“I wish Connley were here,” she whispered into the darkness. Ban hugged her, touched her hair as she trembled.
“It would all be different if he were,” the Fox said.
“Not the hemlock crown.”
“No,” he agreed.
“My sister would not lie about our mother.”
“Elia would never.”
“But I—I should be comforting you, Fox. You fight in the morning.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Is that a lie?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you nervous? Will you sleep?”
“I won’t sleep, but I… am not nervous yet. That will come. And, Regan, I am glad you are here.” Ban drew a shaky breath. “No one should be alone the night before battle. I have been, once, hiding in my dugout, waiting to send a signal. I knew the fighting would soon begin, but not the hour, I knew I would rage and kill, I knew… but there was no room in my hole for sword or shield, so I would have to acquire my own from the enemy. Those were the worst times. Alone and knowing little of what is to come. So this is better. I know who I face, and I know when, and why.”
“Dowe know why?” Regan whispered. “Some moments lately, I don’t remember.”
“For love,” he said. And there was his lie.
For love,the witch whispered back, in the language of trees.
GAELA
GAELALEAR STOODoutside the door through which Brona Hartfare slept. It was mere hours before dawn, and Gaela had yet to put her head to pillow.
Errigal Keep was a warren of new and old rooms, and tonight Gaela had wandered all the corridors and ramparts, from the deepest cellar to the tall tower platform, avoiding this confrontation, hoping to purge her rage and upset. But nothing had ever been able to do such a thing. She’d been born furious and riled. It was her lifeblood.
Had Dalat wondered why? Cared or not cared? Loved Gaela for that very ferocity or been afraid of it?
Had her mother killed herself assuming Gaela would be strong enough without her? Why hadn’t there been a final message or word she’d given Gaela to remember, the rest of her lonely star-cursed life?
So many questions, the largest of which hummed and begged in her pulse:Why why why?
Gaela pounded on the witch’s door.
“Brona,” she demanded, low and urgent.
In a moment she heard a shuffle and the door swung open. Brona waited in a loose robe, but she was unrumpled and clear-eyed.
Gaela shoved in. “Was there nothing she said for me? Why did she trust you and not me? I was sixteen!”
“Gaela,” the witch said, but Gaela had already stormed past her, toward the dimly glowing hearth. Spread over a heavy black cloth were all twenty-seven holy cards and a scatter of bones and polished rock.
“Tell me,” Gaela insisted.
“Gaela,” Brona snapped.
Unused to such command, the eldest daughter of Lear glared, but she saw then the source of Brona’s upset.
Kay Oak struggled to get out of the bed, naked, with a bandage covering his eye. He groaned, and Gaela felt a thrill of anger and guilt. She ground her teeth together. “Get out, Uncle, before I remember my proclamations about your banishment.”
