.
If only they would settle between themselves by the trust in our hearts.
Do you—
Gaela, I do not know if I can bear a child.
I cannot send this. Regan you cannot send this. I
*
Sister—
We go to Errigal Keep soon, so send your next communication to me there.
Connley Castle is secure, and all our land. My husband sent runners to all our villages and towns, to the star towers along the coast, and especially to his retainers near Brideton. We will not be caught unawares by Astore, dear sister. But you must expect as much.
It is likely we will remain at Errigal until it is time to travel north for Midwinter, when you and I will meet again and finally become queens together. Keep our father if you like, or send him here, where it may do the Earl Errigal good to be forced to reckon with Lear’s deterioration. Bracoch may join us, and I understand from Connley that Astore is heartily courting Glennadoer.
I have opened the navel wells throughout Connley lands, and I suggest you do the same in Astore, no matter your apathy. It is the best way to Glennadoer’s heart, for that family has always bled like wizards.
There is an owl haunting my dreams—a great, tawny ghost owl that must be a messenger or an earth saint. Connley’s cousin Metis told me of a stag that lay down along the Innis Road the same afternoon as the Zenith Court, its branches of antlers pointed toward the center of the island. Write to me if you hear of other such things, that the island is waiting for us.
I have written to Elia. I hope you are correct that she will find it in her to stand as we bade her stand, and not give in to the will of a different king.
Yours above all, sister-queen,
Regan
REGAN