She faced her father and his circle of retainers, and all Gaela saw was a rotting old man who had always been sick: with star prophecy and loss and bitter fanaticism. Her stomach churned; she thought she might vomit, but Gaela Lear did not show weakness. She did not shy from battle. She would calm herself, then strike deadly, as a commander and king. Gaela seethed, sweat on her temples, and hissed a fatal verdict to her foolish father: “I do not care what you do, live or die, only do it out of my sight. Go to my sister if you would, throw yourself at Connley.”
Lear reeled back into the arms of his men, all dragging away, gathering what they could to leave. The Fool flapped his coat but said nothing, staring at his king as he stumbled.
“Why do you hate your father so deeply? It cannot be from Dalat’s death, not still. It was not Lear’s fault,” Kayo insisted.
“He has never denied his guilt, and you were not here to see otherwise.” She turned her hot brown eyes to her uncle. “You were not here, and so could not save any of us.”
His mouth went rigid. “That is my great regret, and for it I will not abandon him.”
“What about us?” Gaela shoved herself toward him, glaring right into his dark gray eyes. “Do not abandon us, Uncle. Let that old man go.”
“He needs my loyalty.”
“You should obey your new, better king!”
“Yet you are not that, Gaela Lear. And perhaps never shall be.”
Fury darkened Gaela’s sight with spikes of crimson. She grabbed her uncle’s collar, drew her knife, and slashed it across his face.
Kayo cried out, thrusting free of her grip. He stumbled, hands up and pressed to his cheek and eye. Blood poured through, as red as Gaela’s anger.
A king had no need of brothers, nor uncles, she thought viciously, and cried, “This Oak Earl is no more. As the king before me stripped him of his titles, so do I. If he is seen upon my lands again it will be his death. Now get him out of Astora.”
Gaela turned and raged back into the halls of the castle, mortally bruised, with her mother’s name on her tongue and a curse in her heart.
TEN YEARS AGO, INNIS LEAR
KAYO OF TARIA Queen did not know how to be a farmer. His people were caravanserai and noble governors, though he supposed perhaps five hundred years ago his ancestors might have herded goats along the dry steppe of the Second Kingdom.
This wave-racked island squished beneath his boot; vibrant green moss and lush short grass surrounded him in this valley, marked by scatters of tiny yellow and purple flowers whose names Kayo did not yet know. He thought he recognized a mountain thistle—he could understand a fellow creature’s need for such a protective layer. Kayo tugged his own bright purple coat tighter, looking beyond the meadow to where, at the curve of the shallow stream, a cottage was tucked. Smoke lifted from the chimney; he was expected. Kayo wrinkled his nose at the long-haired cow chewing at a large bale of hay, and wandered toward the hill behind the cottage. It was bare of trees, but bright green, too, and little white sheep made slow grazing trails. Despite the verdant mossiness, it smelled most like stale rain and mud. Dampness clung to Kayo’s nose, and his short black curls seemed thrice as thick.
“I’ve made you an earl. My Oak Earl,” the king of Innis Lear had said to him, four days ago at the Summer Seat. “Found you a steward and good stone manor. You’ll oversee several villages, and their reeves will report to you. The land is yours.”
They’d walked along the yard together, during the break between rains that morning, in search of where Elia had hidden herself. “Thank you, Lear,” Kayo said carefully, rubbing his hands together against the dank ocean wind. It was late spring, but his bones had not yet thawed from the long winter. He’d months ago given in to Learish fashions, wrapping himself in wool and dark leather, and a fur-lined coat with a hood. His headscarf clung around his neck; Kayo couldn’t quite bear to leave it behind.
He’d been given a choice: stay, become the Oak Earl, and sever ties of family to the Third Kingdom, rooting himself permanently to this island and the fortunes of the Lear dynasty. Or go. Be a caravan master, wander and travel, serve the empress, but lose privileges of family on this island, become no more than an honored guest when he chanced to pass through.
Traditions and training pulled him toward the Third Kingdom, where he’d lived half his life, where he’d spent years building a reputation as a negotiator to run his own caravan on behalf of the empress one day. But a part of him had belonged to Innis Lear since he’d been sent to foster with Dalat as a boy. She’d been more a young mother to him than a sister, and her foreign husband had welcomed Kayo without fuss. This island had been her home. She’d loved it here, the fluffy sheep and harsh wind, the eating ocean and hearty, temperamental people. The roots were so deep and mysterious, Dalat said, she felt as though God had put her here, in a place where her curious spirit would never fall to satisfaction.
Kayo felt the same sense of mystery, though it unnerved him where Dalat had been intrigued.
Kay Oak of Lear. The witch of the White Forest had named him so the night of the first anniversary of Dalat’s death.
My Oak Earl, Lear himself had said.
They did not communicate, the witch and the king, of that Kayo was certain. So how did they call him by the same Learish name? What mystery of this island’s roots explained that? Did the trees whisper names into the king’s dreams?
Lear had put a hand on Kayo’s shoulder, there in the front courtyard of the Summer Seat. The king was some thirty years Kayo’s elder, and it was apparent by the silver in his loose brown hair, the wrinkles making his long face longer.
“Kayo, I know yours to be a difficult decision,” the king said. A seriousness focused his blue eyes in a way Kayo was unused to; usually Lear appeared more dreamy, looking through people and walls. “To choose one loyalty over another, exchanging family and name for family and name. But I must insist, just as I must consolidate what I can now. There are those on this island who would challenge me. And my girls. And for that, I would have you stay. Be mine.”
Kayo frowned, knowing plenty about those who would challenge the king. But Lear smiled and continued, “I’ve had a prophecy read for you, and your stars are rather interesting, Kayo. One thing is certain: we will be great friends so long as I am king. So”—Lear winked like a mischievous child—“tell me you will stay, and be my brother.”
It was said on Innis Lear that their king had been born under two constellations: the Twin Star, and the Star of Crowns. One promised he would be pulled in many directions, and the other that he would be king. But as the third-born son it had been very unlikely he would rule, unless tragedy struck the crown. So he believed, so all believed. But the last great king, his father, trusted in the prophecy and named Lear his heir, but Lear was a boy and full of dedication to the stars. He left the island instead, to study in the greatest star cathedrals on the continent for years. His brothers had remained, learning the laws and the people. When the king grew ill, Lear was sent for, and he returned, taking up his heavenly work in the chapels and towers of Innis Lear. The great king died, and his final wish was that Lear take the crown, witnessed by his first and second sons, witnessed by his retainers and earls, witnessed by dukes and healers. But Lear refused. The stars were his vocation: he was crowned for the stars, not by them, he argued. How better to serve the people, the kingdom, than as a royal star-reader, the most gifted and precise of them?