Elia froze.
“That is how Aremoria holds faith,” the Elder Queen said, more gently. “My husband’s father, King Aramos, proclaimed an end to the crown’s reliance on the stars or the land. He said we were stewards of the land, partners with it, not subject to it, and certainly not subject to the stars, which never suffer with us. He did not raze any chapels or close any caves or springs. He merely told the people they did not need to worship or sacrifice.”
“It worked? The land … did not…” Elia thought to say cry or rebel.
“It worked. But Aramos did something else to unite everyone behind him: he gave Aremoria enemies. We had always had border wars; there has always been pushing and pulling against Ispania, Burgun, Diota, even the Rusrike at times—and of course, your own island. But Aramos made our enemies definitive. Instead of being Aremore because we live with this land, because our families always have, we are Aremore because we fight to keep Aremoria. We are Aremore because we are not Ispanian, Burgundian, Diotan, or Learish. Do you see?”
Elia did see, and was horrified.
By this, Morimaros had to invade Innis Lear, or lose a piece of what made him who he was. The golden king of Aremoria. Their destined leader. A would-be god to his people. And when Elia had asked, Mars had offered several strong reasons he should invade. Political and martial, and economic, even going as far as arguing that it would be the clear best choice for the future growth of Innis Lear. But he had not revealed this reason. This destined one. Draining the brandy, Elia clutched the cup and looked straight at Ianta. “In Morimaros’s council meeting, did you urge him to invade my island? And was this why?”
Ianta lowered her cup. A tiny hint of brandy stained her bottom lip before she licked it away. “No,” she said. “I urged him to marry you instead.”
“He might do both.”
Calepia nodded. “Indeed, if you let him.”
Why is it me who must allow or stop or end or choose?
But the words did not leave her, for she knew the answer: it was because no one else would—or perhaps, no one else could. Her sisters chose long ago to make themselves rigid, and her father chose to give all to the stars. Morimaros had chosen his path in becoming king, and even Aefa had chosen, and would choose again, to stay with Elia and support her. Everyone was pointed in some direction, of their own choice.
Always Elia had been aimed and set by others. Accepted what was given, absorbed into their wills—especially, though not exclusively, her father’s. She’d borne any consequence by detaching from her own heart, unwilling to examine her actions in case they might clash with the need to be still. Elia let the stars decide the course of her life, despite her bold words framing them as distant guides.
She was exactly like her father.
Elia stood and poured more brandy for herself. She lifted her cup. “To choosing for ourselves.”
One of King Morimaros’s soldiers appeared at the library door. He saluted crisply and murmured a message in the ear of the nearest lady-in-waiting. The lady passed it to the queen’s ear, who then glanced at Elia with slight surprise. “You have a messenger come urgently from Innis Lear.”
Already! It couldn’t be from her sisters yet, unless letters had crossed. Had something happened? Worried, she set her cup on the table and turned to face the door. Before she could proceed, a travel-worn young man pushed in, one with reddish hair and a face more freckled than not. Beloved of the stars. “Rory!” she said, shocked. “Errigal. What are you…”
The heir to Errigal dropped before her, knees hitting the floor hard enough the sound echoed like a knock on death’s own door. “Elia,” he murmured, hands reaching out, eyes cast down.
She took his face instead, forcing him to look at her. Dread filled her heart. “Tell me what has happened.”
Behind her, she heard Aefa quickly explaining that Rory was somewhat of a cousin to Elia: that she’d known him since they were babes, and he was as honorable as any man. Trust Aefa to be ready to defend against even a hint of censure cast on her princess. Though Rory was known to the court, as a cousin of the Alsax. Elia found it hard to focus on their words over the frantic beat of her heart.
Elia took Rory’s hand. He was a good friend, and she’d seen him more frequently this past year than the last five, since he had come the retainers’ barracks at Dondubhan, near where she’d studied at the north star tower. Rory was broad and handsome, freckles overwhelming his face like the most crowded arm of the firmament. His characteristic slouch was appealing instead of indolent, promising friendliness, not malfeasance.
But now he stared up at Elia, haunted. She reached for her cup of cherry brandy and offered it to him. He drank it all.
Beside Elia, Aefa thrummed with expectation but held her tongue. Elia felt herself calm, but it was a patience borne of dread.
“My lady,” Rory said haltingly, then bowed to the Aremore royalty. “I … I apologize for interrupting.” His short, yellow lashes brushed his cheeks, and he frowned mournfully, then opened his eyes and met Elia’s. “My father has disowned me, El.”
It was a sharp kick to her heart, and she clenched her hands together. “How did this happen?”
“Truly, I know not! I am betrayed, that is the only thing I am certain of. Ban came to me and said—Ah, god!” Rory shoved his fingers into his hair.
“Ban?” Elia prompted, avoiding Aefa’s pressing eyes.
“Perhaps we should go elsewhere?” Aefa whispered, careful of the royal women at their back. Elia shook her head, her stare locked onto Rory.
The earlson said, “Yes, my brother, Ban. He came home from—well, from here, you might know—and he warned me that our father was furious at me, for some fault Ban had not yet discovered. I wanted to go to Father immediately, but Ban swore him to be unsettled and murderous, and entreated me to lay low for some time. I agreed, though only because Ban promised to calm our father’s fury. I left to go back to my friends among the king’s retainers, allowing Ban to stay behind to uncover and mend any transgressions in my favor. I planned to beg Lear for aid, as my godfather and liege—but my heart was weak, and I grew fearful thinking of your circumstance, that you might understand and give me shelter. The king had banished you, of all the truest, kindest ladies in the whole world! Why would he find sympathy for me if there was even a breath of possibility I’d scorned my own father? Ah, stars, Elia! What has changed our fathers so hard against us? A thing in the sky? Or a cause of the wind?”
The words poured out of Rory, fast and near incomprehensible, though she understood their core. She leaned forward and took Rory’s large hands. His fingers were rough, his knuckles scarred and thick. Elia looked up at him. “I am so sorry.”
And Aefa said, “Was it only the word of Ban Errigal that made you flee? Only a promise from your brother?” Her voice was tight, and Elia knew what the girl was thinking: Ban had promised already to prove to Elia how easy it was to crush a father’s love. And here was Rory, banished from his father’s heart where previously Errigal had only words of pride and easy trust. Alarm rang in Elia’s blood.
“Yes, my brother,” Rory said wearily. “I thank my stars for him. Whatever the cause of my father’s anger, Ban warned me, saved me, most like. He cared not that it would likely make him again the object of our father’s wrath. A traitor! That my own father would believe it of me—of my stars.”
How had Elia forgotten so easily the complete words Ban had spoken? Having been consumed instead by his exhortations, by his—his raw belief in her—she’d neglected to think on the objects of his rage, and passion, and pain. His fierce vow—in her name—to prove how fickle was a father’s love, that Lear’s madness was not a fault in Elia, but in the stars. That Ban would tear apart Innis Lear, as her heart had been wrecked.