The fire blew out, though there was no wind remaining.
And Regan suddenly rose, threw out her arms like wings, and screamed at the bright morning sky.
Connley broke then, rushing to his wife. “Regan, Regan,” he said, and dragged her off the stone altar, holding her about the waist as she twisted and cried. Tears pink with blood marred her cheeks, and she gouged her temples with her nails. Blood colored her bottom lip.
Waiting, impatient, Ban clenched his jaw.
Connley held her as she wept, as she curled in upon herself, and then finally, Regan spoke. “My insides are covered in scars like dark roots, andI cannot see past them, to mend myself! I need another.” She whipped her head around and stared at Ban. “Another guide, one with stronger, better eyes.”
Fear slithered coldly down his spine. He glanced to Connley, then shook his head. “Rest now.”
“Come, my love,” Connley said, embracing her. He kissed her jaw.
Regan clawed at him—but not to push him away. She clutched his neck, pulling him all against her, shoving their foreheads together. Her voice was raw as she begged, ordered, and kissed him with her bloody mouth. And the duke of Connley held her tighter, nodding, promising nothing, everything.
Ban turned his back, shaking with weariness and sorrow. Regan deserved better. He was a scout and a spy, a wizard who knew how to seek and see. But he couldn’t help her more, not without seeking his own mother, or some other witch who knew more of the putting together than taking apart. He started down the promontory alone, toward the deep morning shadows of the White Forest. Thirst drew Ban toward a spring he knew, and behind it, sleep called his name in the voice of wind and roots.
He would have let himself be pulled underground, to be revived as always by the embrace of the trees. But before he could reach them, the earth beneath his feet trembled. Dry golden grass bent awake, shifting and whispering; the White Forest fluttered, bowing toward the sunrise and the southeast.
Raising his face toward the morning sky, Ban heard a longed-for name on the wind, bright as a star, as if all the island gave it welcome.
Elia,said Innis Lear.Elia has come home.
FIVE YEARS AGO,
DONDUBHAN
WAKE UP!SHRIEKEDthe wind.
Wake wake wake!
The sharp cry threw leaves against themselves and against the walls of Dondubhan, rattling shutters and adding their slapping words until the chaos startled Elia awake.
“What?” she gasped aloud, then said again,What?in the language of trees.
away they’re taking him he will be gone forever you have to go now go now go
She could taste his name in the wind’s panic.
Ban.
Flinging herself out of bed, Elia grabbed her over-dress and pulled it on, then dragged her boots onto bare feet and rushed out her door. She ran through the narrow black hall of Dondubhan, listening hard for the pull of the wind, dodging early-risen servants and retainers.
A woman jerked back as Elia passed, and Elia stumbled. The woman—a retainer’s wife, her name on the tip of Elia’s tongue—took Elia’s elbow and shook her head. “Your Highness, whatever you are doing, please slow down. You are a wild creature, and whatever you want, this behavior will not help.”
Elia gasped and panted, pulling at her arm, but the woman stared at Elia’s head, eyed her up and down, and Elia put her free hand up to her head. Her hair was half pulled free of the loose cap she often slept in, blast that old habit she had of picking at it in her sleep. Her overdress was skewed, untied at the waist. Nodding, Elia quickly tied it closed over both hips, glad at least that her night shirt was long and warm wool. The woman—Rea! That was her name—pulled a ribbon out of her own hair and offered it.
“Thank you, Rea,” Elia said breathlessly, taking it. She saw Rea smile, pleased to be known, but that was all, for Elia tore down the hall again, arms up to throw off the cap and twist the unruly curls quickly back in a painful knot with this single ribbon.
She burst out into the front ward of Dondubhan, glancing up: sheerclouds cut the sky into patches of pink and pale blue with the final moments of dawn. She listened, and the wind said,Horses.
Elia hurried through the inner curtain wall, toward the long second ward, where the barracks were built against the external wall and then the stables beside them. She dashed quickly across packed earth, and there, at the gaping gate that led beneath the ramparts and out into the moor, were Errigal and her father, as well as Rory, and a dozen retainers in the winter blue of Errigal. All dressed and ready to travel, except for Lear, who wore an informal robe of midnight blue.
“Ban,” Elia whispered, seeing him at last; a slight, dark figure in Errigal’s shadow.
The wind fluttered banners that hung off the crenellations overhead.
she’s here she’s here
