“Only some of the traders are from the Third Kingdom,” Aefa said again.
Elia gripped the delicate cup in her palms. “But they are the most dominant, you know it. It would be a meeting with so many of them. I’m not … them. And I am not ready for their expectations.”
“They might be part of your mother’s family, you can’t know! What if they would help you? Broker something to convince Morimaros not to be rash? You said yourself he did not want to invade us.” Aefa spoke fast and harshly, to keep her voice from growing in pitch. It had happened yesterday: her inadvertent exclamation had drawn the Elder Queen and Twice-Princess’s attention, thus ending their ability to converse unwatched for the afternoon.
“Aren’t you curious to meet them?” Aefa insisted.
“Are you?”
“Yes!” Aefa laughed in disbelief. “Wildly. I’ve never been closer to them than the time we rode past Port Comlack when one of their ships was at the docks.”
Elia recalled that afternoon: her father had rushed them on, promising there was nothing but painful memories to be had in visiting with Dalat’s people. Merely the drop of her name hurt, and so Elia had believed him. Kayo did all the negotiating for Lear when it came to the Third Kingdom.
“What of the Alsax then, will you see them?”
“They are related to Errigal, involved in the iron trade,” Elia said rather darkly.
Aefa heaved a sigh. “You aren’t shunned, Princess. You can have guests and friends. And family.”
Elia bit her lip, thinking of how many Lionis courtiers treated her: as if they knew who she was only because of how she appeared. That her brown face marked her personality, marked her desires and humor. She’d never dealt with such things on Innis Lear. As silly as it sounded, at home she’d only been an oddity, an easily identified princess, a girl isolated, true—but by her family situation, not the people. She was their princess, and she desired what they desired, found amusing what they did. Here in Aremoria, a weight of political history had convinced the people they knew what she was before she acted or spoke, despite knowing nothing true about her except her name and looks.
Aefa did not, quite, understand. Nobody looked at Aefa as they did Elia.
Could she even imagine trying to be queen here?
“My sisters would be furious, Aefa,” she said, her forever excuse.
Aefa’s eyes narrowed, recognizing it.
“I’m not ready to earn their ire.” Tentatively, she reached out and touched Aefa’s bony wrist. That quieted her friend, who was unused to such physical affection from Elia.
She set down her coffee. It had been four days since her dinner with Morimaros, and three since she’d written to her sisters. They would be getting the letters today, or soon.
Sister, she’d written, copying the same letter twice, careful not to alter a single word and set her sisters to thinking she schemed between them. I remain wife only to myself and to the stars, and negotiate with Morimaros of Aremoria for the independence of Innis Lear. He sees the fractured nature of our government as a weakness, and not one he necessarily wishes to exploit, but one that by nearness makes his own country vulnerable. He is convinced, for now, to peace, but it is only temporary: so long as our father runs mad and nothing is settled between us all, his threat will hang over us. I trust this king not to be overly combative or hawkish, unlike his council, but his patience toward the cracks our father created will not last forever.
Send our father to me, here, to await Midwinter with me. Allow me to tend to his age and mind, while you both adjust to your new roles and strengthen Innis Lear. End the fighting between your husbands, and force them into accord, either divided or together. Show me and this king there is hope for a strong, independent Innis Lear.
Their answers would tell her much about their intentions.
“Lady Elia!” called the Twice-Princess Ianta from below. “Come join us!”
Grateful to put an end to this discussion, Elia nodded to Aefa, who bent over the balcony rail to wave affirmatively.
Elia gathered herself and her cup of coffee, and followed Aefa into the narrow hall between bookshelves, to make their way down the even narrower spiral of stairs to the main floor.
At the round table, the Elder Queen and Morimaros’s sister sat, drinking spiced, hot milk from their pearl-rimmed mugs.
Calepia, like her son, presented an excellent example of straight shoulders and thoughtful, irrefutable authority. She wore the red and orange and white of Aremoria almost exclusively, with silver bracelets beaten wide, armorlike, to remind any who approached that she was yet a force of the law. Gray filtered through her rich saffron hair, and instead of covering it with veils or circlets as would most women, she had her ladies wind in white and silver ribbons, putting an accent on her age and making her hair all the crown she needed. Again like her son, her pink mouth was generous and soft when unperturbed.
The daughter, Ianta, had not inherited that mouth, nor the smooth sun-kissed skin. She was paler and less gorgeous than her mother and brother, narrower in face and expression but also rounder in body, with a happiness and prosperity that spilled out of her in ready laughter and fleshy confidence. She seemed comfortable in her natal roles—mother, sister, daughter—as much as she had pacing the marble floors of the throne room. Ianta could defeat even Gaela in presence, Elia often thought, though it would be like a clash between natural seasons: smiling, full-petal summer against bloody, crisp, martial autumn.
Elia bowed her head to Calepia, and smiled good morning to Ianta.
They bade her sit, and she did. Aefa took up a maid’s position near the door.
The Elder Queen began a charming story of her children when they were young, fighting over a single slim volume of animal poetry from the Rusrike. It had been a simple war of one hiding it from the other, until found and hidden from the opposite. Ianta had kept it the longest, for she hid it inside her dress, straight down the back, both to help her sit straight and because she knew her brother would never presume to search her clothing as she wore it. Finally, Mars had negotiated for the location, offering up the greatest prize of all: his willing defeat. In giving up, he’d regained the book, and though all the courtiers amused by their antics knew he’d admitted his loss, he held his chin up and tucked the book under his pillow. Calepia laughed lightly, nostalgic with love. “He always was the best strategist.”
“Win the war, never the battle,” Ianta said, in the tone of one who’s heard it many times before.
Elia hid the tightening of her smile behind a sip of coffee; the story seemed a threat, though Elia was certain if one looked constantly for such things, they would be found. She couldn’t tell if the Elder Queen meant her story as a warning, or only offered it up as a way for a potential daughter to learn more about her maybe-future husband.
Likely, it was intentionally both. Everyone connected to a crown played games; that was the nature of it, she was learning, and so Elia needed only discern who played them for power, and who for love.
“My Morimaros would say this, frequently,” Calepia explained to Elia.
“Mars’s and my father,” Ianta added. She paused, then spoke again. “My brother told me you read his birth chart for him at the Summer Seat.”
“I did.”
“How delightful. We don’t have them done in Aremoria anymore. Or”—she winked—“we aren’t meant to.”
The Elder Queen said, “Your father himself taught you prophecy and the stars?”
“He did. My father was his father’s third son, and he spent his youth preparing to be a star priest. It was not his preference to leave the chapels and rule, but one does what one must for family and country.”
“And then he used his influence to rebuild the domination of the stars under his crown,” Twice-Princess Ianta said. “To overthrow the earthly ways of your ancestors.”