“I will offer the blessing,” she called, then said, in the language of trees,Hail the roots of Innis Lear.
Her voice did not shake, but the earth below her feet did; it trembled beneath all of them, rattling stones, brushing grass together, shivering the pebbles and shaking tiny beetles and crickets up into the air. Wind kissed everyone: lips, eyes, cheeks, hands, whatever piece of skin waited open and free to the sky. “Hail the stars in the sky,” she called, repeating it in the tree tongue. “And hail our hearts in between.”
And hail our hearts in between.
“My heart is broken.”
Everyone turned toward Regan Lear as she appeared.
She walked through the crowd, her dress dragging behind, the hem tattered. It was her underdress, and a robe over it, not a gown. Hair fell loose in tangled brown waves, curling around her jaw. Regan blinked; a sheen of tears made those dark eyes as large as navel wells. Red lines were painted down her cheeks like bloody tears.
“Sister,” said Elia.
Brona Hartfare came behind, gaze steady on Regan’s back, as if the witch’s willpower alone held Regan upright.
“Begin this duel,” Regan commanded, raising a hand to point at Ban and then Morimaros. “Fight for the crown of this island, fight for betrayal and hearts and the roots and stars.Fight!” She screamed the last word, and it rang up and up into the air.
Something was wrong, and Elia could hardly breathe. “Where is Gaela?” she asked.
“She is beyond witnessing this now.Fight!” In the language of trees, Regan added,If you do not fight now, Fox, it will all be for nothing. Fight!
Ban Errigal drew his whispering sword. Morimaros did the same.
Heart pounding, Elia stared.
Regan came to one side of her, Brona Hartfare the other. Regan touched Elia’s shoulder, gripping it hard as an eagle’s talon. “This is how my heart broke, little sister. So too will yours now, one way or the other.”
“Why do you relish it so, Regan?” Elia whispered.
Her sister did not reply.
Brona touched Elia’s other hand, offering comfort. Elia took it, glancing at the witch. The washed morning light showed Brona’s age in fine wrinkles, in some strands of silver winding through her lush curls; they reminded Elia of the Elder Queen Calepia who wore her white age like an elegant crown. One of those mothers would lose a son.
Elia clutched Brona’s hand. “I am so sorry.”
“For my son?” Brona asked lightly. “I have always known his blood would spill here, to water this island.”
“Where he belongs,” Elia whispered.
Brona put her free hand over her own heart, as if to say,Here is where my son belongs.
To Elia’s amazement, her sister, too, put a hand to her heart, and tears slipped down her cheeks.
Then Morimaros lifted a white-gloved hand. “Esperance!” he roared, and attacked.
THE FOX
THE ABRUPT ATTACKmade Ban throw up his buckler to desperately catch the charge: it rattled through his bones, the jar of Morimaros’s greater mass and strength. Ban leapt back, turned, and sliced with his hissing, giggling blade.
It was only an initial spar: striking, blocking, their grunts and wrenching movements the focus of these hundred folk. They parted quickly and stared. Mars breathed evenly. This was not at all like those fights in Aremoria, the autumn Mars and Novanos had mentored Ban. This was so different: the look in the king’s eyes was not encouraging, but hot and deadly.
Mars darted out with his sword. Ban parried, they turned, engaging too dangerously for Ban; unbreakable though the blade might be, he’d lose his sword if they crossed. Ban kicked, stomping the heel of his boot to Mars’s thigh. The king cursed and staggered back. Then he feinted, drawing Ban out, but the Fox was ready and stuck with buckler instead of sword, knocking Mars’s off center. They clashed, and Ban’s feet slid in the gravel. He did not dig his sword under as he’d been taught: that was a killing blow.
Instead he swung with the pommel, hitting Mars’s face. The king smiled grimly and spat blood. “You make those death strikes, Ban. Fight me like you betrayed me: with no thought of my heart.”
The Fox opened his mouth to speak, but Mars dove at Ban, who barely escaped. He turned and slammed his buckler into Mars’s sword, but Mars’s buckler skimmed his gut just as he spun away. The blade of the king’s sword cut along Ban’s arm, dragging at the mail shirt. Ban tucked in, slicing back.
Another flurry of strikes and blocks, Ban giving ground under the strong onslaught, until he fell to one knee. He gasped for air and struck back with his sword. His buckler was gone, his left hand numb. Ban needed another shield, or hammer, or even a knife, but there was nothing. This was single combat, not melee.
