But Errigal only tore at his beard and cried, “What could brotherhood be to him, when fatherhood is so clearly insignificant?”
And Ban was forced to be silent, or spitefully call out his father’s hypocrisy.
The duke of Connley had distracted Errigal with an argument on economics then, and putting men north, as close to Dondubhan as they could without directly challenging Astore. Regan added an elegant opinion here and there, reminding them it was Gaela they should avoid challenging. Ban had wished to leave, but the lady’s eyes settled upon him, despite her attention to the arguing. He’d struggled to keep the truth of his anger off his face, to be only her wizard, showing no emotion more than mere irritation at his father’s drunkenness. In the end, he lowered his gaze, afraid she would perceive too much.
Now, Ban thought again of her lovely, cool eyes, her grace, and what a dangerous presence she carried, what determination and poise.
It was disloyalty to Mars to even consider the idea, but Regan Connley, Ban thought, would make an excellent queen. Better than Gaela, who was a suit of armor, a blunt, deadly weapon, and better than Elia, who was not a weapon at all.
Though if anyone could manage to sharpen her into one, it was Morimaros of Aremoria.
In the forest, bluebirds fluttered in Ban’s path, following him, and flickers of pale light caught his gaze as the moths returned, marking the forward path. Ban gave the horse’s withers a friendly thump and pulled her back, angling her in the direction of his mother’s village.
Hartfare was supposed to be difficult to find, except to those who understood the forest or could hear the language of trees. It was no den of outlaws, but a haven for people who did not fit in the towns and cities or keeps and castles of Innis Lear. Some were like Ban’s mother, foreign in blood or clinging to the old earth ways; some had lost their homes and families; some had been otherwise unwanted; some made outlaws by political slant rather than malicious intent; some merely preferred the gentle heart of the forest and did not mind living close to the wilds and saints and spirits of the dead.
Ban had lived there the first ten years of his life, unaware of the reputation he’d been born into according to the greater world of men and kings. Hartfare was an adventure for any young boy, but unlike many there, Ban knew his father. Errigal had been a bright, blustery, frequent presence, rushing into Ban’s life like a spring flood, then out again on a galloping steed. He’d been a handsome warrior, a laughing, loud nobleman who made Ban’s mother laugh in turn, louder than any other. And like most children, Ban had assumed nothing would change, that always he’d be helping his mother in the garden, running with the other children after small game, or mushrooms and wild onions, up all night to listen to the creaking voice of the forest. That he and Brona would be a permanent duo, Ban growing into a natural extension of the witch of the White Forest, the shadow-lady of Innis Lear. He would always be her son, a witch he hoped himself, and Ban would then dream of his own shadow-names and power. It was Brona who drew attention and trade to Hartfare: Errigal and Errigal’s like, bold visitors from every corner of the island, or more often sneaking men and desperate women who needed, begged, and paid for Brona’s magic.
Then Queen Dalat had died, and soon after Errigal took Ban away from Hartfare, to live with the king’s court under an open, starry sky. Brona had not argued. She’d cared more for the fate of Hartfare than his own. Though she’d loved her son, she’d not chosen him.
It had seemed, at least for a time, that Ban had been chosen instead by his brother, and by Elia. But they too had not cared to keep him close, had not fought against his banishment to Aremoria.
What would Brona see in Ban now? As a grown man, after so long apart? He still felt too much like a misbehaving boy dragging his feet. Was there any chance she would approve of him using his Learish magic in Aremoria? Would she be furious he’d waited weeks to come to her hearth? What might she be like now, with the island’s roots so withdrawn and unhappy? Could he even trust his memories of her, as they were the memories of a child?
Ban put his shoulders back and pushed his cloak off his left shoulderto clearly reveal the sword strapped to his hip. It did not do to hide his weapon; only thieves and criminals—and spies—did not display what strength they held. His mother hadn’t seen him in years, nor he her, but he could not bring himself to pretend. There was no point in slicking back his choppy hair or trimming it into harmony. No point but to relish the scars on his face and hands, the hard lines war and wariness had cut into his features at too young an age. Brona would see through any lies regardless, unless she’d lost that sharp acumen for judging men. He hoped not—it was why Ban had sent Rory to her in the first place. She would keep him safe no matter what news she had from Errigal Keep, because she’d see the blunt honesty and goodness in Rory himself. The glorious sun to Ban’s wan moon, brothers separated as much by their birth as by their spirits.
Ban Ban Ban,said the trees.You’re home!
They fluttered leaves, reached for him; they chided him for staying away and they sighed piteously because no one spoke to them anymore outside the forest itself.The navels are gone!they cried.Our roots are thirsty, but only the witch feeds us. Only the witch loves us.
Lady Regan loves you,he said.
The White Forest replied,Regan, poor Regan, she needs us but she does not love us.
Both,he said, frowning.She needs youandloves you.
The trees hissed and sighed. One whispered,Elia,and another,Saints of earth,but before Ban could find it, find that tree who said her name, the echo had vanished and all the forest sang together joyfully.
The Hartfare path appeared as if in a dream, at the edge of a narrow clearing and marked with several tatters of blue wool, as if strips of some dark sky had become caught in the reaching branches. Hardly more than a hunter’s lane, but enough for the horse to recognize. The way to Hartfare, once found, lasted only a mile or so before spilling both horse and soldier into the village.
Ban slid off the horse and stood, amazed at how it had grown.
There were perhaps forty cottages, ten more than when he’d last been here. Some little huts for livestock, rows of gardens, and the public house, and his mother’s herbary. It smelled and sounded as he remembered—splatter of mud, clang of metal, and his father’s laughter and his mother’s quiet singing; Brona smearing blood off his palm from a shallow gouge and saying a charm, something Ban could not quite remember, but it made him feel glad. The memories were as distant as dreams, but surely they were real because dreams would not smell like crushed flowers and shit.
His horse stomped her foot and shook her head so the tack rang againsther neck. Ban patted her, murmured soothing nothings, and unlooped the reins. He brushed floating moon moths out of his way as he hobbled the horse, and while some eyes on his back prickled his awareness, he lifted off the saddle and blanket to rub her down quickly and let her loose to graze.
Turning, Ban spied two young women peering at him from the nearest cottage window, and an older man kneeling in a patch of long peas, studying him, too.
The road through the village was thick with mud, and a pack of hounds ran out, barking and braying, with a boy calling frantically behind. Ban put his hand on his sword and stomped at them, splattering mud. He did his best to smile at the boy, and let the nearest hounds sniff and lap at his gloved fingers, shove their long noses in his crotch, nearly knock him over. They smelled filthy and wet and terrible. But he liked rough, loud dogs.
The moths did not, and wafted high into the air.
The boy stared at Ban, or rather at Ban’s sword, eyes brown like walnut shells and skin swarthy, marking him one of the clan from far south in Ispania, and so related distantly to Ban and his mother. Ban wondered if the boy was a bastard, too, and if his only hope was to join service as a retainer. He said, “After I speak with Brona, I’ll show you to use the sword if you like,” and the boy grinned gap-toothed and nearly tumbled over one of the dogs.
There were peopleeverywhere.Ban strode faster, before there were more interruptions, before he lost his nerve.
The herbary where his mother lived and worked was built of wood and mud bricks, with fresh thatch from which some small tufts of pink flowers grew, despite the late season. The door was closed, but the square, squat windows were open, and Ban heard his mother’s voice singing in the side garden.
It shook him to his boots, for she sounded so much the same he nearly forgot his own age.
