“Wait!” Ban surged out of the tub.
Rory stopped, glancing over his shoulder with his bottom lip between his teeth.
“Rory, I… just wait. Let me…” Ban glanced around for a clean shirt, or a robe or cloth.
With a little helpless sound, Rory returned. “You don’t have to do it.”
Ban stepped out of the tub and grabbed a shirt from his trunk. He patted himself dry before pulling it over his head to hang down over his thighs. “Do what?”
“Earn a place here. Youhaveone.” Rory said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ll always belong here, with me,” Rory continued. “My brother, captain of my soldiers, uncle to my sons, a husband to some fat, gorgeous wife, whatever you want. And if anyone says a slant word about it, I’ll make them regret it.”
The words played dully on Ban’s heart. They were meant well. Rory wanted to reassure him, to display his affection. But the very fact that Rory felt he needed to say it, needed to show him, only proved that Rory, finally, could see the bastard brother’s lesser position.
Ban smiled, but it was tight. A fox’s smile, narrow and sharp, with hidden teeth. “I know, brother. This is where I belong.”
“Good.Good.” Rory clasped Ban’s shoulders, shook him once, and let go. “I’ll see you in the hall for the feast. Drink hearty, for I plan to compete with you story for story, and I won’t let you get away with burying me under the Fox’s exploits.”
“You have a bargain,” Ban said softly.
His brother departed, and Ban slowly dressed, a realization blossoming with every movement.
Rory was the widest chink in Errigal’s armor.
Though sickened to think it, Ban could immediately see the spiral of an elegant, simple plan.
Limbs heavy, a frown pulling at his mouth, Ban skimmed his fingers through his ragged black hair and prepared to sacrifice his brother.
Sister,
I well hope your first week in Gallia has helped you calm yourself. Our father certainly is not happy with the outcome of his mad policies, which should make you feel relief or comfort, but I greatly suspect will only worry you more. Ever were you loyal and blind to his flaws, both as a father and king. Never mind, for he is neither to you now.
I will not horrify you with further talk of his death, but despite his new wildness that takes no rest, his seeming loss of composure, he will not change his mind about the crown or you. Both Regan and I are his heirs; we will work it out between ourselves. Mulish inflexibility is the name of his birth star, and where you used to out of kindness call it tenacity, I will name it truly now: the old man indulges in simple childish tantrums. Already my own retainers resent his contradictory orders and the slovenliness of his men. Would that you were here, for you alone might calm him and talk him out of his furies. My captain found him burning his eyes staring for hours at the sun in the sky yesterday afternoon. But you cannot return. As I said, we will read it as hostile intent, little sister. The crown is mine, but once I am confirmed, you will be welcome. So long, that is, as you do not marry Aremoria.
Keep yourself to yourself, and be strong. Give him no reason to bring his army here, or think he can take Innis Lear. When you return, we will find you a husband worthy of you: one of the Errigal sons, perhaps, for by then Regan will come around to it. One loves our father, and so you must get on well; the other is a fine warrior, and you thought you loved him once already. So.
This letter goes with the Oak Earl, and comes with a promise of his speed and safety, the one of which I can expect, and the other of which I can personally assure. It will not be long before we meet again, little sister.
Gaela of Lear
***
Elia,
Though our martial sister likely would not share my assessment, things are well for now in Innis Lear. This time of transition will not be so dire as some would predict. Though the harvest has gone poorly the past two years, I hear signs from the wind that we will do better this year, that the island rallies itself under my and Gaela’s joint rule. The first day after the Longest Night, the navel wells will be opened again.
It has never been a strength of yours to see what is not obvious, to be aware of the edges of words, the double and triple layers in all purposes, but you must turn your attention to developing such skills. I should have taken you greater in hand after our mother died. Taken you farther from his influence. In our grief and unforgiving natures, we allowed you to be coddled, as perhaps is right for a young girl, but no longer for a woman or sister to queens. Now you must look past what you are told, what you are given, and you must rely on your own mind, your own heart. Suspect Aremoria, but give him enough that he maintains hope of alliance through you. If you love him, do as you will, but accept the consequences. That is what I have done. The consequences may be severe, little sister. Marriage to Aremoria would allow him an avenue through which to take the island, unless you stand against it. And remember, if you are his, so will your children be, and belong to the roots of his kingdom.
Probably you are amazed at these words, and narrow those eyes at my lettering to see if this is truly your sister Regan’s hand. Worry not: I harbor my doubts that you will be able to do these things. This is no confession of hidden affection or respect. I love you as I always have: reluctantly, and knowing we might someday be rivals for this crown. Gaela assumes that in your core you are made of the same mettle as we, but I assume nothing, and it has served me very well.
Guard yourself, and guard us. Guard Innis Lear. If your own eyes, Morimaros of Aremoria, trace these words of mine, take them as the threat they are.
In sisterhood,
Regan of Connley and Innis Lear
***
To the Princess of Lear and Maybe Queen of Aremoria,
