“Well! I need a shower.” Rory clapped his hand too hard on Ban’s back. “And to see Father and tell him my news.”
“News?” Ban repeated.
“Gossip more like, and letters from Astore.”
“I’ll go right after you, when I see to my bloom.”
Rory smiled, nodded to Curan, and headed for his patient horse.
With unaccustomed fondness, Ban watched Rory lead the mare down the unobtrusive rocky path to the Keep’s rear wall.
A wind blew suddenly out of the north, bringing a voice from the White Forest:Ban,it called.Ban Fox, Ban Errigal, Ban, Ban, Ban!
He looked, along with Curan and every one of the apprentice iron wizards.
Son!
His mother called him to her. Ban grimaced, avoiding Curan’s curious eye. He was not ready to go to Hartfare, not yet, not before he set his games in solid motion. Brona would tease the truths out of him, attempt to convince him to stop. That, Ban would not do.
Shrugging off his thoughts, Ban turned to care for the iron.
***
BAN TOOK THEworn, black stone steps up to his chambers two at a time, eager to bathe and find his brother again. The Keep bustled with sudden preparations for a feast in Rory’s honor, to welcome him home.
There’d been no such feast for the older Errigal son’s return.
Ban shook away the hurt as best he was able, careful not to rub at his face or run fingers through his hair: dried mud flaked off as he moved, despite his having put his shirt back on over the streaks and cakes. The pain did not matter: this was a game, not a destiny.
The door to his chamber hung slightly open, and Ban went silent. He put one hand on the hilt of the long dagger strapped to his belt, carefully pushing the door open just enough so he could slip inside.
Rory stood, his back to the door, flipping through one of Ban’s thin books. The earlson’s wide shoulders were dotted with tiny drops of water, fallen from his washed and combed hair. He’d dressed himself in a clean tunic of pale blue, edged with leather and fine black silk from the Rusrike. His boots were polished deep brown, and he wore copper at both wrists and rings on his thumbs. A sapphire shone on the hand turning the thick vellum of the book cradled in his other hand.
Glancing around, Ban saw nothing else strange: his low bed was exactly as neat as he’d left it, pillow-free and plain; a trio of shields leaned like giant dragon scales below the open window; his desk was covered with books he’d hardly unpacked, though they’d arrived from Aremoria two days previous; the hearth was cold, for he’d not built a fire in it since coming home twoweeks ago. Instead the space held boughs of juniper and a cluster of dried roses, two honeycomb candles, and a slice of oak polished to a shine he used for rubbing spells. Three of the five tiny ceramic bowls for offerings were empty, but one held salt and one a smear of white-burned ashes.
In the corner by his bed, an arched door led to a privy shared between his and Rory’s rooms; it was held open by a footstool, and beside it sat a wide wooden tub full of steaming water.
“Brother?” Ban said quietly.
Rory startled, fumbling the book he inspected, but he caught it and spun. “Saints! Ban, you’re quiet as a ghost.”
Before Ban could answer, Rory laughed at himself. “Of course you are, Fox of Aremoria. The stories got even better after I left.” He slapped shut the thin volume: a book of Aremore poetry, Ban saw, carefully copied out by Morimaros to use as a code key. Rory dropped it back onto the desk with the rest. “I had your bath filled for you, as soon as I was done with my own.”
“Thank you,” Ban said, unbuckling his belt to set it and the dagger onto the bed. “Have you seen Father?”
“Yes, and we’re feasting tonight.”
“Yet you’re in my room, not out flirting with the entire Keep.”
Rory smiled with more than a little wry acknowledgement. “I haven’t seen you in longer, so here I’d rather be.”
Ban paused as he crouched to remove his boots, gazing in surprise at Rory. “Just over a year.” He’d not thought his brother would miss him so, based on their farewell in Aremoria, and the lack of letters between them.
“So long!” Rory threw his head back and heaved a sigh.
With a small laugh, Ban finished undressing. He dropped his dirty clothes onto the floor and tested the water: perfectly hot. He climbed in, kneeling so the water hit his chest. It was a luxury to bathe in his room; usually he used the colder baths in the Keep barracks. Ban closed his eyes, relishing the tingle of heat. He cupped water up to his face, splashed it through his hair. Dirt changed to mud again, and he stripped it off his scalp, rubbing down his face and neck.
“You have more scars than I do,” Rory said softly, sinking down onto the bed. The ropes beneath the thick mattress creaked.
