Through the earth came the sounds of men. A stifled rhythm of talking, footsteps over Ban’s resting place.
All the valley trembled with the presence of an army.
Ban whispered in the language of trees,Yours or an enemy?for he knew not any word for Aremoria or Diota that trees would understand.
Enemy,the trees told him, passing the word down and down.
A tiny insect crossed Ban’s bottom lip, a beetle by the feel of it. He openedhis mouth and caught it with his tongue. It crunched and he swallowed, unthinking. He was starving, and his tongue was sticky with sleep and thirst. So much so, he knew it had been days. Two at least, maybe three, since the battle he’d fled, desperate and despairing.
He’d urinated at some point. And now he needed water. That was his priority.
Ban was not going to die.
The realization surprised him, but only for a moment; then it felt right. This was not where his memories would end. Not here, away from the hungry island of Innis Lear. Not without seeing Elia again. There was too much to say. Too much to prove.
Ban turned his head carefully, and put his mouth against a root.Water, I need water.
The ground shivered, shifted so slightly no one on their feet above would notice, and slowly—ever so slowly—roots squeezed, channels were formed, and a thin trickle of water dribbled against his mouth.
Ban drank.
Overhead, the noise of soldiers settled. Night had arrived, Ban was certain.
He moved the fingers of his injured left hand. They did not protest, though they were stiff. The cracked wrist ached, but he would be careful. Slowly taking a deep breath, he tried to feel through the gash on his side. It hurt, crusted over with blood and scab. If he was careful, very careful, he could emerge and walk back to the Aremore camp. The trees would help hide him, and the earth. Warn him of danger.
Do they sleep?he whispered.
Not yet.
Not yet.
Now.
Ban smiled.Please lift me up,he said.Carefully, slowly, silently as you can.
The hawthorns agreed.
He was birthed from the grassy Aremore hill under cover of dappled, deep shadows. Earth rolled away, roots pulling back, other roots pushing him up and up.
Night was deep, the moon a useless crescent in the west.
Ban rubbed his eyes, leaving dirt on his face to cast him darker, a shadow of the land itself. He looked, and all around was a vast army, camped here in this protected valley. Firelight blinked between peaked tents, though banked low except in one or two places where soldiers sat awake to watchfor danger. Ban crouched and asked the trees and wind to gently blow, not enough to alarm anyone, but just to cover the sounds of his escape.
Through aches and weariness, he stood. The three hawthorns hid him from most of the camp, though right here beside him, a tent had been built. At the top a pennant hung, limp but for the fluttering tip thanks to Ban’s quiet wind. He recognized the bright white line of a Diotan commander’s shield.
He should leave straightaway. He should make his careful way back to the Aremore army. His side hurt, and his wrist was broken. He needed to be cautious.
Or—
Or he might take advantage of his situation and find something valuable to bring back with him. Valuable enough that nobody would judge why he’d left the battlefield. Evidence of Ban’s very specific value. He should count horses and men, find maps, or overhear a battle plan. Prove to the Alsax Ban Errigal was no useless bastard, but worth something. Matter to the Aremore army. Make a name for himself. And then prove it to his father, and even the king of Innis Lear. Ban was not to be ignored. He had power. Look what he already had survived with nothing but his words and blood.
The wind hissed, tossing hawthorn leaves together like applause. Ban smiled, this time hungrily, and stepped toward the enemy commander’s tent.
GAELA
GAELA STRODE JUSTbehind the gray-robed star priest, eager and nearly stepping on his old heels. It had taken several days to discover and summon this man, the same priest who had served at Dondubhan three decades ago, and once led a similar procession when Lear had come to take up the mantle of reluctant kingship. Unlike her father, Gaela was prepared. Her heart beat hard and steady, and every breath filled her from top to toe with vitality.
Tucked like a secret against the northeastern edge of the Tarinnish, the holy navel well connected to the black lake by a thin stream of water. The trickle only barely revealed itself, sliding around sharp pebbles and beneath ferns and long grass. At night, all was black, ethereal gray, and a deep, blunt, resounding green. Overhead, the wind dragged clouds across the stars in a sheer layer of silver, and so the sky seemed to ripple with emotion as their procession made its way around the lake.
