The tree shuddered under her touch. Elia shivered, too.What would you tell me, ancient lady?
You were missed,the tree croaked out, slow and so very quiet.
Tears pricked her eyes, and Elia closed them, pressing the side of her face to one rough line of trunk. She knew the tree did not mean only this month, since she’d gone to Aremoria: it meant since she was a child, since she sang magic and practiced duets with the roots. She felt sad for herself, and for her father, who had never done such things. And then sad for everyone who did not listen to trees, who lived alone and in silence.
Kneeling, Elia cried harder. She touched her cheeks and put her tears from her fingers to the hawthorn. Her weeping shook her shoulders, as the hawthorn shook, too, and she bent over herself. This was not theoverwhelming, unknowable grief from before; no, she understood now what she had lost, and why. A wild tree grew in her heart. Its roots wove throughout her guts, thick with worms of death and rebirth; it stretched its crown up into the bright, open space in her mind, where she worshipped the shining stars.
The hawthorn shifted its trunk, bending around her, making a lap for Elia to curl against.
Elia cried, and she let go of so many things, even those she had no names for, so she called them instead by the trees’ word for the light between shadows. And let them all go.
When she finished, Elia lay quiet and soothed, scraped empty as bark peeled in a storm. She thought she might finally be ready to fill herself up again with a new thing, this time born of her own choosing.
The hawthorn whispered,Are you ready?
Elia shuddered, and kissed the hawthorn tree.Ready to what, grandmother?
An urgent wind tugged at Elia’s curls, drawing her attention to the gathering storm.
The island answered,To become a queen.
THE FOX
BAN THEFOXdid not hold his liquor well, or much at all.
It was perhaps the thing that made him most aware of his relative youth, despite having aged so fast in Aremoria’s frequent border wars.
Leaning against the smoke-stained wooden walls of what passed for the Errigal Steps public house, Ban was surrounded by soldiers and retainers, those belonging to his father and those from Connley. Once again, the morning had been spent in war exercises, and Ban was exhausted. He’d led three charges and organized the overall structure of the games, both to prove his martial worth to Connley as well as to instruct the duke’s army in the techniques he’d learned during his fostering in Aremoria. But island soldiers were unused to facing cavalry or mounted spearmen, and the new methods were harder to teach than Ban had expected.
He tried not to imagine what Morimaros would say if he found Ban exposing their army’s weaknesses so readily. Even if the Fox did it to further ingratiate himself to Connley, in order to spy on behalf of Aremoria, it was a tenuous rope to walk.
Ban would rather be looking for Elia. Knowing she’d returned, but not contacted him or Regan, made him burn with eager desperation.
The pub spent most of its time as a middle-sized forge, but once the sun set on certain days, the smith had the front walls taken off their basic hinges and opened it all up. The fires kept everything warm, even tamped down for the night, and the two families who competed for the best brew in the Steps would bring barrels. Everyone was supposed to fetch their own cup to this sometimes-pub, but Ban was instead lent one by Med, the captain of Errigal’s retainers, a rugged, black-bearded fellow who’d spent all day dogging Ban’s heels, critiquing the Aremore method of spearing. It had been good work, and Ban found that when the storm clouds had gathered in the north, darkening the noon sun, he’d wanted to build on the relationship.So though it was only early afternoon, Ban had called halt to the games for the day, and asked the ironsmith to make an exception to his sunset rule. The man agreed—anything for their Fox, he said—and so here some of the haphazard army stood, enjoying an afternoon off at the pub.
The retainers did not treat Ban like a foot soldier, but like a leader. Whether they respected him for himself and his knowledge, or only did so in Rory’s absence, Ban didn’t know. But he wasn’t ready to walk away from it.
It had been a rough few days in Errigal: Regan was inconsolable, her husband curt toward all, and Ban’s father had gone rather quiet, stress apparent in his every movement. Ban had never seen Errigal so tense, so lacking his usual gregarious, sweeping gestures and obnoxious likability. It had to be anxiety over the king, and Rory’s betrayal, but Errigal refused to confide in Ban. Errigal barely brought himself to enjoy the war games, and when he did, he and Connley used Ban as a buffer between them.
This beer was thick as soup, colored like mud, and tasted like home in a way Ban hadn’t realized he’d needed. He remembered sharing its like with Rory some ten years ago, laughing hard enough to choke—but quietly, for they’d invaded the kitchen, poured as many cups as they could carry between them, and snuck sloshing into their father’s study to consume it. Ban also remembered vomiting in the fireplace.
Ban pushed aside the thought of his brother, the memory of bile too familiar. Another letter from Gaela had come, late last evening when only Ban, Connley, and Regan remained at the hearth. Though he’d tried to let them alone with it, the duke had told Ban to stay.
Regan had read her letter quickly, fingers pinching the paper with sudden emotion. “She asks if Kayo has come to us, and speaks of Elia as if she’s heard from the girl!” she said. “What is this? That Elia would write to Gaela and not me? And I the one who…” She whirled to her husband, letter thrust out.
Connley had taken it then and read, lips pursing, one brow lifting. “Your younger sister wishes for Lear in Aremoria? Made a blatant threat of Aremore invasion? Does Gaela write this to drive suspicion between you and Elia?”
“Maybe.” Regan paced away, tapping her long fingers against her skirts as she went. “But Gaela would not toy with mention of an Aremore invasion. Of all things, we are united in that. But yet… no letter for me from Elia. Perhaps it is Elia who would break my bond with Gaela in her favor, or that of her gallant King Morimaros.”
Connley smiled. “I would not have thought the girl had such duplicity in her. If so, perhaps we were too quick to discount her power.”
A sudden thought had spurred Ban to open his mouth to speak, but he hesitated just as Regan glanced at him. He looked down fast to the edge of the rug upon which the lady stood. Her sleek pale gown had dragged some rushes off the stones and onto the braided wool.
“Speak, sir,” Regan said.
He had Elia’s letter for her, still. He could’ve handed it over. He should have. But if he did, how might’ve he explained his lateness in delivering it? Said he’d withheld it at first because Regan had so set him in awe he’d forgotten, or confessed his prior allegiance to Morimaros? The very consideration of such action had shaken him. No, he must not admit to anything. Yet.
Ban had thought furiously as he met her gaze. “Did you not give your letters to Kay Oak to deliver, as I and my father did? And is it not likely Elia used the earl to pass her messages back? Perhaps it is not your sister who spurns you, but your uncle.”
