“I see many possible consequences to your father’s choices, your sisters’choices,” Morimaros said softly. She smelled the sweet, clear wine on his breath. It made her want to lick her lips; his nearness pressed her anger in too many directions. The king continued, “Your choices are more mysterious to me.”
“Everything I do is so simple,” she whispered. “I only want to live and practice compassion, and follow the path of the stars and earth saints. I cannot be responsible for the lives and deaths and rages and regrets of others.”
“I want…” Morimaros leaned away from her. He shook his head and turned to gaze at the shadows that overtook his city, turning it violet and blue and gray with deep twilight.
She waited, but he did not continue. As if the king of Aremoria did not know what he wanted, or could not quite bring himself to say the word aloud. “Tell me what you want.”
He leaned on his hands, gripping the stone rail of the balcony. His head dropped, urging her to touch his arm. She did, then slid her hand down the orange coat to place her fingers delicately atop his. Turning his hand up to put them palm to palm, Morimaros said, “I want… to only care about what I want, Elia Lear.”
The words were both heartbreaking and offensive, and yet when her name was in his mouth, it sounded like a queen’s name.
She withdrew her hand and left him below the new-pricked stars, understanding something more about rulership, and rather less about love.
Sister,
I would rather we be together than entrust these words to you by messenger, a fallible man who may read or lose or take too long. But always has it been so, and so always have I put ink to paper and written regardless.
There is a bird haunting my dreams, sister. A great predator clutching the windowsill beside my bed, or standing at the center of my northern altar, talons scoring the granite so that it bleeds. The bird stares at me, stares inside me, and I ask it what it sees, but its hissing words are in no language I understand. I think it is an earth saint, perhaps, in the guise of a tawny ghost owl. I shall ask the forest when I pass through, for we are soon to Errigal Keep.
Connley Castle and the surrounding lands are secure. My husband sent runners to every village and town, to the star towers along the coast, and to his retainers near Brideton especially, darling sister. Be sure to tell your husband. You will not catch us unaware.
If only they would settle between themselves by the trust in our hearts.
Do you—
Gaela, I do not know if I can bear a child.
I cannot send this. Regan you cannot send this. I
***
Sister—
We go to Errigal Keep soon, so send your next communication to me there.
Connley Castle is secure, and all our land. My husband sent runners to all our villages and towns, to the star towers along the coast, and especially to his retainers near Brideton. We will not be caught unawares by Astore, dear sister. But you must expect as much.
It is likely we will remain at Errigal until it is time to travel northfor Midwinter, when you and I will meet again and finally become queens together. Keep our father if you like, or send him here, where it may do the Earl Errigal good to be forced to reckon with Lear’s deterioration. Bracoch may join us, and I understand from Connley that Astore is heartily courting Glennadoer.
I have opened the navel wells throughout Connley lands, and I suggest you do the same in Astore, no matter your apathy. It is the best way to Glennadoer’s heart, for that family has always bled like wizards.
There is an owl haunting my dreams—a great, tawny ghost owl that must be a messenger or an earth saint. Connley’s cousin Metis told me of a stag that lay down along the Innis Road the same afternoon as the Zenith Court, its branches of antlers pointed toward the center of the island. Write to me if you hear of other such things, that the island is waiting for us.
I have written to Elia. I hope you are correct that she will find it in her to stand as we bade her stand, and not give in to the will of a different king.
Yours above all, sister-queen,
Regan
REGAN
REGAN,LADYCONNLEY,almost-queen of Innis Lear, stood naked but for a thin white shift hanging off her shoulders and down just past her knees. It brushed her hips, her small belly, the tips of her breasts, dappled by early morning shadows that cut like lace through the canopy of the White Forest. She wore no paint nor jewels, no slippers, and her brown hair fell free in soft waves. Her eyes fluttered under closed lids, her mouth relaxed in a low, gentle prayer in the language of trees.
She greeted the forest, saying her name and her mother’s name, and the names of her father’s mother and grandmothers, then a litany of favored earth saints. On long, bare feet, Regan walked over mossy rocks to the edge of a creek. Crouching, she touched the water, listening to the reply of the trees.
Welcome, beautiful witch. We know you.
This was the realm of Brona Hartfare, but Regan had come to use the power of the White Forest without the help of Brona; the woman had tried before, to no avail. The babe Regan had lost last month was the culmination of the elder witch’s best efforts. Everything going forward was up to Regan herself. And produce a child she must: the future of Innis Lear depended on it, as well as her relationship with Connley. He loved her, but if she did not bear the next ruler, he would focus all his determination on taking the whole island from Astore. And he would not care if Gaela was lost in the process.
