This quiet betrayal was not so violent as what her father had done to her, but it stung. Though Elia deserved it, for believing the best of everyone. Morimaros of Aremoria had betrayed her. Ban—her Ban!—had, too. What hope could she possibly have that her sisters would not treat her the same, would not betray her, too, who had never even pretended to be her ally?
Perhaps that was better: at least with her sisters Elia had always known where she stood.
She clenched her teeth against hurt. She should not let herself be too surprised by Morimaros. He was a king, after all, and a man. And he would do as men—as kings—do. It only mattered what he needed to get for himself, for his country, for his satisfaction.
And Ban, too, was only a man.
Hurrying to the window, Elia pressed both hands flat to the clear glass. Outside was too pretty, too glorious to be real. She needed harsh gray wind and bending old trees. She said, “Ban did this to Rory. To his father. On purpose, for you, though he pretended it was for me. He took your mission and twisted it into his own revenge. Do you know how much he hated my father, and his own? You gave him sanction to destroy them.”
“Yes. I knew all of this, and I used it.”
“He kept his promise,” she said. It was not dismay or grief tainting the word, but a hissing disgust.
And she turned to watch it hit Morimaros.
His expression did not alter, still and calm, and only barely ashamed.
Anger, and the loss of something very small and very pure, threaded itself though her ribcage, seeking her heart to take root.
Elia willed the swelling ocean flat.
“So Aremoria has agents inside the heart of my island,” she said. “And the king is not so noble as he pretends.”
“I have not lied to you about my intentions, nor my desires,” Mars insisted. “I do what I must. I am many things at once, the high and the low, the root and the stars. My kingdom is strong because I know how to breathe high clouds, to take sunshine in hand, while wading my feet through the shit. That is how a land flourishes, and its plants and flowers, birds and wolves and people. Not with magic, or old superstitions, but with a leader who will do everything, give everything, to it.”
She stared at him, and watched the space between them widen. She knew he was right about the duty of kings. It changed nothing.
“I am in love with you,” he said, in the same determined tone.
Elia laughed once, in disbelief only that he would say so now. When it could not have mattered to her less.
She shook her head, pressed her hands to her stomach, and turned to leave.
“Elia.”
“No, Morimaros,” she said. “I must go, for I have some shit to wade through, and I will not have your company.”
He did not try to stop her again.
*
THEY SAILED FOR Innis Lear at dusk, to make the crossing overnight.
Elia stood at the prow of the small galley, holding the worn rail with one hand for balance against the waves and the thrusting of oars. The sailors chanted a low song to keep their rhythm, a soothing Aremore lullaby that seemed to have no beginning and no end. Men dropped out and slipped back in at any time of the cycle, in harmony or low melody-free intonation, creating a never-ending, comforting mess.
Besides the twenty-odd oarsmen, she was only joined by Aefa and the king’s most trusted soldier, La Far. Every Aremore man would be left on the boat, when they made land: if La Far even stepped off without her invitation, she had threatened to arrest him on her own authority. Though she had little power to keep that word, La Far gave her the respect of believing it.
So by themselves, Elia and Aefa would go, despite neither knowing anything of traveling alone, or of camping without bags packed by priests or retainers waiting to serve. At least they would be together.
As she struggled to remain awake at the front of the ship, Elia set her plans in order: First she would listen to the wind, speak to the trees. She’d bare her heart to the roots and stones and swear to die for Innis Lear.
Next she would find her father, work out Rory’s safe return with Errigal, and then she would meet with her sisters to set them on a sane course of rule. Make peace in Innis Lear between the two of them and their dangerous husbands. Crown them immediately, before Midwinter, for Elia bled of two royal lines and was a star priest besides; if anyone could ordain true queens without the long dark of Midwinter, it was her. She would convince the rootwaters to accept them, sort out the lore from truth, rally Innis Lear to respect their joined rule—after all, Gaela and Regan had said to her once they shared their stars, so they could share this crown.
And Elia would do all that before thinking ever again of the king of Aremoria, or how his rare touch had lifted her spirit.
Of Ban Errigal’s future or pardon, Elia was uncertain.
The moon waned yellow and gray in the eastern sky, peeking in and out of long black clouds that blotted out nearly half the stars. All around the waves flashed silver, tickling the shallow hull of the galley with wet kisses. Aefa knelt beside Elia, her temple pressed to the wooden rail, eyes shut, valiantly holding back her sea illness. On the journey to Aremoria, seemingly years and not weeks past, Aefa had vomited heartily over the side of Morimaros’s grand royal barge. Elia suspected her friend’s newfound resolve had everything to do with La Far’s presence, as he twice already had brought the girl fresh water and a cool compress for the back of her neck. In the moonlight, his sorrowful face took on a solemn, holy cast.
But Elia could not think so peacefully when looking at La Far. He reminded her too much of Morimaros, and then she would think of his spy. Ban the Fox, whom she did not know at all.
I keep my promises.
Anger curled its clutches again around her heart.
Elia would discover the extent of Ban’s loyalty to Aremoria. His eyes, his hands, his promises had been so real, so intensely true at the Summer Seat: she could not believe they were only lies, meant to distract her or manipulate her toward Morimaros. They had meant everything to each other, once. She’d seen it in him again, that night when he asked, What makes you bold? It was not a thing to say to a woman you wished out of the way, to convince her to give herself and her island into the protection of an enemy. Elia had to believe he had not betrayed her completely.
But if he was truly Aremoria’s man, she would cast him off her island forever. Elia’s breath quickened. She had to know.
“Ban Errigal.” Aefa’s voice was rough, like sand that had seen no tide. “You’re thinking of him.”
Elia startled, then knelt beside her friend. “I am,” she whispered.
The girl glared, her eyes bright with a feverish glint. “He is a bastard traitor!”
“Yes.” Elia grasped Aefa’s hands, clutching them tightly. They put their foreheads together, and the princess whispered, “Was he ever expected to be otherwise? What king of Lear has trusted him, what loyalty was he afforded by those who should have held him dear? He was made this way as a child.”
“Do not hold Ban higher than Morimaros, Elia,” Aefa begged quietly.
“I cannot think of that king,” she whispered harshly, even as his final words to her thumped and thrummed in her skull.
“Ban does not deserve to be in your heart if you cannot put that king there, too. I do not see how you blame Morimaros for all, and Ban Errigal for none.”
Elia kissed Aefa’s knuckles. “Because I understand Ban’s pain, and I understand who he—who he was, at least. And perhaps who he might have been, had he not been ripped from us. But Morimaros I cannot forgive. He sent a spy, his stolen weapon, against my island, then spoke to me as if we could be partners. As if we might even be more.”