Usually the cellar smelled of earth and water and candle smoke, and a slight sourness, though Ban had not visited in years. Today, it burned with pine and strong myrrh to cover the inevitable stink of death.
Layers of dark linen wrapped the broad body, still daunting and wide, despite the sunken betrayal of slow rot. There was nothing to see but the shape of his father, so quiet in death. The lantern Ban had brought cast shadows over everything. His own shadow lengthened, stretching unnaturally across the slab altar and Errigal’s body.
Ban’s father had been dead for twelve days.
His lantern’s light wavered, and Ban realized he was shaking.
“I wondered if you would come here,” Rory said from the deep shadow beyond the first row of dusty wine.
“Brother,” Ban said.
“I am no such thing to you, am I? Have I ever been?”
“I’m sorry.” It gave Ban no relief to say it, thought his regret was true. Banwassorry—sorry that Rory had been hurt and that Errigal had died as he had, that his brother would have wanted nothing so much as to die in their father’s stead. And he was sorry that Rory was now looking at him with such disgust. But Ban was not sorry for his choices, though he suspected he should’ve been. He was not sorry their father could no longer carelessly parade through life, untouchable as the stars he’d so worshipped. It was Errigal’s choices, too, his misplaced trusts and spoiled passions, that had brought the old earl to be here, lying coldly in this underground tomb. His sons at war.
Rory snorted and emerged into the broken light. He put his hand on the chest area of their father’s body and lifted a bottle of wine to his lips. It sloshed loudly; most had already been consumed.
The brothers stared at each other over the corpse. Ban set his lantern on the altar and reached out for the bottle. Rory smacked it into his hand.
Ban drank, eyes never leaving Rory’s blotchy, angry face.
Rory took the wine back. “Am I supposed to hope you live or die tomorrow?”
“Die, I suppose,” Ban said viciously.
Rory flung the bottle against the wall; it broke into three pieces, then hit the stone floor and shattered further. Rory breathed hard, while Ban did not even flinch. “Sometimes I hate you,” Rory whispered.
Ban nodded.
“I didn’t deserve this,” Rory said.
“I didn’t do any of it to hurt you.”
His brother only pressed his mouth in a grim line. “You’ll die.”
The cold agreement of his guts finally bent Ban’s knees; he crouched and put his hand to the floor for balance. “I think so, yes,” he hissed, unable to find a voice.
His brother knelt beside Ban and shoved him, then caught him and grabbed his shoulders. “You have to fight, you shit, you fox, you—youbastard.”
The word hit Ban harder than it might’ve, a bite under his heart, because in all his life Rory had never flung it at him. “I will fight,” he snarled into his brother’s face.
“Good. But you’ll lose.”
“What do you want?” Ban cried, wrenching away.
“I don’t know! I…” Rory fell back onto his behind, put the heels of his hands against his eyes. His fingers curled like claws. He heaved a deep breath and then dropped his arms. “I have always been generous to you, always loved you completely.”
“I did not doubt that. I only… do not know how… I was not made for love.” Ban shrugged, trying for indifference, but it was a jerky, offended motion.
“I know that is a lie. On your last night at least, do not lie. You were loved in Aremore. Did you never see that? The king—but… You were loved. And you loved Elia. I saw it when we were young.”
“It only broke things,” Ban whispered.
“I’m sorry for that. For my part in it.”
Frowning, Ban gripped his brother’s arm. Even not understanding, he could give Rory this: the illusion of forgiveness.
Rory nodded heavily and climbed to his feet. A tear caught in his eyelashes and glinted in the lantern light. He nodded. “Fine. Good then. I’ll—I’ll grieve you, you know. When you are dead. Had you not killed our father, I might have named my heir for you, the uncle who should havetaught him to make swords and climb trees and drink beer. Who should have—should have…”
