“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.
Errigal cleared his throat, soft and uncomfortable with emotional weight. “Remain here, sir, with your men. Errigal welcomes you, as you always have been.”
“No.” Connley took his wife’s hand. “Lear—you may stay, but not all your men. We will not welcome more than our sister Gaela would allow. We’ll not undercut her authority in the matter. For now we will rule together, and our word is your law.”
“I would rather sleep roofless!” the king bellowed. “I would rather sleep in a barn or pasture with sheep, than sleep one night under a roof with such an ungrateful daughter!”
Errigal took Lear’s elbow. “My king, come away to rest with me.”
“Do you turn out this lying wretch and her snake husband?” The sorrow and hope in the king’s wet, wide eyes took Regan’s breath away. She clutched her Connley’s hand and waited for Errigal to save or condemn himself.
Errigal grimaced. “Lord, no. Connley is my patron, you know, a duke by your own word, and your queenly daughter’s husband. They must be welcome here, by the will of the stars. And your own. As are you!”
As Lear tore free, a piece of his voluminous sleeve caught on Errigal’s belt: it ripped, and the sound seemed to shock him further. “Ah! Ah!” He reeled toward his Fool.
“Come, sir, stay,” Regan said again, feeling the swell of some mean, yet familiar, power. “Let us take care of you, for you are old and need us desperately. There will be a fire for you, and wine, furs for your shaking limbs, and look here, I am certain you can have Errigal’s star-reader at yourdisposal. Rely upon our generosity, for I will be as good to you asyou were to my mother.”
“I am king! My will is as sure as the constellations above!”
Triumph surged like a cold waterfall. “King no more,” Regan said. “But only titled father. And stars can fall, while roots grow.”
“I gave you all,” Lear said.
“And in good time,” Regan answered.
“Who will you pass our crown to, then, my barren daughter?” the king asked, softly, almost as if he were sad. “You and your star-cursed sister, my empty girls.”
Regan stepped backward, unprepared.
Ban Errigal strode out of the shadows, ready to draw. The duke of Connley held his palm toward Ban, low and warning, anger in his tight jaw.
“Get out,” Regan whispered.
“What?”
“Get out!” she cried.
“You are not welcome where my wife has declared it.” Connley backed her with his body, firm at her side. He always had, even when, as now, it crashed his own driving game. He would be a curtain wall around Regan’s heart.
The king threw his hands up. “Ah, heaven! What star is this, rising above worm-eaten branches? First my Elia and now the others!”
Errigal put his arm about the old king. Blotches of red showed against the earl’s rough white cheeks. He said, “I know this pain, royal sir. Stay and I will share its burden.”
“Yes, stay I shall, with my men at my side.”
Regan would not bend, not now, not while her womb clenched with desperation, and while her own father, having seeded this pain, stood condemning her, throwing her greatest tragedy against her even as he warped and twisted his own into destiny. She would never forgive this, as she had never forgiven Dalat’s absence.
Stars had ignored her birth, and so Regan wasfree,was aflame, burning cold as any star or sword of destiny. She said, “You will stay by my mercy only, Father! Your star is eclipsed. You and you alone—noneof your men—can here remain.”
