The power of that earldom, with its iron magic and weaponry and standing, could sway the entire island in either direction. “That is why this business with your brother is so devastating,” the Oak Earl had sighed.
“It undercuts the reputation of Errigal,” Ban said, showing anger instead of the dark triumph he felt. “For the people don’t care that my father’s always been a brute, that he never leads, but only agrees and imitates the whims of Lear, because he’s friendly and generous, too. And so now they only care that there’s division between Rory and Errigal, a division that mirrors Lear’s sudden madness.”
“It’s unnatural,” Brona murmured. “Child against parent.”
“Parent against child you mean?” Ban snapped.
“Either way,” Kayo soothed, “it is up to you, Ban, to remain true and canny. To be the Fox you’ve made yourself into. Help Elia as you promised, by bridging the break between Connley and Astore, while you have Connley’s ear—and find out more of their feelings toward Elia’s rule, what they might do if Morimaros backs her claim. I admit that as Elia’s uncle and also as Oak Earl, I would rather Aremoria remain an ally only, than a husband and conqueror. But it might come to that. And beware, Connley’s line is dangerous as snakes. I go to Astora first thing in the morning, because from my last conversations with Astore and Gaela I know they both want war, though for different reasons. Astore would like to crush Connley for their divisive history, and Gaela wants the test of battle, no matter the cause.”
“Do they not care that the island’s magic is fading?”
Brona had stared at Ban in surprise, then smiled with all the sorrow of a decade. “It will survive until the island unites again, under a crown of stars and roots. I do everything I can to keep it vital. Everything.”
He’d looked at her, and understood she meant all her choices as a mother, too. He knew, but it didn’t hurt less. “Regan Lear loves the roots.”
“She does not weave star and root together: she knows no balance in passion nor magic. But Elia knows the language of trees as much as the sky. You taught her, my son, to love the roots, and she also loves the stars. See?”
Kayo nodded. “She is what we need for Innis Lear.”
Ban thought of their certainty again as he knocked on the outer door of Connley’s rooms, the letter from one sister to another as cold as ice against his fractured heart. A maid of Regan’s retinue answered quickly, and Ban had only to say his name before he was ushered in to wait by a narrow hearth. Though he’d been prepared to state his purpose, the maid was only gone a minute before she returned: Ban was to join the duke and lady in their bedroom.
Though put off by the unusual intimacy of such an arena, Ban went in at the maid’s side. The girl slipped back out and shut the heavy door.
“Ban Errigal,” Connley said eagerly from the wide, raised bed. Woven blankets surrounded him in disarray. The duke was unclothed. Shocked, Ban darted his eyes across to Lady Regan, who stood at the ancient stone hearth in a loosely tied robe and held a goblet. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders.
Ban bowed stiffly.
The lady seem to float as she went to the round table and poured a third goblet of clear red wine. “Good evening, Ban,” she said in her cool, lovely, all-knowing voice.
“Highness,” the Fox murmured, as the duke too got out of bed, pulling a robe over his shoulders. He did not tie it closed, but let it hang in long, silky lines, framing his nakedness like dark blue pillars. Connley stood calmly and reached toward Regan, who placed the closest goblet of wine into his hand. Connley walked to Ban, and Ban struggled not to back away. He’d been near unclothed men before, but never one who used his nakedness like this, as a weapon. This was a message: You are no threat to me and mine; even naked I am not vulnerable to any danger you could present.
The Fox drew himself up and accepted the wine Regan offered. “Lord,” he said quietly.
“Join us, Ban. We’ve longed to speak with you outside your father’s rather gregarious presence, especially after the news my wife has given about your witch work.” Connley placed himself elegantly into the carved chair to the right of the hearth. The lord casually flipped the end of his robe over his thighs as Regan sank onto the arm of the chair, as straight-backed as the furniture itself, and as luxurious.
Ban sipped the light wine and sat across the hearth, doing his best to control how he moved and what his face revealed. He’d have rather knocked back the full goblet to relax himself in this sultry, unexpected space. The final rays of sunset carved burnt shadows against Ban’s eyes. Firelight flickered and candles, too, set onto the windowsills and in head-height nooks built into the old stone walls. This room was part of the old Keep, made of the ruins of Errigal, and appropriate, for it had been a Connley who’d first razed the place so many generations ago.
Regan said, “We missed you today.”
“I visited my mother,” Ban answered gruffly.
“How is Brona?” Regan’s smile warmed ever so slightly.
“Well.” He couldn’t stop searching for double meaning in everything. No more than he could ignore the bounty in front of him: the bared inner curve of Regan’s breast, the strong lines of Connley’s lower stomach. Ban took another drink.
“Several times I remember she brought you to Dondubhan. You met Elia when you were wee things, before you were born, even,” Regan murmured, her hand floating down toward her belly. Ban felt a bite of sorrow for the lovely, dangerous lady. The problem in her womb was clearly not for any desire lacking between husband and wife.
But Regan dismissed her melancholy with a delicate flick of her fingers. “My mother and I both have been fond of Brona and her potions.”
Connley finished his wine. “But we want you just for us,” he said bluntly.
Ban’s fingers tightened around his goblet, his skin all a-tingle. A hissed chuckle from the fire made him think there was residual magic in the room.
The duke continued, “You have promised wizarding and wormwork for my wife, but that is not all we want of you.”
“My lord,” Ban said.
“We want you, Ban, as Earl Errigal, once we are crowned. Not your loutish father. You are more to our style. Cunning and resilient. Your reputation is subtle and strong, and proves you could be a fine leader of men.”
Relief and astonishment dried out his tongue. Ban sipped the wine again, staring at Connley.
“Well, Ban?” Connley prompted.
“I … I never meant to be Errigal, or a leader of men,” he said, stalling.
Both Regan and the duke smiled identical sleek smiles.
Blood rushed in Ban’s ears, rather like the furious whispers of a forest. He wanted to smile with them, exactly like that. They were completely united, as Ban had never been in his life, with anyone. Not his parents, not his brother, not Morimaros. Elia, almost, perhaps, but she had been taken away before they could make anything as complete as this.
“As far as we are concerned,” Connley said, “you are already Errigal. Your father is vexing in his grief, a drain on this Keep and unfit to look past his personal stake to the greater ones of Innis Lear. He is inextricably attached to the wretched once-king. It will only be a moment before this earl steps beyond his means and we, in our power as Connley and as heir to Lear’s crown, will instate you. We care not for your bastardy. Your actions prove better than your stars.”
“My lord,” Ban said, unable to find further words. Only Mars had ever so directly discounted the circumstances of Ban’s birth.
“And more,” Regan said, her eyebrow lifting elegantly. “We offer you our youngest sister, furthering the alliance.”