Errigal laughed his hearty, generous laugh. “Good. I heard such good things of you today on the battlefield, and I am proud to have you back on these lands.”
“Tell me,” Ban choked out. He dragged his hands down his face. “Tell me at least, the contents of that letter. If I am a good son, as you say.”
Nodding, Errigal said, “I had word, too, from Alsax, here. They say Aremoria will set his navy to winter down, but he and Elia have been negotiating over his invasion of this—our!—island. And now the stars, too, say it will happen: the king of Aremoria will come here before the month is out. And also, the prophecies say that we must get Lear to Elia. She will keep him safe; she is all the hope we have left.”
“Then Morimaros will have both king and daughter, and plenty of reason to attack. What if sending the king there is exactly what brings the invasion?”
“Perhaps, but Lear needs his crown back! The stars are clear.”
“Give the crown to Elia, at least.”
Errigal spared his son a pitying frown. “She is only a girl.”
Only by years of constant practice was Ban able to keep calm. But barely. He said very pointedly, very slowly, “Did you tell Connley?”
“No, bah! That man is slave to his cruel, cold wife, and she would have me stocked, or killed, for treating with Aremoria, even if it is on behalf of Lear himself. Oh, my poor king. My letter aligns us—Errigal—with Elia and Morimaros, if that king will clear the way for Lear to reclaim his throne. You should be glad to hear it; I’ve heard tales of you riding proudly at his side.”
Ban stared at his father, thinking it was true: he should be glad to hear it. War coming to Innis Lear, and from an army Ban knew well, an army he had a place in, still, if he kept his first promises to Morimaros, if he let his admiration for Regan Connley fall away. If he pretended he did not hate to hear of Elia married to Aremoria. But …
Ban would die a thousand humiliating deaths before he stood by and watched Lear put on the crown again.
He would not let it stand. Ban refused it, summarily.
If Errigal, who even yet preferred a son he believed to be a traitorous murderer over his proven, reputable, strong natural son, had to be a casualty of Ban’s schemes, Ban supposed that was only the final evidence of his father’s stars.
* * *
ANGRY WINDS SLAMMED against Errigal Keep as the sun lowered against the horizon, obscured by the coming storm. Only a few desperate rays shot free, reflecting off the silvered western hills. Black clouds, roiling air, and tiny spitting raindrops were a proper manifestation of Ban’s mood.
Standing at the open doors of the great hall, he stared out into the crescent yard as dust in the cracks between stones became mud, as men dashed from black gates to stables and tower doors to black gates, at the change of watch. As soon as the sunset hour rang, the gates would swing closed for the long, stormy night.
Behind Ban, a house girl prodded the fire into a grand blaze; soon this hall would be full of retainers and families, seeking shelter together and warmth and some food. “Go,” Ban said to her. “Fetch my father here, and when he’s come, and after the duke and his lady arrive, shut the door.”
She bobbed and fled, though he’d been gentle in tone.
“Fox.”
Curan the iron wizard walked across the stone courtyard, unhurried, disregarding the force of the wind and splattering rain. A flash of light caught on the iron coins braided into the wizard’s blond hair. In his hands he held a sword.
Ban’s new sword. His breath picked up its pace.
“Here, young lord,” Curan said, and Ban ducked with him into the great hall.
Taking the sword, Ban drew the blade and handed the plain sheath back to Curan. Ban lifted the sword: the steel gleamed like a shard of sunlight through the storm clouds.
I burn! whispered the steel.
A smile of absolute joy lit Ban’s mouth. As do I! he answered, and cut the blade through the air.
It laughed, and Ban asked, “You forged her yourself?”
Curan nodded. “She was ready, and you are sure to need her.”
“I do already.” Ban squeezed the leather-wrapped hilt. He set the edge of the blade against his left forearm, holding the sword flat to inspect every inch.
Thunder rumbled overhead.
The vibration made the sword ring, settling down through Ban’s bones. His pulse raced, and he knew, absolutely knew, for one clear moment, that he would die with this sword in his hand.
This sword would destroy; it would cleanse; it would change everything.
No, it was Ban himself who would do all those things. Soon.
Now.
As if prompted, Connley and Regan swept in exactly then. Ban could hear her skirts against the rushes, and Connley called, “Ban the Fox, we’ve come, as you asked.”
Ban turned. Wet wind shoved at his back as he made his way forward. “My lord.” Tension edged his voice. He glanced at the iron wizard, who nodded and left.
“What ails you, sir?” Regan asked when they were alone. She reached for him with a lovely hand decorated with several slender silver rings that set off her winter-brown skin. Today she wore a silver-threaded violet gown, edged in white fur he suspected came from his animal namesake. Despite Regan’s distraction, her grief—the pink rimming her irises—Ban thought she was everything a queen of Innis Lear should be: powerful, sharp, beautiful, like a raw ruby mined from the guts of the island, set into smooth iron.
The lady touched his face tenderly. “Tell us,” she coaxed.
Connley
