“You’ve already begun the invasion of my island,” she whispered, voiceless so she did not scream. “You lied to me, saying there was ever a chance of peace. You’ve been lying to me since before I even met you. Every letter. Every kindness.”
The king did not defend himself.
This quiet betrayal was not so violent as what her father had done to her, but it stung. Though Elia deserved it, for believing the best of everyone. Morimaros of Aremoria had betrayed her. Ban—her Ban!—had, too. What hope could she possibly have that her sisters would not treat her the same, would not betray her, too, who had never even pretended to be her ally?
Perhaps that was better: at least with her sisters Elia had always known where she stood.
She clenched her teeth against hurt. She should not let herself be too surprised by Morimaros. He was a king, after all, and a man. And he would do as men—as kings—do. It only mattered what he needed to get for himself, for his country, for his satisfaction.
And Ban, too, was only a man.
Hurrying to the window, Elia pressed both hands flat to the clear glass. Outside was too pretty, too glorious to be real. She needed harsh gray wind and bending old trees. She said, “Ban did this to Rory. To his father. On purpose, for you, though he pretended it was for me. He took your mission and twisted it into his own revenge. Do you know how much he hated my father, and his own? You gave him sanction to destroy them.”
“Yes. I knew all of this, and I used it.”
“He kept his promise,” she said. It was not dismay or grief tainting the word, but a hissing disgust.
And she turned to watch it hit Morimaros.
His expression did not alter, still and calm, and only barely ashamed.
Anger, and the loss of something very small and very pure, threaded itself though her ribcage, seeking her heart to take root.
Elia willed the swelling ocean flat.
“So Aremoria has agents inside the heart of my island,” she said. “And the king is not so noble as he pretends.”
“I have not lied to you about my intentions, nor my desires,” Mars insisted. “I do what I must. I am many things at once, the high and the low, the root and the stars. My kingdom is strong because I know how to breathe high clouds, to take sunshine in hand, while wading my feet through the shit. That is how a land flourishes, and its plants and flowers, birds and wolves and people. Not with magic, or old superstitions, but with a leader who will do everything, give everything, to it.”
She stared at him, and watched the space between them widen. She knew he was right about the duty of kings. It changed nothing.
“I am in love with you,” he said, in the same determined tone.
Elia laughed once, in disbelief only that he would say so now. When it could not have mattered to her less.
She shook her head, pressed her hands to her stomach, and turned to leave.
“Elia.”
“No, Morimaros,” she said. “I must go, for I have some shit to wade through, and I will not have your company.”
He did not try to stop her again.
* * *
THEY SAILED FOR Innis Lear at dusk, to make the crossing overnight.
Elia stood at the prow of the small galley, holding the worn rail with one hand for balance against the waves and the thrusting of oars. The sailors chanted a low song to keep their rhythm, a soothing Aremore lullaby that seemed to have no beginning and no end. Men dropped out and slipped back in at any time of the cycle, in harmony or low melody-free intonation, creating a never-ending, comforting mess.
Besides the twenty-odd oarsmen, she was only joined by Aefa and the king’s most trusted soldier, La Far. Every Aremore man would be left on the boat, when they made land: if La Far even stepped off without her invitation, she had threatened to arrest him on her own authority. Though she had little power to keep that word, La Far gave her the respect of believing it.
So by themselves, Elia and Aefa would go, despite neither knowing anything of traveling alone, or of camping without bags packed by priests or retainers waiting to serve. At least they would be together.
As she struggled to remain awake at the front of the ship, Elia set her plans in order: First she would listen to the wind, speak to the trees. She’d bare her heart to the roots and stones and swear to die for Innis Lear.
Next she would find her father, work out Rory’s safe return with Errigal, and then she would meet with her sisters to set them on a sane course of rule. Make peace in Innis Lear between the two of them and their dangerous husbands. Crown them immediately, before Midwinter, for Elia bled of two royal lines and was a star priest besides; if anyone could ordain true queens without the long dark of Midwinter, it was her. She would convince the rootwaters to accept them, sort out the lore from truth, rally Innis Lear to respect their joined rule—after all, Gaela and Regan had said to her once they shared their stars, so they could share this crown.
And Elia would do all that before thinking ever again of the king of Aremoria, or how his rare touch had lifted her spirit.
Of Ban Errigal’s future or pardon, Elia was uncertain.
The moon waned yellow and gray in the eastern sky, peeking in and out of long black clouds that blotted out nearly half the stars. All around the waves flashed silver, tickling the shallow hull of the galley with wet kisses. Aefa knelt beside Elia, her temple pressed to the wooden rail, eyes shut, valiantly holding back her sea
