“You could father abastard,” Ban hissed.
“If he’s like my brother, Ban, it would be quite the thing! I welcome it.”
The bastard scowled, but his brother threw an arm about him, still laughing, and quite obviously meaning every word. “Never fear, Ban, no power in the heavens or the roots could get my lover with child by me.”
Ban began to sneer a reply, but caught the angle of his brother’s smile. “Is that a man in there?” he asked, hushed.
“Erus Or,” Rory confided. “He isstrong.”
“You have to stop, you have to be careful.” Ban gripped his brother’s arms. “Didn’t you hear of the man Connley executed for the same?”
Rory shrugged him off. “I’ll be fine. This is Aremoria, not home. Besides, Connley killed that man because he was married to Connley’s cousin and betrayed her, not because he betrayed her with another man.”
Unsettled, Ban went to the window and gripped the cold stone sill. Even if he desired to, he could never take such risks in his position, despite Morimaros’s favor, despite his success in war. All Ban had was the thin iron rod of his reputation.
And there was his golden brother Rory, laughing with the carefree certainty of his own invincibility.
This plan of Ban’s now, three years later, would do all it needed to do: ruin Errigal and tear into the island’s foundations, work toward Morimaros’s goals and prove to Elia she’d done no wrong. But most of all, it would hurt Rory, stripping away his easy confidence. Ban was a wizard revealing the truth of the world to show Rory that people are terrible sometimes and unfair, that one does not always deserve what one receives, and that there are consequences to living carelessly.
That, Ban was willing teach his brother.
The snap of leather warned Ban that his father approached, clumping up the stairs as if already upset. That would work in Ban’s favor. He crumpled the letter in his hand and put both fists over his head, elbows jutting at the window casement.
“Ban!” Errigal snapped. “What is this?”
Ban straightened, his eyes down anxiously, and hurried to tuck the false letter away, in a pocket close to his heart.
The earl was alone, dressed in casual linen and wool, a sword belt strapping his tunic down, sheathing a plain soldier’s blade. Errigal put his fist against the pommel and glowered. “Why did you put that up so quickly, son?”
“It’s nothing,” Ban said, giving a tight shake of his head. His lip throbbed where he’d cut it wrestling Rory.
“Oh ho? Then why seek to hide it from me?” Errigal came forward, large hand outstretched. “If it is nothing, then nothing shall I see.”
Ban grimaced to hide the thrill of battle rising again in his veins. “It is only a note from my brother, and I’ve not finished reading it. What I’ve read so far makes me think it’s not fit for you to see.”
“Give it to me, boy, or I’ll take great offense.” Errigal thrust his hand out again.
“I think it would give offense either way.”
“Let me have it.”
With seeming reluctance, Ban withdrew the letter. Eyes cast down, he added, “I hope—I truly believe, Father—that Rory wrote this only to test my virtue. He hasn’t known me since he left our cousins, with me still in Aremoria last year, and only hears what men in the king’s retinue say about me: that I am a bastard and therefore not trustworthy.”
Errigal made a growling noise of frustration and snatched the letter. He so violently unfolded it that the edge pulled and tore. Ban crossed his arms over his chest and knocked back against the wall, easily pretending anxiety. This was the moment this would tell him if Errigal was as terrible and easy to turn as Lear.
As his father’s mouth moved along with the words he read and his large eyes narrowed, as his lips paled under his beard, Ban suddenly realized there was a sick thread of disappointment wound through his spine. Some part of him had hoped Errigal was better. That the earl could not believe so easily his own son would betray him. It was that same cursed piece of Ban that had yet to stop yearning for approval from his father. Ban clenched his teeth.
“This reverence for age keeps the best of us out of power,” Errigal read in a broad, disbelieving voice. “We don’t receive our fortunes until we are too old to enjoy them. Because we wait for our fathers to—” The earl’s hand twitched. “We must speak of this together, for you would have half of his revenue forever, and live beloved of your brother.”
Silence fell, but for the cool wind bringing the far-distant clangs of smithies and a howl out of the great forest. Errigal slammed the side of his fist to the wooden wall. “Conspiracy,” he whispered, staring past Ban out the window. “Is this—Can this be my son Rory? Has he the heart to write this… I would not think so.”
Ban put his mouth into a careful frown, though he wanted to hit Errigal, to knock him down and step on his throat, to show him exactly how much this hurt.
Errigal glanced sharp and hot at Ban. “When did you get this? Who brought it?”
“I found it in my room.” Still he did not latch his gaze onto his father’s, knowing his fury would shine through.
“Is it his hand? Your brother’s hand?”
