Gaela glared into his heated brown eyes. “The blood of this island is in me, Col Astore, and in your veins. None will take the crown from us.”
“Half your blood is from a desert. You have to show the people here that you bleed rootwater.”
She grabbed the collar of his tunic and made a fist. “How dare you suggest my mother’s line does not belong here! My birth was predicted by Lear’s stars, and her death confirmed it: we are intimately woven into the breath of this island.” The final words panted out of her, and Gaela struggled to remain calm.
Astore kissed her, hard, and nodded against her mouth. “Yes, my love, that ferocity is pure Innis Lear,” he whispered, tugging at her.
“Let me go.” Gaela tore free, sighing deeply. “We must feast with Lear and his men.”
“Wait until the Longest Night to take the crown,” Astore said firmly. “You need the stars, Gaela, and the rootwater. You need the rituals. The people do.”
“I know,” she snapped.
He took her elbow and pulled her out into the corridor. Gaela did not bother to wipe the anger off her face, though she took his hand and held it in her own; she would not be led.
Noise rose from the great hall, raucous and pitched like a brawl. Gaela frowned, but Astore put on a smile as they entered from the stairs directly connecting his study with the hall.
Lear’s Fool danced a ragged, ridiculous dance to the clapping of half thehundred men crushed together—many were her father’s, though some wore the Astore pink. Food already filled trenchers, and the old king sat in Astore’s tall-backed chair, eating a leg of pheasant, laughing at the Fool.
They’d begun the feast without the very lord of this castle. Gaela clenched her jaw, shuddering beneath a wave of fury. What if she cut his throat and all that hot blood poured out over the high table? If she drank from a cup of wine splattered with Lear’s blood, would it be as good as bathing herself in rootwater? What would the island say then?
Astore squeezed her hand, as if he knew her mind. “Patience,” he murmured. Then he kissed her temple and grinned out at the hall as if they had intended this, calling for more wine and a loud welcome to the magnificent King Lear and his retainers.
Gaela held her peace. She had patience, yes. The patience of a wolf; the patience of red-hot coals, tucked under black ash where their fire could not yet be seen, not until it was needed.
And then everything that did not get out of her way would burn.
SEVEN YEARS AGO, HARTFARE
THE ELDEST DAUGHTERof Lear descended upon the village of Hartfare like a conqueror: back straight, shoulders spread, clad in glistening silver mail and a midnight blue gambeson over quilted trousers, thick-soled, polished boots, with a long cape rippling behind her, the Swan Star crest of Lear embroidered on it in brilliant white. Her sword hung at her hip and her shield was slung over her shoulder, reflecting dappled sunlight in flashes as her thick white horse chose careful, sure steps. She had no paint on her face, despite Regan’s insistence that it was required before considering oneself fully armored. Her dark mouth was set firm and frowning in her dark face.
The princess shifted, stretching taller atop her horse as nausea gripped her hipbones and dragged long fingers down her lower spine. She rode eyes forward, straight into the central square, ignoring the villagers’ raised hands and surprised bowing. They knew her; who could not recognize Gaela Lear, the black princess, the warrior daughter of Lear? In the corners of her eyes she noticed as those who had never seen her—or had not seen her since she’d grown tall—now marked how like a man she seemed. How like a soldier she sat, breasts bound as flat as she could make them, allowing the chainmail and gambeson to curve as over a man’s strong chest. The bulk of the sword belt at Gaela’s waist made the dip of her hips more discreet, and her thighs were as strong as many men’s. Her life studying war in Astora had changed her.
She reached the far end of Hartfare, where the witch of the White Forest kept her cottage. The perfectly trained horse stopped as Gaela leaned back in her seat. Dismounting, she ordered one of the gawking boys to see to rubbing down the beast if he wished to keep his staring eyes. She swung her heavy shield off her shoulder and propped it against the mud brick wall of the house.
“Brona,” she called out sharply, a warning before pushing open the door. She ducked slightly under the sloped thatch.
“Gaela,” the woman said happily, crouched barefoot by the fire. Brona’smass of black hair was tied in messy knots down her back, and she wore heavy ruffled skirts and a loose shift that did not want to stay on both shoulders. The sunlight spilling in from the windows seemed to dance around her. Though the woman was almost twice Gaela’s age, around her Gaela felt still and old as an ancient spring.
Brona stood, smiling. “Don’t you look glorious and intimidating. Come out back with me.”
And with that, Brona vanished through the rear room of the cottage. Gaela followed more slowly, nudging aside bundles of hanging herbs as she passed through the longish, dim herbary toward the glint of daylight.
Halfway through, a familiar pain clenched in Gaela’s womb. Refusing to bend, refusing to whimper, Gaela bared her teeth to the empty room, hissing breath at the drying rainbow of flowers and herbs. Dust motes shimmered in the sunny air like tiny spirits.
Gaela snarled silently, impatient to walk again. She was not meant for this.
The first time she’d bled, years ago, it had begun with days of lethargy and fever, until finally, with the first hot drops on her thighs, she ran to her mother in a panic. Dalat had hugged her and smiled, chiding Gaela for not listening the many times she’d been warned this would come. But Gaela never thought those warnings applied to her; they were for girls like Regan who would one day become women. Gaela had been absolutely certain she would never cross that threshold.
Her body had betrayed her. And continued to do so, no matter how she fought, prayed, cursed, ran it ragged, or pretended.
The pain loosened its grip, slinking into the hot muscles, waiting.
When she emerged into the elaborate garden, there was Brona waiting with a sprig of some gentle green plant in her hand. “Here, child. Chew on this.”
Gaela took it, tearing off a bitter leaf. She studied Brona as the tip of her tongue numbed pleasingly. She wanted to argue over the wordchild;she was past twenty years old.
Brona nodded, though Gaela had said nothing, and touched Gaela’s cheek briefly in fond greeting. “You’ve not come here since your mother died,” Brona said.
