Elia placed her hands in her lap, palms up, gently cupping the air. She took three long, deep breaths, and whispered,I would hold the sun in tiny mirror, a ball of warmth between my hands.
Her eyes flew open in apprehension. She scrubbed her hands together, then put them flat on the grass. She leaned forward, bent on her hands and knees, digging her fingers through the thick green grass to the cool earthbeneath. Perhaps the trees of Aremoria would not speak to her, but Ban had made magic here. There was a voice to find in the roots of this land. There had to be.
My name is Elia, once of Lear,she said.I’m listening again.
The scrape of footsteps on the crushed shells of the narrow path leading here from the arched gate shocked Elia up from her crouch. She twisted, staring toward whomever had interrupted her, angry at Aefa and the royal guard who had allowed it.
Morimaros of Aremoria stood some several long strides away.
She supposed, bleakly, none would have even tried to stophimfrom entering.
“Elia?” he said, very quietly. “Are you well?”
“No,” she said sitting back on her bare feet. Her empty boots slumped together in the shade of a soft lamb’s-ear plant.
The king came to her and went down to one knee. He was fresh in trousers, boots, shirt, and short burnt-orange tunic, untied at the collar. Water glistened along the lines of his trim hair. Elia fought an urge to brush it away, to skim her fingers against his temple and skull. Was hair that short stiff, or soft? Warm as summer grass? Did it tickle like fox fur? Would his beard, exactly the same length, feel the same? Against her cheek or mouth?
It occurred to her that Morimaros would allow it, if she reached to touch. Her heartbeat sped, and she folded her hands together. The king blinked, and the sun caught his lovely lashes.
“I thought you were gone, still,” Elia said.
“I returned, just now.”
“The sun is in zenith today. It’s a full month since the… since my father unnamed me.”
Morimaros’s mouth made a sad shape. “And you’ve no word back from your sisters.”
She shook her head. “Nor have you?”
“No, but those I trust have confirmed that Connley took two towns along his border with Astore, one that spans a creek and is known for mills, and the other that has been officially in Astore’s territory since before the line of Lear. And Astore has seated himself in Dondubhan, like a king, to await Midwinter. Connley and Regan are in Errigal now. Shoring up the backing of that earl and his iron.”
“You know much.”
The king nodded.
“And I have no network of friends or informants, but would rely on my sisters or what I might hear from the Fool or Earl Errigal or…” she shruggedhelplessly. “You see why I fear so little support, if I tried to be queen of any land.”
“I do not.”
“Morimaros—”
“But… I understand that is how you feel at the moment. So I will tell my navy to prepare for the winter spent at home.”
“Thank you.”
Morimaros shifted, almost as if uncomfortable, but Elia couldn’t believe it. He was in his palace, in his capital city, powerful and strong. His dark blue eyes looked randomly about the garden: the rose towers and beds of velvety lamb’s-ear and summer blaze, the tiny red trumpets of the war leaf, the bleeding-spade flowers deep purple with spikes of red, the black-heart bushes with their black limbs and thin green leaves so pale they neared grayish-white.
“Do you enjoy flowers?” he asked.
Elia lifted her eyebrows.
The king grimaced. “You’ve been spending much time here, while I was gone.” He looked at her hands; dirt made dark crescents in the beds of her ragged nails.
“I was trying to speak with them,” she said, prepared to defend herself if he found her ridiculous.
Instead, Morimaros nodded. “Ban preferred trees for conversation.”
Elia glanced away, warm for thinking of both men at once. “Your flowers will not talk to me, nor the junipers in your center courtyard. I am out of practice, I think.”
