The earl’s handsome eyes brightened with tears before they spilled from the corners, and Regan, too, was crying suddenly, thinking of her father and this weak man’s complicity in her persecution, and thinking of that lovely heart-faced owl she’d killed for nothing. With a scream, she tore her fingers down Errigal’s face, scouring his cheeks.
Errigal twitched and his shoulders shrugged, caught in a jerky death dance.
“Go to those cold stars,” Regan whispered. “Wait you there for my father!”
He died with her crouched over him like a spirit of vengeance.
Regan slid off, awkward suddenly and empty inside. The earl’s blind eyes stared up at the ceiling, and Regan looked where they would have: nothing but air and limewash and the dark wooden beams. She shook with weeping.
“Lady!” cried Sella Ironwife.
The iron wizard and his wife knelt at Connley’s side: the duke bent over his own knee, hands on his ribs. He coughed, his face contorting in pain. Blood spots flecked his lips.
Regan ran to him. “Connley!”
Curan carefully supported her husband, lowering him to the ground, then tore the duke’s tunic and pulled up the bloody linen shirt. Connley’s entire right side was billowing black and vibrant red with a massive bruise; a bloody gash stretched over at least the bottom two of his ribs, broken openfrom the weight of Errigal’s sword. When Connley breathed, the shape of his ribs was not right.
Terror froze Regan, a cold panic that blinded her and stole her breath. “Connley,” she whispered.
“Regan,” her husband said, bloody and harsh. His left hand reached for her, and she grasped it with both of hers, dragging herself nearer to his heart.
“Bind him,” she ordered. “Bind it well and—and ready a wagon,now.” A flash of insight hung in her imagination: Connley submerged in rootwater, at the oak altar in the heart of Connley Castle. Sleeping, calm, healing.
Kissing his knuckles, she whispered,The island and I will make you well again, beloved,in the language of trees. Outside, the storm howled its disagreement.
ELEVEN YEARS AGO, DONDUBHAN CASTLE
BEFORE HE WASConnley, he was Tear, son of Berra Connley and Devon Glennadoer. He’d been born when his parents were old, both of them in their fifth decade, because his mother, Berra, had been previously determined to marry the king of Innis Lear. She’d been wed to Lear’s middle brother, without issue, and thus widowed when the man died. In desperate hope she put off all other suitors, even after Lear had married Dalat of Taria Queen, and for the four years after, while they failed produce an heir, and thereby legitimize the crown of the foreign usurper.
But Gaela had been born, and all the island knew the prophecy was real: Dalat was fated to be their queen for at least sixteen more years.
Berra had raged for three full months, then married the second son of the Earl Glennadoer and, after some struggle, got herself with child.
Tear was born eight months after Regan Lear. He did not meet her until the year memorial for her mother’s death.
The great hall of the Lear’s winter castle at Dondubhan was built of cold gray stone that vaulted higher overhead than any room Tear had been inside before. He could not help but be aware that to preside over this fortress had been his mother’s lifelong goal. Massive hearths burned at either end, and a long stone channel ran down the center length, filled with hot coals. Servants replaced them regularly, scattering small chunks of incense that melted and released spice into the air. Candles dangled from chains along the walls and off the arched ceiling, though the highest were not lit. Berra told her son as they entered that the king had forbidden their lighting—because despite how the high candle flames would imitate stars hovering over their feast, lighting them required magic. And there was to be no more of that in the king’s house.
She’d said it with no expression, but Tear knew his mother well enough to recognize the disquiet in her blue-green eyes.
At fourteen, Tear Connley was tall and slightly awkward, having not yet grown into his height. But none who looked upon him would doubt theregal lines of his jaw and cheeks and brow, nor the strength of his family nose. He was colored exactly as his mother: straight blond hair that tended toward red-gold, lovely blue-green eyes, and unblemished skin as smooth and light as cream. His lips were pink and sometimes the tips of his cheeks, too. If he smiled, he would be beautiful. But Tear rarely did.
He looked like a prince, which was why two people in this hall had already asked him if he was the young Aremore heir who had been sent by his father for the memorial. Tear tilted his chin down, both times, and said only, “No,” slanting his gaze toward where the real prince sat, resplendent in orange and white like a summer’s day, with only a finely embroidered strip of pale gray silk tied to his arm.
Abandoned by his mother, so she could more freely gossip and plot with her array of Connley cousins, Tear leaned his shoulder against the corner of a stone pillar, softened by time and darkened from hundreds of hands. He’d pulled his bloodred coat on to cover the mourning gray wool that he’d worn out on to the Star Field for the procession at dusk. Tear was beginning to be aware that the bolder color made him shine, instead of drawing him wan as it did his darker father. His mother approved, having raised him to use every weapon in his arsenal.
The great hall was crushed with people, most blending together in their mourning shades of white and gray, though some still wore jewels and silver that sparkled, in hair and at wrists or waists. Tear played a game with himself, trying to name every faction, and invent some plot for them to discuss. His own young cousins were mostly girls, and so they did not desire to spend time with him, given that he did not flirt or pretend to protect them. The boys were all ten years Tear’s elder, thanks to his parents’ long wait for children. Those boys had little interest in his cold quiet and used to call him his mother’s daughter when they were younger and stupid enough to forget he would be their duke. Though Tear had hardly minded. They would be his allies when the time came, because he knew everything they wanted, and he would be in position to grant it, or not. And because hewas,in many ways, his mother’s daughter. She taught him very, very well, and he learned, adeptly and eagerly.
Someday Tear would wear the ducal chains; someday he would rule Connley and control the entire eastern edge of Innis Lear, down through the wealthy Errigal lands. Everyone on Innis Lear would love or fear him, or perhaps hate him. Anything, he thought, so long as their feelings were strong. His mother had told him,Make the people want you for you, not your stars. Give them a connection to your flesh and blood and purpose, my boy. As we connect ourselves to the rootwater.
He certainly wasn’t following that advice while leaning apart from the crowd, so, taking a breath, Tear pushed clear of the column. He began a measured pace deeper into the room. He wound through clusters of adults, some laughing, some gossiping intensely with concerned faces. All were drinking warm wine from braziers hung over the hot coals. Tear took a cup himself and drank half of it down, despite knowing it would bring the pink out in his sharp cheeks.
His goal was the prince of Aremoria, Morimaros. Several years Tear’s elder and here, his mother said, to court one of Lear’s daughters.
Tear stepped up beside the prince, hoping his solemn expression lent age and wisdom to his features.
Morimaros nodded, dark blue eyes flicking across Tear’s face. “From Connley?” the prince said.
Tear bowed. “The duke’s only son.”
