“Yes! And Ban will help you—he must.” Rory stepped between the women, throwing his arms about both their shoulders. Elia slipped hers around his waist, but Aefa grunted and glared at him. He grinned back, holding her gaze until her eyes narrowed wickedly.
“Not in your dreams,” Aefa teased, bumping her hip to his.
The earlson’s smile faded. “The king spoke of his dreams sometimes, this last year.”
Elia squeezed his waist. “My father?”
“He would get lost in speech, and begin talking as if he’d been having an entirely different conversation with entirely different people. Your father, Aefa, was very good at covering it, but we, his retainers, always knew. I’m sorry we didn’t … do anything.”
“What could you have done?” Elia asked.
“Told someone? But Gaela knew, and so did Regan. They always had men in with your father’s men. Watching for opportunities against him.” Rory sighed angrily. “I should have made myself a spy for you.”
She touched her cheek briefly to his shoulder. The wool jacket was warm from the sun. “I was only a star priest, what need had I to know?”
“You’re his daughter. I would … I would have liked to know if my father was…”
“Dying,” Elia finished for him, very quietly. And with him, Innis Lear. She’d known nothing of either. Or … she’d not wanted to know, thinking herself content in her selfish isolation.
The trio walked on, and the guards led them to steps that cut sharply up toward the next street. It was empty, but for doors sunk below the cobbles and painted blue. A trickle of water in the runnel smelled clean. Overhead, great clouds of green ivy clung to the roofs. When they emerged, it was into a wide courtyard tiled with the same limestone, and there was the high first wall of the palace. It seemed to be a rarely used entrance, stationed with only one stoic guardsman.
They passed into a side yard of the palace, arranged between a series of smaller walls with iron gates that could be dropped to trap invaders at several points. It had been planted with boxes of crops the kitchen staff could manage, and did not need full sunlight. The impression was of long, narrow lanes of gilded green, for nothing blossomed now, and all but some squash had been harvested. Atop each wall guards paced, though few and far between, for any true invasion would be seen days and days before the palace itself was in danger. It was the impression of strength that mattered here, and Morimaros could afford it.
With the wealth of Aremore, he could raise enough of an army and navy to bowl through Innis Lear without anyone in Lionis noticing the absence of men.
“You should go straight to the Summer Seat,” Aefa said suddenly. “Claim it. Declare yourself.”
Elia turned to disagree, but as they walked under the final gate and reached the inner south courtyard then, a young man in livery dashed toward them. The royal guard, and Rory, too, tensed.
“Highness, Lady Elia.” The young man dropped onto one knee. “The king would like to see you, immediately.”
Startled, Elia nodded, and glanced farewell to Aefa and Rory.
She was led into the palace, quickly enough to spark anxiety. Something must have happened to require such a summons.
To Elia’s continued surprise, the young man brought her to the king’s private chambers. The door was open between two royal guards. And La Far, waiting outside. He nodded to her, glancing in through the door. She followed his gaze to see stark limestone walls and thick rugs lit by the lowering evening sun, and Morimaros at an elegant black-oak sideboard, his back to Elia. The king’s signature orange coat was missing; he stood in a long, crisp white linen shirt, belted at the waist, over his usual trousers and boots. No royal adornment but that ever-present ring, the Blood and the Sea. Pouring a small crystal glass of port, he moved to the window and sat at its cushioned edge, sipped, then stood, and sat again. He gripped the glass so hard the tips of his fingers whitened.
Suddenly terrified, Elia ducked around La Far to step inside. “Your Majesty.”
Morimaros dropped the drink.
It hit the hardwood floor, in the narrow trench between the floral rug and the limestone wall. The crystal chipped the polished wood, and red port splattered the stone.
La Far shut the door behind her, closing out prying eyes.
Elia came directly across the rug to the king, blinking at the glare from the sun out the window behind him.
“Careful,” he cautioned, holding his arm down to show her the slick spill of port.
She took his hand to little resistance. The edges of the cut crystal had impressed thin pink all along the insides of his fingers and palm. “Tell me—what has happened?”
He nodded, and holding her hand led her to the sideboard.
“No, thank you,” Elia said to the row of decanted wine and liquors. “But I will sit.”
There was a tall hearth, set below the shield arms of his father’s bloodline and a pair of crossed broadswords. Two cushioned chairs nestled beside the hearth, across from a small sofa of embroidered silk from far abroad. This front room was very formal. Everything about Morimaros was outrageously dignified.
They sat on the sofa. Their knees might’ve brushed together if either allowed it.
Morimaros lifted Elia’s hand and kissed it gently. The warmth knocked a dull, heavy stroke against her heart. Whatever was about to happen, she suspected they would never be able to surmount it. He shifted on the sofa, and their knees did touch then. “I want you to know how I admire you, Elia Lear. I wish I could go with you, when you return home.”
“How did—”
“I thought you might ask the Alsax eventually.” The king looked at her evenly. “And my guards do report when you leave the palace.”
“I must go home.” Elia squeezed his hand, taking careful note of the hardness at the pads of his fingers. Never forget this is a warrior king. “There is …
