In truth, Regan perched carefully and uncomfortably upon her knees, a shallow bowl between her legs to collect what blood she could, in preparation for the wormwork she and the Fox would perform in less than a day. The occasional gentle drip could not be heard over the chatter of the assembled ladies, who sewed and embroidered and mended.
The ache in her belly was nothing compared to the pain of miscarriage, and the tightness in her legs as Regan held the wretched pose with a gracious smile was well worth the reward of discovering what ailed her womb, and the hope that it could be fixed.
And Regan enjoyed the presence of other women, who, though they did not know of the dead spirits that plagued her nor of her desperation and feral sorrow, would understand if they did.
When she had daughters of her own, Regan would build them a room like this, with women like this. Friends, maids, cousins, witches, allies, enemies, all of it, but only women. Regan had experienced such a thing when Dalat lived, when Elia was such a baby still, and when sometimes Brona Hartfare had spent weeks living in Dondubhan or the Summer Seat with Dalat, as her companion and advisor. Together they attracted other women like crows to sparkling glass beads. There Regan learned the seeds of magic, and learned, too, to read the holy bones. Brona never hesitated to whisper answers and new questions in Regan’s ear, and though Dalat did not believe in the stars as magic, or the earth saints even as tiny gods, neither did the queen say it could not be so. Dalat prayed to a god of her own, an expansive desert deity of love and vengeance, who apparently favored family and loyalty and heat. But Dalat had wished her daughters to be truly of Lear, and so to Regan, her mother would say, My God is all and has no name but God. God is more than stars and trees and worms, and is all those things, too. I pray, but with action and choice, and God knows it, no matter where I am, because God is in me, and in you, and everything.
Does God speak to you?
Not with words.
The island must be stronger, then, Mama, to have its own voice.
Dalat then smiled, cupped Regan’s chin, and said, That depends on what strength is, and would offer no more.
Maybe if her mother had lived, Regan would understand better what kind of strength Dalat had believed in.
The argument ongoing between Sella Ironwife and Metis Connley touched on strength, too: they disagreed over the behavior of one of the apprentices, who’d been lately seducing another. Sella found it unprofessional, while Metis was in favor of strengthening lines of iron magic, so if two apprentices formed a union, all the better. Regan agreed with Metis: they needed all the strong magic on the island they could find, to counter the cold stars.
The debate was halted by a sharp knock, and Regan granted permission for the doors to be opened. Into the brightly lit room came a dirty retainer wearing the dark blushing pink of Astore.
Going still against the desire to stand, Regan lifted her cool brow but rather suddenly realized it was a woman retainer. “Osli.”
The woman bowed like a man, and brandished a rolled letter, sealed at both ends with thick wax. “My lady Astore sends this letter to you.”
Regan extended her hand, glad as always for word from Gaela, and even more to remember that, despite choosing the life of a man, Gaela still put women around herself. “Go take your rest, and then join us, Osli. You are welcome.”
“I would rather stay in the barracks, my lady.”
“Gaela would join me.”
Osli hesitated, then bowed again, in definite agreement. “I will wash and rest, then, first.”
Regan turned her attention to the letter, snapping the small leaves of wax holding it rolled shut. Around her the women went quiet, though it was a quiet of patient politeness and continued work.
Our father leaves Astora, Gaela began with no salutation, as usual. I expect when Osli reaches you, he will be near behind, if not already through your door.
He is truly mad, and called me by our mother’s name, then in the next breath cursed her line. He has said unforgivable things to me before, but now he is lost in it. His retainers are wild, attacking each other, myself, my people, because he does not keep them under control. Ask Osli and she will tell you more, though I am sure you already know these true ways of men. I will follow this letter with another, but for now, my captain will be away to you with all haste.
Even as Regan skimmed her sister’s writing, she could hear through the open window a change in the rhythm of the wind and noise of the Keep. A distant shout of greeting flared hot and died in an echo. The warm breeze sighed against her neck.
“Leave me,” Regan said.
Though it was gentle, every woman obeyed her command instantly, none pausing to ask if they might help, or lend comfort.
She finished reading.
Do as you must, Regan, and I will see you soon.
Alone, Regan set down the letter, and gathered up her skirts to step carefully away from the bowl of blood. She went into her attached bedchamber and bound herself up with linen and moss before returning to collect the bowl. A slight pool of viscous blood was layered across the long, shallow bottom. She fervently hoped it would be enough, as she poured it into a round glass vial and stoppered it.
And then came another bright rapping on her door, bringing the urgent announcement that the king had come to Errigal Keep, and a request
