He stood in the line of hawthorns, fully armored in leather and mail, with a faded gambeson and a sword in his belt that babbled a stream of words Elia did not quite understand.
There’d been a fire beside his feet recently; a thin trickle of smoke rose still. Two fingers on his right hand were blackened by char. Elia smelled blood—a sharp complement to the salty wind.
“No magic,” she said, stepping nearer. “Only you and your sword against him.”
“I know,” Ban said. “I will not cheat. I will not pull out a dagger from my boot and cut him when he expects honor.”
Elia bit her bottom lip: Aefa had painted it red again, and Elia could taste the sharp flavor. She said nothing.
Suddenly, Ban whispered, “You’ll be a good queen.”
“Don’t die, Ban,” she replied. Her fingers flexed, but she did not go nearer.
He said a word too softly for her to hear, and a breeze wafted around his ankles, teasing at the thin smoke. Ban kept up his gentle whisper as the smoke turned in a circle, braiding strands of itself in and out and around, lifting away from the smoldering embers in a silver ring.
Elia listened to the wind, to the babbling sword at his hip, to the eager fire voices and the hawthorn roots, all interested, focused here: she said fire and snapped. Tiny flames caught in the air. Elia dotted seven of them around the edges of the rising ring.
It spun slowly between them: a crown of fire and silver smoke.
Wearing the beginning of a smile, Elia glanced at Ban. But the little flame jewels flashed, linking together and flaring bright. The crown turned entirely into fire, white-hot, and then nothing.
Elia gasped, its heat a strong memory left on her cheeks.
Ban the Fox watched her with his ghost green eyes, challenging and sad.
The crunch of footsteps and a low murmur announced the arrival of the others, and the two wizards turned away from each other.
Dawn was delicate purple light, and thin clouds streaked across the remaining stars.
Here was Kay Oak, leaning heavily against Alis Thornhill and wincing at everything, while Aefa and her father the old Fool softly teased a riddle between the two of them. The retainers spread out all around. There came Curan Ironworker and his wife from Errigal, with some other Errigal retainers, and finally Rory, looking more stoic than ever before. And folk from the Steps as well as retainers from Connley and Astora, from Port Comlack: soon near a hundred had gathered here, forming a circle several people deep.
Morimaros and La Far pushed through, with seven of the Aremore soldiers they’d brought to the island.
The king of Aremoria was glorious in his full mail shirt, with a polished steel pauldron cupped around his shield shoulder and plate armor collaring his neck beneath the lowered cowl of a mail hood. Plain leather buckled a sword in place, and a simple blue cape hung tossed over his sword arm. His gambeson and trousers were deep blue, the gauntlets tucked into a belt of stunning white. His hair was newly shorn, just a shadow against his skull, and his jaw was as bare as it had been since he arrived.
His expression was still, distant, like it had been at the Summer Seat all those weeks ago, when Elia had convinced herself he cared nothing for her at all. But now his blue eyes pinned her in place, and she thought of his hand on her back, his mouth, and how he’d smiled in Lionis when he’d told her the story of the Mars’s Cote balcony.
Innis Lear could destroy this man, as it destroyed all things.
Elia looked for her sisters. They were not to be seen, nor Brona Hartfare.
She frowned, but Morimaros said, “It is dawn. Are you prepared, Ban Errigal?”
“Where are my sisters?” Elia asked, seeking all around.
“Regan went to find Gaela two hours ago,” Ban said softly.
“Gaela was with Brona,” added Kayo.
Because this was Innis Lear, a star priest stepped out of the crowd. “A blessing for the dawn, Princess?”
She looked at Aefa, then at the duelists.
The two men stood opposite each other, facing across gravelly flat moor. La Far held a round buckler for Morimaros to use as a shield. Across from him a haggard Rory had moved to Ban’s side, speaking softly to his brother and offering him the same weapon.
The traditional dawn star blessing was an ululating prayer to the invisible daytime stars.
Oh hidden stars, the invocation went, unseen as luck is unseen, as the wills of the saints are unseen, as love and honor and hope are unseen, be with us though we cannot mark your place with our mortal eyes.
“No,” Elia said softly.
“My lady?” the priest asked. It was one she was familiar with, a younger priest grown up entirely under the reign of King Lear. His surprise widened his eyes, caused the white tattoos dotted like constellations down his cheeks to shift and twist.
“I will offer the blessing,” she called, then said, in the language of trees, Hail the roots of Innis Lear.
Her voice did not shake, but the earth below her feet did; it trembled beneath all of them, rattling stones, brushing grass together, shivering the pebbles and shaking tiny beetles and crickets up into the air. Wind kissed everyone: lips, eyes, cheeks, hands, whatever piece of skin waited open and free to the sky. “Hail the stars in the sky,” she called, repeating it in the tree tongue. “And hail our hearts in between.”
And hail our hearts in between.
“My heart is broken.”
Everyone turned toward Regan Lear as she appeared.
She walked through the crowd, her dress dragging behind, the hem tattered. It was her underdress, and a robe over it, not a gown. Hair fell loose in tangled brown waves, curling around her jaw. Regan blinked; a sheen of tears made those dark eyes as large as navel wells. Red lines were painted down her cheeks like bloody tears.
“Sister,” said Elia.
Brona Hartfare came behind, gaze steady on Regan’s back, as if the witch’s willpower alone held Regan upright.
“Begin this duel,” Regan commanded, raising a hand to point at Ban and then Morimaros. “Fight for the crown of this island, fight for betrayal and hearts and the roots and stars. Fight!” She screamed the last word, and it rang up and up into the air.
Something was wrong, and Elia could hardly breathe. “Where is Gaela?” she asked.
“She is beyond witnessing this now. Fight!” In the language of trees, Regan added, If you do not fight now, Fox, it will all be for nothing. Fight!
Ban Errigal drew his whispering sword. Morimaros did the same.
Heart pounding, Elia stared.
Regan came to one side of her, Brona Hartfare the other. Regan touched Elia’s shoulder, gripping it hard as an eagle’s talon. “This is how my heart broke, little sister. So too will yours now, one way or the other.”
“Why do you relish it so, Regan?” Elia whispered.
Her sister did not reply.
Brona touched Elia’s other hand, offering comfort. Elia took it, glancing at the witch. The washed morning light showed Brona’s age in fine wrinkles, in some strands of silver winding through her lush curls; they reminded Elia of the Elder Queen Calepia who wore her white age like an elegant crown. One of those mothers would lose a son.
Elia clutched Brona’s hand. “I am so sorry.”
“For my son?” Brona asked lightly. “I have always known his blood would spill here, to water this island.”
“Where he belongs,” Elia whispered.
Brona put her free hand over her own heart, as if to say, Here is where my son belongs.
To Elia’s amazement, her sister, too, put a hand to her heart, and tears slipped down her cheeks.
Then Morimaros lifted a white-gloved hand. “Esperance!” he roared, and attacked.
THE FOX
THE ABRUPT ATTACK made Ban throw up his buckler to desperately catch the charge: it rattled through his bones, the jar of Morimaros’s greater mass and strength. Ban leapt back, turned, and sliced with his hissing, giggling blade.