“He said, as I and my father did. You wrote to Elia, Ban. Tell me.”
Lowering his lashes as blood heated his face, Ban had whispered a version of the truth.
“I told her that at least one person on Innis Lear still loved her.”
The duke had snorted, amused.
Hollow and cold, Ban had thought, Is there no one I have yet to betray?
A day later, surrounded now by laughter, gray sunlight, and the conversation of strangers he did not know how to befriend, Ban scowled and drank the last of his beer. Sour with guilt more than alcohol, Ban found the old retainer Med and returned the borrowed cup with his thanks. It was several minutes before he could extricate himself from the praise, and from the retellings already spinning about the morning’s battle games, eager faces adding what legends they’d heard of the Fox’s exploits in Aremoria. The captured underclothes he’d used to humiliate the enemy, the disguises, the vandalized Diotan flag. Ah, saints, how Ban had lived: rushing and surviving by his desperation and skills. Someone began a cheer, “Long be the Fox!”
Drunkenness muddied his thoughts, as Ban felt pulled in too many directions. He’d sworn to Morimaros of Aremoria because that king had respected him enough to ask for his skills, and not command them. Ban loved Elia, but perhaps only a memory of her; he hardly knew her now. But Regan and Connley, they were like him: ambitious and powerful, and they understood the roots and needs of the trees! Connley had tried to open the Errigal navel well yesterday, arguing with Ban’s father that it might make the iron sing freely again.
The duke and his wife would never give up speaking to the trees, as Elia had. When it had mattered most, Elia had chosen her father’s path, taken all her solace from the stars. She’d let Ban go, never fought to stay at his side. Yet, when Ban’s heart ached at seeing the closeness between Connley and Regan, it was Elia he thought of: Elia’s black eyes alight with flitting magic, her solemn whisper, and the sad, broken cry Ban’d heard ripped from her throat that night at the standing stones.
What could he still do? For her, or for Regan, or for the poor magic of this island, left to sink into itself while the cutting stars glared down.
Morimaros of Aremoria couldn’t help these Learish roots, either, not the heartblood of this island, no matter how strong was his own land.
And what did it mean that Elia had come home? And now? The island had told Ban, but not anyone else, not even Regan. And worse, since the morning of their intense wormwork, Ban was having an impossible time conversing with the trees, as if all their attentions were elsewhere! Not on him, no; he was never chosen first. Never the most beloved.
Ah, stars, Ban was a mess.
This was why he did not drink. Even the voices of the wind had slurred. Or perhaps it was the susurrus of the coming rain, the air full of mist already.
He should return to the Keep for shelter, where Connley and Regan likely had already nestled, at a hot fire, together. He thought of their bond, their burning passion, and their gestures beckoning him to share. Sweat broke along his spine, and in his drunkenness he imagined going to them and giving them everything they seemed to want, from his body and spirit.
Shame stopped the too-vivid dream. They would likely reject him anyway, if it came down to it. Laugh that he’d taken their flirtations too far. Choose each other always, abandoning him. Everyone did.
Ban lowered his eyes to the uneven lane. Straw and dry grass had done its best to harden the mud into a level path, but he still needed to pay heed to the way. The noise of the public house faded behind him, replaced by villagers eager to shutter their windows and get all the animals inside. Ban cut away from the row of smithies, aiming up the foothill toward the mountain. Here the Steps were mostly short houses of chalk daub, except for the stone star chapel that waited at the edge of the town, at the highest point before the sharp incline and the earl’s road that lead only to the Keep itself.
Ban slowed his footsteps as he approached the chapel. He’d spent hours in this particular chapel as a boy, his only appearances, then, on his father’s lands, at every anniversary of his birth. Errigal would demand his presence, and so Brona would bring him, in order that Errigal could lord over a star-cast for his bastard. The priests knew how to sweeten their patron’s generous nature even further, for every casting complimented the last: Ban Errigal had been born to impress the world from below. The left hand, the power behind power; always the second, the almost-as-good. His castings had been presented counter to Rory’s, the gilded, the legitimate.
What a sorry fool he was, Ban thought, pausing at the long, thin window of the star chapel, that such old insults still affected him so, made him crave approval. Pathetic: he truly was no better than was expected of a bastard.
A movement up the path from the Keep flattened Ban back into the shadowy crook of the chapel door.
Errigal! Ban knew the coarse gait, despite the cowl pulled low over his father’s face. He darted silently around the sharp corner stones and waited while Errigal knocked softly on the wooden chapel door, and it was answered. The earl went inside, and Ban came back around to the long window. Unlike most in the Steps, the chapel was set with glass and so impossible to discern sound through, and all he could see was the blur of fire inside. Frustration made him grit his teeth, wishing to slam the butt of his sword into the glass.
Seething, Ban sought to calm himself with deep breaths. He had been drinking, and it would not
