Regan turned her attention to the letter, snapping the small leaves of wax holding it rolled shut. Around her the women went quiet, though it was a quiet of patient politeness and continued work.
Our father leaves Astora, Gaela began with no salutation, as usual. I expect when Osli reaches you, he will be near behind, if not already through your door.
He is truly mad, and called me by our mother’s name, then in the next breath cursed her line. He has said unforgivable things to me before, but now he is lost in it. His retainers are wild, attacking each other, myself, my people, because he does not keep them under control. Ask Osli and she will tell you more, though I am sure you already know these true ways of men. I will follow this letter with another, but for now, my captain will be away to you with all haste.
Even as Regan skimmed her sister’s writing, she could hear through the open window a change in the rhythm of the wind and noise of the Keep. A distant shout of greeting flared hot and died in an echo. The warm breeze sighed against her neck.
“Leave me,” Regan said.
Though it was gentle, every woman obeyed her command instantly, none pausing to ask if they might help, or lend comfort.
She finished reading.
Do as you must, Regan, and I will see you soon.
Alone, Regan set down the letter, and gathered up her skirts to step carefully away from the bowl of blood. She went into her attached bedchamber and bound herself up with linen and moss before returning to collect the bowl. A slight pool of viscous blood was layered across the long, shallow bottom. She fervently hoped it would be enough, as she poured it into a round glass vial and stoppered it.
And then came another bright rapping on her door, bringing the urgent announcement that the king had come to Errigal Keep, and a request from her lord Connley that Regan would greet him.
She called in her girls and had them see to the repair of her hair, pinning a few loose curls back into the sleek, swept knot at her nape. They added jewels to her fingers and hung pearls from her girdling belt.
Then Regan walked out of her rooms in the oldest wing of the Keep and toward the new hall, where Connley waited for her.
Lear was there, ranting quite freely.
But when his daughter was announced, the old king went quiet. He stood before the throne, his arms thrown out and his wild mane of hair nearly white and gray as storm clouds. He wore a tattered robe that once had been rich velvet, now showing wear at the elbows, and strips of the fur lining hung off the collar like a dog had nuzzled it rather ferociously. Perhaps he’d not changed since the last zenith. It was magnificent to see him fallen so low, he who had killed her mother and made his daughters beg for their portion in front of the entire court, all because of some misunderstanding of the stars.
Perhaps Dalat’s loving and vengeful God was everywhere indeed.
“Father,” Regan said, crossing into the hall. Beyond the side door she’d used, the hall widened into broad whitewashed walls, striped with blackened beams of oak like ribs. Dining tables and benches had been pushed to the sides and fresh rushes spread over the cold stone floor. A narrow line of woven rugs in Errigal’s winter-sky color made a path toward the royal chairs at the end of the hall. Errigal himself hulked beside Connley, large hands clenching and relaxing in an obvious sign of anxiety. So unlike his lord, who sat regal in one of the wide, low-backed chairs. Regan’s husband glanced at her, warning in the bright turquoise of his eyes. He was prepared to play his hand for dominance here, against Astore, against Lear. Her father’s Fool waited with the raging king.
Lear’s faded eyes fixed on his middle daughter, and he stepped to her. “Regan,” he said with the soft pleading of a child. She liked his need of her, his coming here though he had always avoided her since she married.
“Yes,” she comforted just as gently, reaching with both hands for his. He gave his over: dry and wrinkled and long.
Regan’s nostrils flared at the old smell of him; he mustn’t have bathed since leaving Gaela’s lands, or even longer. Oil turned his hair glossy at the roots, and food stains marred the collar of his robes. Pity almost stabbed her, but Regan avoided its blade and let go of Lear before he could embrace her. She addressed him firmly. “What is the cause of your early coming, lord?”
Lear frowned. “Your treacherous sister has cast me out!”
“Gaela? For what reason?”
“Reason! That viper has no need of it, for she is a thankless child, and as unnatural as a woman can be!”
From the royal chair, Connley said, “We will not tolerate insults to our noble sister.”
The old king reared back.
“Father, peace,” Regan said, bringing herself to touch his shoulder, understanding Connley’s first move. “We love our sister and want to understand the strife between you, for strife with her is often as well strife with me.”
“No, you are not so hard-hearted as her, my girl, nor have turned your heart into cruel armor where there should be only soft comfort.”
Regan spied a tear in his eye.
So too she spied wine laid out on one of the side tables. “Sit here, with me.” She led him to the bench and sat first, holding her back straight against the tightening of her womb.
He joined her and drank a great gulp of wine.
“We are glad to see you,” Regan said urgently. “Believe it, Father.”
“How can I, when you defend your serpent sister?” the king cried.
Connley came to join them, Errigal behind. The Fool made his way to the vacated royal chairs and skimmed his hand against one, but watched Regan with a knowing eye. And there, slipping in through the back entrance to lean in the shadows, was sweet Ban Errigal, her canny Fox.
“You are welcome here still,” Connley said to Lear, taking the wine Regan poured him.
“She forced my retainers to leave, and so I had to go with them!”
“My lord father,” Regan soothed, “be at peace, for Gaela surely had reason if she complained of your men. After all, do you truly need so many?”
“Need!” the king roared.
The king’s Fool sang, “Having more than we need separates us from the beasts of the wild, missus!”
Connley pointed around at the Fool. “Have care how you speak to my lady.”
The king let his head fall back. “Truth speaks clear to any, regardless of rank.”
Regan laughed prettily. The sound was crafted for admiration, to redirect the conversations of men. “Father, this argument you have is to do with your retainers, not us, or even our sister. If they behaved as Gaela has said, she was right to turn them out—but you mistake if you think she intended to turn you out as well. You could return to her, without your men, and she will welcome you again.”
Connley added, smiling smoothly and with his teeth out, “You gave yourself into your daughters’ care at your Zenith Court last month, lord king, and so allow them to care.”
“Care! My Gaela has betrayed me. Bit me where I only thought to have kisses.” Lear shook his head, and his hair fluffed like an aged lion’s mane.
Regan stood. Her hips ached, and her heart beat hard at his whining. What need did she now have to pretend to feelings she had not? That moment had come and gone, and along with it Lear’s power over her. “What must that be like, to be betrayed? Perhaps my mother would be able to tell me, did she live.”
“Yes,” Lear whispered. “Yes, she would. Oh, she loved you, and me, besides. And still, she was betrayed.”
Regan willed herself to cold calm. “You admit this now? You agree you killed her, now you are so close to dying yourself?”
“What? No.” Confusion bent his brow, though whether honest—or sane—Regan knew not.
“Who betrayed my mother?” she demanded.
Lear said, “You have, and your sisters, in the face of the sacrifice she made.”
Regan pressed her lips closed against white-hot fury.