It didn’t break Rory; instead it seemed to knit something tighter inside him. Ban would be happy, and so Ban would stay.
With a smile and a merry yell, Rory grabbed up a flat stone and flung it into the lake. He marched along, toward the ruins, expecting they’d follow or not.
That night, after dinner and the king’s Fool’s fantastic recitation of a battle poem, one that Rory knew several verses to already, he followed Errigal when the earl retired. He very seriously, very earnestly, told his father that Ban and Elia would be a good match, that their babies would be iron strong and star bright. Errigal turned red but said nothing.
A few weeks later, Ban was sent to Aremoria.
Part
THREE
THE FOX
LAST NIGHT A crow had perched outside his too-narrow window, yelling bloody murder: Ban could no longer ignore his mother.
So he’d left before dawn, taking one of his father’s lanky horses.
Once through the black gates of the Keep, Ban gave the horse her head, urging her up the rocky path toward the White Forest of Innis Lear. The horse leapt forward, eager to race, as if Ban’s jittery energy translated through seat and saddle. Ban leaned forward, his cheek near the horse’s neck, and they shot into the trees with a crack and slap of branches and yellowing leaves.
As Ban traveled, he built thin layers of emotional armor around himself, to perhaps hide from Brona all the hope and fury and fault that roiled darkly in his heart like gathering storm clouds. He knew himself to be an excellent liar, having spent years as the Fox, but as a boy, his mother had always seen right through him.
For a long while the horse made her own way along a deer path and then a creek bed, dashing then walking again, hopping over fallen branches, picking her way carefully over mossy ground. Ban only kept her nose pointed north and west, toward Hartfare.
Around them the forest woke, chirping and buzzing with the last of summer, the flies and bees and happy birds whispering a welcome to him. He murmured back to the rich shadows and voluptuous greenery: low ferns glistened with dew, moss and cheerful lichen climbed the trunks of the trees, and the thick canopy of leaves turned the light itself glassy green. Here, inside the White Forest, was the only place the island’s roots still held any joy.
This was what needed most to be restored, once Lear’s oppressive rule had ended, once his legacy was torn apart. The heart of the island would thrive, and its rootwaters spread to every edge once again. Ban would make it so himself, and Morimaros would allow it, because the king of Aremoria understood balance, and could be made to understand the workings of root magic on Innis Lear, even if there was no faith under his crown.
And it would be easy, if Ban’s father’s state was any indication.
Last night Errigal had wrapped his heavy arm around Ban’s neck and said, “If it were not for the year between your birth and your brother’s, I might wonder if some earth saint had not switched you in the night. You my true son, and Rory the cur he’s proved himself to be.”
“Peace, Father,” Ban had said through clenched teeth. “You still do not know his true heart.”
Errigal had thrust Ban away. “You keep defending him and I’ll charge you as an accomplice, boy! Deny you both!”
“I am no accomplice, my lord, I only wish to find him.” Ban touched the hilt of his dagger, for he wore no sword to dine with the duke and his lady. “It is hard to believe this villainy of Rory. Because he is my brother.” It should have been what Errigal said: I can hardly believe this of Rory, because he is my son.
But Errigal only tore at his beard and cried, “What could brotherhood be to him, when fatherhood is so clearly insignificant?”
And Ban was forced to be silent, or spitefully call out his father’s hypocrisy.
The duke of Connley had distracted Errigal with an argument on economics then, and putting men north, as close to Dondubhan as they could without directly challenging Astore. Regan added an elegant opinion here and there, reminding them it was Gaela they should avoid challenging. Ban had wished to leave, but the lady’s eyes settled upon him, despite her attention to the arguing. He’d struggled to keep the truth of his anger off his face, to be only her wizard, showing no emotion more than mere irritation at his father’s drunkenness. In the end, he lowered his gaze, afraid she would perceive too much.
Now, Ban thought again of her lovely, cool eyes, her grace, and what a dangerous presence she carried, what determination and poise.
It was disloyalty to Mars to even consider the idea, but Regan Connley, Ban thought, would make an excellent queen. Better than Gaela, who was a suit of armor, a blunt, deadly weapon, and better than Elia, who was not a weapon at all.
Though if anyone could manage to sharpen her into one, it was Morimaros of Aremoria.
In the forest, bluebirds fluttered in Ban’s path, following him, and flickers of pale light caught his gaze as the moths returned, marking the forward path. Ban gave the horse’s withers a friendly thump and pulled her back, angling her in the direction of his mother’s village.
Hartfare was supposed to be difficult to find, except to those who understood the forest or could hear the language of trees. It was no den of outlaws, but a haven for people who did not fit in the towns and cities or keeps and castles of Innis Lear. Some were like Ban’s mother, foreign in blood or clinging to the old earth ways; some had lost their homes and families; some had been otherwise unwanted; some made outlaws by political slant rather than malicious intent; some merely preferred the gentle heart of the forest and did not mind living close to the wilds and saints and spirits of the dead.
Ban had lived there the first ten years of his life, unaware of the reputation he’d been born into according to the greater world of men and kings. Hartfare was an adventure for any young boy, but unlike many there, Ban knew his father. Errigal had been a bright, blustery, frequent presence, rushing into Ban’s life like a spring flood, then out again on a galloping steed. He’d been a handsome warrior, a laughing, loud nobleman who made Ban’s mother laugh in turn, louder than any other. And like most children, Ban had assumed nothing would change, that always he’d be helping his mother in the garden, running with the other children after small game, or mushrooms and wild onions, up all night to listen to the creaking voice of the forest. That he and Brona would be a permanent duo, Ban growing into a natural extension of the witch of the White Forest, the shadow-lady of Innis Lear. He would always be her son, a witch he hoped himself, and Ban would then dream of his own shadow-names and power. It was Brona who drew attention and trade to Hartfare: Errigal and Errigal’s like, bold visitors from every corner of the island, or more often sneaking men and desperate women who needed, begged, and paid for Brona’s magic.
Then Queen Dalat had died, and soon after Errigal took Ban away from Hartfare, to live with the king’s court under an open, starry sky. Brona had not argued. She’d cared more for the fate of Hartfare than his own. Though she’d loved her son, she’d not chosen him.
It had seemed, at least for a time, that Ban had been chosen instead by his brother, and by Elia. But they too had not cared to keep him close, had not fought against his banishment to Aremoria.