But the land didn’t care. The island stormed. The island knew what this king had done, and not done, what he had betrayed—it knew his veins no longer bled rootwater.
He had lost all.
He had nothing.
No crown, no castle, no daughters, no wife.
The stars had abandoned him, even his most favorite star. He was nothing.
The island was all.
Roots, rocks, trees, vicious sky and clouds and rain—the fire of lightning. Between him and his beloved stars, slicing them apart.
Nothing can come from nothing.
The fools there, holding his elbows, wept and promised they would see him safe, but the old man knew what the island knew: this was an ending night.
Thrusting free of them, the once-king ran on. Flying, it seemed, over mossy wet earth, between trees that creaked and dripped, that bent in the rain. He did not breathe air but fire, choking on it, covered in water and mud.
Lear!screamed the storm.Where is your crown?
The poison crown!
Lear!
The storm drove him, with rain and wailing wind, with flashes of light, exactly where it wanted him. The massive black cathedral, ruined and reclaimed by the forest, the heart—the heart of Innis Lear.
The king had been here before.
Lear!
The thick wooden doors hung crookedly. He ducked inside.
The walls of the cathedral boxed him in, but the rain still poured down: there was no roof, and yet there were no stars. Music rose from copper bowls filled with rainwater; different sizes sang different songs. He smelled mildew and rich, fertile earth.
At the cross far down the aisle was the ancient navel well. Water pooled on the granite cap, and the rain splashed constantly.
He stared, breathing heavily through his slack old mouth.
The cathedral was so very dark but for a gentle glow like moon or starlight, which was impossible with the solid black sky above.
Witness!cried the storm.
The hairs on his neck and arms raised.
The once-king’s world cracked again in an explosion of light and a roar of thunder.
Thrown back, he hit the stone floor with a cry.
Wind screamed, laughing, overhead, and through the shadows the once-king saw the smoldering navel well: the thick granite cap, scorched and broken perfectly in two. Each half had fallen away so the mouth of the well opened toward the sky.
Terrified, he got up and turned away. He squeezed outside again and ran. Mumbling prophecies to himself, he ran until his bones would break and he was truly blind.
The storm slowed to a churn. It stretched its cloudy wings.
Innis Lear sighed: cleansed, restored, and more than prepared for what came next.
THE FOX
