And Brona Hartfare shocked him to his soul by speaking in the language of the Third Kingdom, “This is my choice, son-of-my-mother. I make it for myself, your mother’s-daughter, and for your sister’s-daughters, and I ask that you accept it now. I ask that you give yourself to them, to their protection, for they will need your heart-strength and generosity. Never tell them of my choice, but keep them well. Son-of-my-mother, I love you.”
Kayo dragged himself free with a cry, turning away as if to retch. But there was nothing, nothing inside him except grief and regret. He gripped the roots of a strong tree, bending against them.
Brona’s hand found his shoulder.
He squeezed his eyes shut, and tears leaked through his curled lashes.
“I have said these words, Kay Oak, every night and every morning for a year and three days. The island’s roots and the wind of our trees know what Dalat of Taria Queen and Innis Lear has asked of you. It knows what she asked of herself.”
Kayo did not think he was as strong as the daughter-of-his-mother. He barely felt Brona’s touch as he dug his fingers into the cold earth around the oak’s roots, as if he could grip the very heart of this dangerous, unforgiving island. To strangle it, to bury himself, or only to grasp hold, he could not say.
THE SISTERS METin a pavilion erected over the rocky Errigal moor, built of canvas in the neutral gray colors of death, with massive torches flickering bright against the black sky.
Innis Lear raged, tossing flags and leaves sharply, grabbing at anything not tied down. The wind stung the eyes of retainers and servants, tore at the horses’ manes, rattled tack, and shoved wagons. Half the tents could not be put up, taking thrice as many men to hold and stake down, and even then the gale blew harder.
The youngest princess had sent word, offering instead the shelter of Errigal Keep, but the eldest denied it.Let the skies scream at our meeting,she said to the messenger.
And so they arrived.
Wind gusted from the north, drawing the cries of the island in its wake, from the mountains, karst flats, cliffs, meadows, and moors, arrowing toward the iron marsh, toward the daughters of Lear.
Gaela Lear had brought with her an army twelve hundred strong from Dondubhan, with more following at a slower pace—though some from those barracks had deserted, running here to the daughter they knew best from her time at the northern star tower, and out of friendship with Rory Earlson. The Astore army camped in a wide, flickering fan to the west, right up to the edge of the White Forest. To Regan’s bloodred banner five hundred from Connley had joined, and the Earl Glennadoer as well, with his mud-and-feather-painted soldiers.
Toward them from the fortress of Errigal Keep came the party of the youngest Lear daughter, all in the midnight blue and white of Innis Lear itself, dotted throughout with the wintry pale blue of Errigal. Her force was the smallest, a bare two hundred from Errigal and the surrounding farmland, but four hundred and then three hundred more had arrived today with the Earl Rosrua and Bracoch. Plus their dead father’s hundred loyal retainers, not a one of whom had broken toward Gaela and Regan.
The wind roared, tearing at hair and tabards.
None could predict what might happen this night, not with all the holy bones in the world at their feet.
Elia Lear stopped at the base of the pavilion to glance at the canvas roof slapping hard in the wind. “Why do my sisters hide from the stars?”
Of course Lear’s youngest did not need to hide from the sky because she was a piece of it: her silver chain mail glittered like a shirt woven of stars, and her dress was cream and gray like a priest’s, but from shoulder to knee a tabard hung in a rich dark blue, vibrant enough to catch the light, and at her breast a single, blazing white star.
All who saw her understood: Elia Lear would not submit.
Kay Oak stepped to her side, leaning heavily on an old oak cane. The wound on his face was revealed: a swollen gash sewn with pale thread, a path of moonlight across his brown face. It marked out the earl’s left eye, and the surrounding bruise flared like a deadly dark flower. Beside him stood the witch of the White Forest, and with her a dozen women of Errigal and Hartfare, then the old king’s Fool, iron wizards, and more. There came the cragged Earl Bracoch, and the younger Rosrua, with Rory Errigal holding the chain of his father’s title instead of wearing it across his chest; the youngest man’s eyes hunted only for his bastard brother.
At Elia Lear’s other shoulder stood a gilded man, beardless, dressed like a noble retainer also in Learish blue: the king of Aremoria.
“We do not hide,” Gaela Lear answered her youngest sister, stepping to the fore of the pavilion. The self-proclaimed king of Innis Lear wore vibrant purple and red, with shimmering chain mail falling off her shoulders like wings. A sword and scabbard encrusted with gold and garnets hung heavily from a belt at her hips. Her hair was sculpted into a spiral crown with pale clay. That same clay dotted down her temples and cheeks in the mockery of a star pattern. Beautiful and striking, she embodied the Star of War, with all its promise of victory and glory and strength.
And Regan Connley was the matching Star of Death, in a white gown with scarlet trim and collar. Red paint colored her eyelids and her bottom lip, and streaked across her cheeks in violent lines. Her hair was loosely drawn back under a white mourning veil that ruffled and shivered in the wind like a furious waterfall. The simplicity only exaggerated her dangerous beauty.
With them stood the Fox of Innis Lear, in a dark gambeson and dull armor, his sword whispering at his hip; he was a shadow of war, a wizard’s secret form. He stared at Morimaros of Aremoria, in Elia’s dark blue, sword at his side but lacking crown and royal ring. The king’s eyes scoured theFox with the penetrating force of the furious wind, angry, wounded, and worst of all: disappointment.
Gaela said, loud enough to be heard by all, “As agreed, come inside: we meet as rival sisters, not enemies.” With her middle sister in perfect alignment, they stepped back to welcome the youngest.
The Oak Earl gripped Elia’s elbow. “Change your mind,” he was heard to say, low and firm.
“I will not,” she said back, only a whisper in the wind, but he knew, and slammed his cane into the rocky moor.
The youngest princess left him behind, for only two would enter with her: a triangle complete, to face her two sisters and their wizard.
Elia stepped inside, followed by Morimaros of Aremoria and Aefa, the former angry and strong, the latter clutching to her chest a cloth-covered prize.
The noise of the wind changed, from desperate wailing to a dull, distant roar, as if those six stood inside the heart of a seashell, protected from the crashing ocean. Iron stands rose like spears in each corner, lifting plates filled with candles head-high. Chairs waited, but none sat upon them, and all ignored, too, the low table with dark wine and bright stone cups.
Gaela appeared amused at her little sister’s choices of seconds, but Regan eyed Aefa and her bundle suspiciously. Ban the Fox concentrated on his breathing; he’d not expected his former king to join them now.
