The retainer put her hand on Ban’s shoulder. “Since last night. Though Connley lasted almost past dawn. Regan wanted to take him home. She was trying to save him.”
Ban struggled to his feet and moved to the fallen couple. “Regan,” he said, then knelt again, touching Connley’s arm first. It was cool, and some stiffness of death had set in. Ban shook his head, protesting. The body should have been cleaned before that, or buried in roots. Regan could have—should have—asked the roots to take him, fresh still, for the worms of dreams and rebirth to feast upon. He said so, in the language of trees, but quietly. The hawthorn shivered; its roots rippled in agreement.
Regan clutched her husband’s body, her taut, trembling arms the only sign she was aware of anything else in the world.
Ban kissed Connley’s forehead. He could not press the eyelids closed.
Tears flooded Ban’s throat. He leaned his forehead on Connley’s, smelling sour death and urine and the full, bright scent of limestone and clay. Stars and worms, Ban was sorry. He shouldn’t have left the Keep. He should have remained to see his father dealt with, remained and—and witnessed. If he had not been with Elia, might he have saved Connley’s life?
Turning, he put his hands on Regan. “Lady, you must let go. Help me put him in the roots.”
Nothing.
“Regan.” Ban shifted nearer to her, wrapped his arm around her back, and brushed her cool mass of brown hair away from her face, gathering it together gently. Her eyes tightened shut at his care. She was peaked and splotchy, her lovely cheeks streaked with blood and dirt and tearstain.
“No,” she whispered, as harsh as winter rain.
“Yes, Regan. Come with me.”
She shuddered, then looked. “Ban?” Her voice was soft and lost.
He nodded and kissed her temple. He left his lips there, blowing warm breath into her hair. She shuddered again and in one swift move thrust up and seized him.
“Gone,” she said, low in her throat. “There is no more of Connley at all, anywhere.”
“I know,” he said, holding her with all his strength. Using it to prop up his own heart.
The lady did not cry, but she held on to him long, as the sun moved away, the breeze lilted east to southeast, and shadows fell all around. Ban listened to the hush, to Gaela’s retainer trudging back to the small fire and stirring it up again, evidence of her discomfort and attempt to give them privacy. Evening birds came out to sing, against the discordant tune of crickets.
“It’s time,” Ban said finally, stroking Regan’s tangled hair.
They stood. Regan stared hollowly down at her husband, while Ban faced the hawthorn.
Take him,he said.This is His Highness, Tear Connley of Innis Lear, a part of this island born, and part of it forever.
The hawthorn shivered, tiny clusters of haws blinking in the twilight.
Regan said,He saw me.She gripped her belly hard enough to pinch her flesh through the shift she wore.
Roots lifted up from the earth, stretching, reaching for Connley. The shadows yawned, and the wind said,With us.
Behind them, the horses shied away from the trembling ground. Clay parted, roots looped up, grasping the duke’s neck and wrists, his waist and thighs and feet. They pulled him down, into the earth.
Regan cried out wordlessly, up at the first stars filtering through the twilight.
Connley vanished, embraced by the hawthorn at last.
“I’m sorry,” Ban said, staring where the duke had just been, longing to see that unique color of Connley’s eyes once more, or marvel at the ambitious twist of his mouth. Regan heaved and nearly collapsed, but Ban caught her.
“It’s my fault,” he said, thinking of his cowardice at having fled the Keep last night.
The lady fell still against him. Dangerously still.
Blood sang in his ears: he was at her mercy, suddenly, beholden to a wolf who’d just lost her mate.
“No,” Regan said, leaning away. In this newborn darkness, she was an eerie tree-shadow, a haunting spirit. Her crystalline eyes flicked to her husband’s shallow grave. “This is the fault of our fathers.”
The truth of it took his breath away.
