Ban nodded, though he’d done it himself, knowing how to cut to make it seem enemy-inflicted. He sighed to make his voice breathy. “We fought, but he got away, running.”
Regan paused to touch his cheek where Ban had used his long knife to flick some drops of blood.
She smoothed her thumb down his rough jaw, then continued on.
Together they walked out over the moor toward Errigal Keep, past the iron chimneys. Their linked hands stretched between them. At the gate to the Keep, a bloodred flag for Connley had joined the winter blue banners of Errigal.
Ban needed to make a report for Morimaros.
But first, he would meet the duke, and lie to his father.
He escorted Lady Regan through the ward and into the old great hall, but that was not where the duke and earl were to be found. No, they’d retired to the former library, which had been Errigal’s study since his wife returned to her family some ten years ago.
The small windows overlooked the northernmost, narrowest section of the ward, from the rampart wall and up the rocky, barren mountain toward sheer blue sky. It was stark and beautiful, and very much emblematic of the iron backbone of Innis Lear.
Errigal slumped in his large chair beside the hearth, where a massive fire danced and snapped. A wide cup of wine was cradled in his lap; Errigal shook his head and muttered quietly. Connley stood at the windows.
When Ban and Lady Regan entered, Errigal hardly twitched, but Connley turned immediately.
The duke was a tall man, though not broad, with a fine posture and a gleaming wardrobe, several years older than Ban. Sunlight from the window brought out the rich gold in his hair and highlighted a break in his long nose, found the sharp corner of his lips. Connley wore no beard, and needed none—with such a charming smile he would wish nothing to hide its edges. Though striking already, the cut of his red velvet tunic only made the duke seem more bold, a daring figure with gold and jewels across his chest, at his belt and on his fingers, and in small chains around the ankles of his boots. The duke’s sword rested in a strapped sheath that did not protect the blade from wear, but showed off the shine and perfection of its steel. Ban judged him both proud and dangerous, recalling stories of Connley’s cold temper: anger or betray him, and your life would end swift and sudden. Loyalty, it was said, held together Connley bones.
Having him here would surely help Errigal turn entirely against Rory, though also make this game a more deadly one for Ban’s brother. He would have to work hard to keep Rory far away from the duke’s reach.
Ban bowed then, his scrutiny complete; Regan strode across the wooden floor toward her husband.
In his arms, she became as shining and perfect as the sword at his side. Not a witch, but a sleek weapon for drawing rooms and the great hall, a perfect halberd nailed to the wall as the promise of penalty, the seductive weight of implied violence. The duke kissed her lightly on the mouth, and Ban thought of her trouble carrying a child. It must weigh heavily on both of them. He would help, if he could, for it would not interfere with Morimaros’s plans. He tried not to wonder at his own motives.
Regan turned in Connley’s arms to say, “Here is Ban the Fox, my love. He escorted me out of the forest.”
“Ah, Ban!” Errigal lurched to his feet before the duke could speak, dropping the cup of wine. “Did you find that traitor, who was my son?”
“Sir,” Regan said coolly, “your son here bleeds. I tended his wound as best I could, but it should be seen by your surgeon.”
“Ban! Did the villain do that to you?”
It was easy for Ban to appear overwhelmed, trapped here in the middle of these three. Duke Connley stared at him with sharp blue-green eyes. Ban said, his gaze on Connley, but with words for his father, “He is responsible, sir, yes, but…”
Errigal’s face went red under his beard. “That traitor! Ah, Connley, what a time for you to be here. And yet, I was right: I told you I was right to fear the worst. My own true son fled for treason—for plotting to do me harm!—and still here my natural son stayed behind, loyal and what! Injured for his brother’s vile sake.”
Ban clenched his teeth over his father’s bloviating, but he fought to keep contempt from his voice and expression as he spoke. “I found him, Father, I found my brother and accused him—I could not help myself—and insisted he return with me. I said he must answer to you for what he wrote against you, and he said…” Ban shut his eyes as if feeling some inner pain. In truth, it was no acting: he felt that bite, though he had not expected to. Holding the king of Aremoria clear in his heart, Ban continued, “He said if I brought him home he would say it all came from me. He would put the invention to my name, and be believed—because Rory is your legitimate son and blessed by the stars, and I a bastard who hides under a dark sky.”
“Oh, treacherous rogue,” Errigal spat. “Let him fly as far as he likes; he will be found.”
“Indeed,” Connley said. “All our strength is for your use, Earl.”
“I am sorry, Father,” Ban said.
Errigal became suddenly woeful. “My old heart is cracking, I think. I know what the king felt, surely, when your once-sister denied him, Lady Regan. How merciful he was in his justified rage.”
Ban turned his face sharply away.
It was Regan, a moment later, who put cool hands on his cheek, stroking tenderly. “There, young Ban,” she said. “You have served your father well. The traitor deserves none of your pain.”
He looked into her cool brown eyes, the color of shallow forest streams. “Thank you, my lady,” he murmured.
Regan soothed him with a sorrowful smile. “Did your star-stained brother not spend this past season among the king’s retainers?”
“He did,” Errigal answered.
“Perhaps, then,” the king’s daughter said, “though I am sure it is no comfort, I can offer some reason: the king’s retainers have become coarse and greedy under my father’s tutelage. They likely put young Rory onto this idea, to get the revenue he would earn as Errigal upon your death for themselves.”
Ban sucked in a quick breath. What a simple motivation the lady offered; he wished he’d thought of it himself. Lay the blame at the king’s feet! He wanted to kiss her fingers, but he kept his gaze low so she did not notice his sudden glee. This daughter of Lear would help him ruin her father, whether she knew it or not.
She said, “Come, let me take you to whatever surgeon can see properly to your wound.”
The duke caught her eye. She nodded, and Connley said, “Then, Ban the Fox, you must return. I’ve been discussing some matters of the future of this island with your father, but I think you should hear them. You’ve shown yourself true.” Connley took his wife’s hands off Ban, but clapped him on the back, asserting his approval. The duke’s handsome face was too near to look away from without seeming weak or rude.
“It was my duty, sir,” Ban said humbly.
Connley smiled. “For such loyalty, you will be ours.”
Ban shivered at the layers of meaning to Connley’s words. “I shall serve you,” he said, bowing, “however else.”
The duke released him, and Errigal poured himself and Connley more wine. Errigal shook his head again and again, and drunkenly sighed. “What cursed stars are trailing in our skies.”
Again, Connley’s and Regan’s eyes met, and Ban nearly read the message they shared. It did not favor the stars, but bloodier desires. Regan offered her hand to him, and Ban leveled his breathing before taking it. He kissed her knuckles, his mind churning with ideas for how to help her. Perhaps there were some details of his plotting that should be left out of the report to his king.
For good or ill, this was the place Ban had landed.