FOR SEVERAL HOURSBan rode, east and then slightly south, and then straight east again, galloping when he could to the farthest edge of the White Forest, where narrow fingers of it reached between high karst hills. He ate in the saddle, relieved himself only when he and the horse both needed water. In early afternoon they climbed one of the hills. The horse’s hoof clopped on the naked stone, and Ban smelled salt on the wind.
Sun narrowed his eyes as he peered for some sign to follow. The wind blew steady and wordless, but moaned through the tiny crevasses in the karst. There would be sinkholes and caves here. There was little else about this part of the island Ban knew, except that if he found the road and turned north, by nightfall he’d be at Connley Castle.
“Regan?” Ban said plainly, then again in the language of trees.
Nothing but empty wind.
He squeezed his legs, and the horse walked on, picking carefully. An hour later, he smelled smoke through the shade of the valley. “Regan?” he yelled.
And after another few minutes, “Lady? Are you here?”
He stopped the horse and climbed down, wrapping the reins in one hand to guide her with him a few steps off the graveled road. Pine trees surrounded them, spicy and crisp, and Ban walked over a soft bed of fallen needles to touch his bare hand to the soft, thready bark of one.
Sister,he said,where is Regan Lear?
Close, so close, but she will not speak to us, brother, we cannot hear her,the tree whispered sadly.
Fear took his breath for a moment, but Ban still pressed his forehead to the tree and sighed a blessing onto her grove.Still this way?
yesyesyes,all the pines shivered and danced.
Ban couldn’t think for the fear rushing through his veins to hiss in his ears. He moved on at his horse’s side, pushing as fast as he could.
“Regan!” he cried again.
“Hello?”
It was not her voice, but another woman’s. Ban dropped the horse’s reins and hurried.
Even rushing he was still quiet, and thus startled the retainer who paced along the southwest perimeter of a small meadow camp. “Ah, shit!” she gasped when Ban appeared, wild, out of the trees. Helmetless, but wearinga rusty pink gambeson of Astore and mail sleeves, the woman went for the sword at her belt before recognizing him. “Ban Errigal.”
“You came with messages from Gaela,” Ban said. “Where is Regan?” He strode past the woman, toward a wagon unhitched from the pair of horses set to snorfling at what used to be long grass and clover.
“There, sir,” the retainer said, but Ban had already seen.
Two unmoving bodies.
Regan curled beside a thicket of hawthorn roots, from which sprung a short, bent tree with no leaves, only dozens and dozens of bloodred berries. Her long dark hair was loose over her back and covering her face, spread in a fan of curls over Connley’s chest.
The duke was dead.
His lovely eyes had not closed completely, leaving a slit of blue-green to shine in the light. Blood speckled otherwise bloodless lips, and yet more dried blood cracked against the splayed-open jacket, his torn shirt still half wrapped about him, along with a surprisingly untarnished bandage. One hand hid beneath Regan; the other lay at his side, palm open and empty.
Ban could not move. Not Connley, no.
No.
“Regan,” he whispered, then noticed her shoulders shift very slightly with breath.
Sinking to his knees under the weight of stunned grief, Ban suddenly had a sick, confusing thought: his father might not be dead after all. Air passed Ban’s lips and over his tongue, filling his lungs, but he could not feel it. Ban was choking on life, gasping and dull.
“She won’t move,” the Astore retainer said, pressing. “I can’t get her to answer me, or eat or drink.”
“What happened?” he managed to whisper.
“Connley and Errigal killed each other.”
“He’s… he’s dead, then.”
