“No, they did not help. They let anger and hurt drive them.”
“They should be better, if they would be queens.”
Behind her, Brona sighed. The scrape of the pick was gentle on Elia’s scalp. “No, neither should wear the crown.”
Elia turned in the sturdy old chair. “Why do you say so?”
Firelight found all the warmth in Brona’s lovely face. In her hand she held the horn pick, and the loop of small amber beads unwound and free of Elia’s braids for the first time in days. Brona stared rather bleakly at the fire and said, “Gaela abandoned both stars and roots, and believes in no authority but her own. And Regan is afraid of her own power, as she is lost to her own heart, too consumed by the magic of the island. Both will lead to no better ruling than your father’s obsession with stars, without balance.”
So the wind and trees believed, too. Elia sighed. “Gaela won’t be swayed by this reasoning—she’ll say Aremoria has no rootwater, no prophecies, and still is strong, does well enough to win every battle they’ve had, these last few decades. And she’s right.”
“Aremoria is not Innis Lear.”
“I know, very well, what Aremoria is,” Elia said irritably. “But then Gaelawill also say she believes in Regan’s power, enough for us all, that they make their own balance together, enough to lead those who would wish the stars to bear true and those who long for the roots.”
“Gaela is incapable of balance!” Brona cried, flinging the horn pick to the ground with such force it snapped. The witch gasped for breath as Elia gaped at her, never having seen the woman so out of sorts. Then Brona put her fists hard against her hips. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t—Kayo. It was Gaela who hurt him, Princess Elia. Your sister lashed out when he only tried to protect your father, and… he may go blind for it.”
Elia’s shock was drowned by the storm’s sudden gust; it tore and crashed into the shuttered windows and rattled the front door. They were out in that maelstrom: her father and uncle. Aefa’s father. She set her mug on the hearth and went to Brona, taking the witch’s cold hands. “Everything we can do, we have done,” she whispered.
Brona looked steadily at Elia, coming back to herself. Her cheeks were flushed. “There is more reason you should be queen instead.”
“Oh, Brona,” Elia murmured. She did not want to hear, not now.
“Neither of your sisters can bear children.”
“Are you certain? How can you know?”
“Gaela, ever drastic, chose to make herself, and ensured nothing could be planted within her. While Regan never was given the choice. This is not star prophecy or wormwork, but simply the truth.”
“Oh, poor Regan,” Elia whispered to herself. Even so many years ago, when Elia had been a brand-new woman, Regan had made clear her desire to be a mother, and her awe at the processes.
Brona went to the door and pressed her hand against it as if to bear up the house with her strength of will. She whispered something Elia could not quite hear but she thought was a prayer to the island.
The storm battered the house, raging, then for a moment quieted itself. In the gentler melody of rain alone, Brona turned around. “Their truth leaves one option only. You, Elia, must be the queen, or Dalat’s legacy, and the dynasty of Lear, will end. For your mother—for her line, for her hopes—you must.”
“It’s not a good enough reason alone,” Elia whispered. “That I might have a fertile womb! It reduces me to only that, and I dislike it.”
“It is important to consolidate power this way.”
“In the eyes of men!”
Brona lifted her eyebrows.
Disgruntled, Elia grimaced. “I would like to… be a mother. One day. But not to rely on it, for the sake of a country more than even my own.And we can’t be certain I can conceive, because I’ve never tried. Maybe all three of us are cursed. Maybe this is the end of the kingdom of Lear, and the island will become something new. Maybe we never did belong here after all.”
“Is that what you truly believe, that you and your sisters are not part of us? That Dalat did not make her heart into another root of Innis Lear?”
Elia stopped breathing. She stared at the blank tension in Brona’s expression, feeling as though she were slowly tipping over an edge into some great writhing vortex of emotions. It would be so easy to give over to it, now.
Then she gasped and was solid again. “No,” Elia said quiet, but firm. “I know we are of Innis Lear; this island was hers, and ours. It whispers in all our dreams. It is just so hard. Why is it so hard?”
“People make it so.” Brona came to her and knelt upon the packed earth, touching both hands to Elia’s knees. “I will help you. I loved your mother.”
“As she loved you,” Elia said, though it was merely a guess. “And my family… WeareInnis Lear, and maybe healing our own divisions, the wounds in our past, can heal this island, too.” Elia paused, ordering her thoughts. “I want… I want the island to be strong, the people to be safe and secure. I want a king or queen who loves our home and can protect it.”
“It should be you, Elia.”
The storm blew, hissing and screaming against the cottage. Elia could not hear words in the fury, but her breath shook out, full with fear. She touched Brona’s hands. Elia could not agree, not yet. She did not know how to speak it; she did not know how to open her heart to so much vulnerability, when she had only just now relearned to open it at all.
