And King Lear—
Ban stumbled, grunting as he caught himself on a sore knee, jarring his broken wrist. His skull throbbed. A blessed numbness had spread along his wounded side.
Ahead was a low, grassy valley beside the dark towers of a forest. Three cranky-looking hawthorn trees clutched the north, windblown slope. It was a good place to die. Small, sheltered on two sides by the roll of hills and one by the forest, and the other faced only the sky. Ban’s vision blurred.
The king of Innis Lear would be glad he was dead.
And perhaps never tell Elia.
Ban drew a long, slow breath—it grew more difficult to breathe deeply. He walked toward the hawthorn trees.
A year ago, he’d have stayed alive for her. A year ago, when Elia lovedhim, and he returned it with a thrilling joy unlike anything he’d known before. Almost like balancing in the center of the land bridge to the Summer Seat, terrible cliffs dropping a hundred feet on either side to those tearing, wicked ocean waves. Almost like fire coming to life at the tips of his fingers, starlight and root magic joined in a singular spark of magic. Almost like that kiss.
Tears brushed off his eyelashes, and Ban realized he was crying. He slid a few paces down the slope to the dappled shade of the cranky hawthorns. Touching the hard wrinkles of bark, Ban left a bloody handprint.Hello, hawthorn,he whispered in the language of trees. Would trees in Aremoria know the words? Or did only trees of Innis Lear understand? Would they listen to a bastard if they did, even if he was also the son of a witch?
It hardly mattered. He was so very tired.
Ban sank to his knees, his shoulder against the trunk of the first hawthorn. Its roots curled through the sloping earth, hard gray snakes. Blood dripped from his wound, plopping against the roots and dusty ground in perfect tiny splatters. Ban blinked, and his tears fell, too. He sighed. This was the place.
The hawthorn shook its leaves, a long sighing response.
Hello, little brother,the tree whispered.
Relieved, exhausted, Ban laid himself down between the trees, head cradled in the crook of two roots. He kissed it, closed his eyes, and gave himself over to death.
He woke suddenly, from a dream of yellow flowers that floated in the air like bobbing butterflies, and gasped at a resurgence of pain. Blackness surrounded him, and not the blackness of a starless sky, but of closed doors and deep well water. He smelled roots and dank earth; a healthy, fertile smell. And blood, too, but fainter. His ears were muffled, his entire body cushioned by mud and roots cupped gently and perfectly around him.
As he slept, the hawthorns had made him a nest.
Or a grave.
He shifted but was caught by the heavy embrace of earth. A root hugged his left forearm against his chest, keeping the wrist secure. Another pair of roots circled Ban’s ribs, pinching shut the leather vest and pressing together his yawning wound.
Sleep, son, little brother.
The words shivered through the ground, passed between the hawthorns.
We hold you,they whispered, shaping the language of trees rounder, louder and more tender both, to Ban’s ears. Like a different dialect from the slick, intense whispering of Innis Lear.
Thank you,he said, attempting the same shapes.
Ban drifted, thirsty but whole. He thought of the starflower hollows in the White Forest, and Elia humming to the flowers, her black eyes bright with magic. The wind teased her to laugh, pushed her toward him. He thought of the garden behind his mother’s cottage in Hartfare, of coaxing the sweet peas to curl and braid together along the trellis lines. Sweet peas spoke in staccato half words. Like night moths and cherry trees.
His dreams looped slowly: Elia here, a girl pulling herself out of the hollow of an oak tree, crowned with stars and beetles; King Lear next, towering like a column of cold fire, his touch withering the earth and stones of the island; Earl Errigal laughing so hard his cheeks pinked, pushing Ban toward Brona his mother, her hair tousled and her jaw mud-streaked because they’d been chasing each other though the White Forest, singing a whispered song to the trees. Elia again, always, and the shivering roots, chuckling wind, and rushing tide that grasped against the rocky beach.Innis Lear.
Memories, all, a tale for the Aremore roots, whispered through thin, cracking lips as he dreamed. And this land’s story in return: bright green summer and the shuffle of red wheat, shaved from the ground for harvest; horses in an easy canter beneath shining soldiers and knights; the glorious sun colored the same as the royal flag tied to the top of a strong sapling oak; Aremoria’s new king; winter snow a careful white blanket, and cozy fire that crackled but did not spark; caves beneath elegant old cities, stone mouths like natural wells, and lazy rivers braiding it all together in knots.
The magic was slow, the trees peaceful and reluctant to speak. Aremoria was not hungry like the roots of Innis Lear. Stars fell, forgotten here but as distant signals and pretty lights.
It was a comforting story. Ban would rest content if he slipped into death here in this cradle of earth and roots.
Don’t die, wizard,the trees whispered. They nudged him awake with root fingers.
Ban opened his eyes.
Dirt fell into them and he blinked fast, tears welling protectively.
He listened.
