“I must go to him. Discover the cause.”
“No, Rory, wait. He is in a killing manner. You should leave for a few days.”
“Leave! I just arrived!”
Ban took a long, calming breath. “Let me be your ambassador. Go to Brona’s house where you know you can be safe. I will send to you what I discover, and when you should return.”
Rory bit his bottom lip, as he’d done in uncertain times as a boy. It struck a blow to Ban’s conscience, but not so deep that he altered his words.
“Trust me, Rory,” he said. “Go.”
“Some villain has done me wrong,” Rory said softly.
For a moment, Ban thought he’d misjudged his brother and that Rory saw through the pretense and accused him. But no, Rory just took Ban by the shoulders and dragged him into a crushing embrace. Slowly, Ban brought his arms up. “Go armed,” he murmured, and Rory jerked.
“Armed?”
“You cannot be too careful—these are strange times. Fathers against children…”
“Like the king,” Rory whispered in a hollow, suddenly fearful tone. “He spoke of the eclipses as portents, and our father, too, was on edge over the whole business. Banishment and disloyal daughters, and some eclipses. He must be hunting danger—oh, worms of earth.”
“Yes,” Ban said through gritted teeth. Their ears pressed together.
“I go, but with your love, brother,” Rory said. “And you remain with mine.”
Ban hugged his brother, learning something himself. This was the lesson: while Ban had used his father’s greatest weaknesses against him—mistrust, bullish ambition, and obsession with star-signs—against Rory, Ban had used only virtue.
ELIA
THE BALCONY OFFMorimaros’s study was a round half-circle protected by a short marble rail carved like a trellis of fat-blooming roses. The stone blossoms trailed down the side of the tower toward the central courtyard, where Elia supposed sometimes the people of Lionis would gather to hear their king. She touched both hands to the rail and leaned out with her face raised, imagining all of Aremoria below her, a crown wound through her elaborate braids, and voluptuous layers of an orange-and-white royal wedding gown spilling over her body. Or perhaps she would wear the dark blue and white of the house of Lear. But then, she could hear Aefa insisting, Elia had always looked most beautiful in the colors of fire.
Like the sunset spread across the great spill of city hills before her.
It was a breathtaking sight, unlike any beheld on her island. Elia had believed she’d understood summer and the end of summer, before. Innis Lear held the season rather in reserve, parting warm mists and rain for moments of crystalline sunlight, and cool, lovely afternoons of wildflowers and breezes. It was a flash of a smile, appreciated more because of its fleeting nature.
But Aremoria did not let that smile pass or fade without worship. The countryside grabbed at the shortening days, made itself rabid with color. Elia was used to rusty autumn oaks and crisp browning leaves, not this wilderness of vivid green and gashed, bloody purple, nor the narrow strips of yellow as bright as topaz. The white city reflected the sky, and the rolling hills were emerald and golden fields as far as she could see beyond the city walls. Aremoria was violent with life, while Lear froze and ached at the precipice of death. She did not like to think—would not think—that lately the island seemed to court decay harder and longer, barely relinquishing winter in time for any spring.
How Elia missed her island, even so; how she longed for the desperate,dangerous beauty of churning seas, and the naked enduring mountains, and the hungry shadows of the White Forest. She tried, for a moment, to compose herself, to close off the ache for home.
“Elia,” Morimaros said from just inside his study. “I’m sorry for being late.”
Before she could turn, the king of Aremoria came behind her and put his hand delicately against her back. The touch held her open, somehow; sharpened her yearning.
“Lady, are you so unhappy here?” he asked. “I see only sadness when you look out at my city.”
She did not answer, breathing deep for calm and concentrating on the warmth of his hand. His thumb skimmed her skin, at her spine just over the collar of her dress. She had no wish, still, to marry, but how easy it would be to take what he offered, to turn herself over to this strong king, to let herself be subsumed under his power. The way she’d been subsumed under her father. Was this why Regan chose Connley, because he was so vibrant he could fill all the cracks in her spirit?
Elia turned and looked into his eyes. His expression left no room for whimsy or prettiness, and she wondered how a vibrant place such as this could have carved him into the serious, thoughtful man he was. But pride showed in his features, and a thin tension she was about to wind tighter. His orange leather coat hung open and casual, the tunic below untied at his neck. He wore no sword belt. The sunset lit his gaze and put fire along his bearded jaw.
“You are beautiful,” he said abruptly.
It caught her off guard, for she’d not known Morimaros to fill his own silences as if nervous. The thought that he was nervous alone with her, here on this balcony in the heart of his country and castle, was humbling as well as a thrill. Could she affect him as he did her? Could her voice set his heart pounding? She’d allowed Aefa to pamper her between the interrupted council meeting and this dinner: she bathed for too long and rubbed oil into her skin as well as her hair, until she felt soft and careful and made of the finest materials. Together they’d found a dress of sunny yellow and an overdress of meadow violet to compliment her best ribbons and lace wound into her freshly braided hair. It was sturdy and intricate enough to last a long while, especially if she wrapped it in a scarf to sleep.
Elia tried to bridle her racing thoughts, staring still breathlessly at Morimaros. “Thank you,” she managed.
He politely touched his hand to her elbow, guiding her around to thesmall table set for two, where he pulled the cushioned stool for her. She sat with her spine too rigid for comfort as the king leaned beside her to pour a clear yellow wine into her glass. He poured for himself, as well, before sitting across from her. At that silent signal, a duo of footmen emerged from the study with plates covered in cheeses, smears of jam and honey, and thin slices of smoked and salted fish.
Sparrows fluttered overhead, and Morimaros explained that he would come here as a boy to read his father’s treatises and lessons, and had begun feeding the birds. His sister named this balcony Mars’s Cote because of it. Elia watched how his mouth relaxed in the telling, as he spoke of his family with such obvious affection. This king was charming, but she felt a sadness reminiscent of envy. She wished she could relax into sharing a meal with him, to think merely of enjoying his company as if she too belonged here, another sparrow come home to roost and be comforted. But Elia could not forsake Innis Lear.
