“They are your sun and moon now, Father,” Ban said, sickly triumphant, afire with revenge. “Your fate is in their star-sharpened hands.”
He could not stay, could not remain indoors, sheltered from wild nature and the reveling wind. Turning even from the duke and his lady, from the hot, raging fire, from the warmth of the room and his own father, Ban the Fox walked out into the storm.
ELIA
“WILL WE ARRIVE soon, Elia? I don’t know how much longer these thighs can hug this beast,” Aefa called from behind her. They rode single file, for this track to Hartfare was narrow. Branches reached down for them, while ferns and sharp bushes reached up, making a constant scratch at shoulders, knees, boots, and their horses’ backsides as they pushed through.
Rain drizzled through the thick black trees, heavy enough that Elia was glad of the hunter’s hood, for her hair did not react pleasantly to being wet. Water drained down the back of the hood, occasionally pooling forward at the tip just above her eyes, then loosing a fat drop onto her breast. As with the ocean, this rain distorted the voice of the trees, and so she only could hear a jumble of the White Forest’s words.
Elia lifted her hand to wave her understanding back at Aefa. The girl did not like horses, but she had kept her groans to a minimum, since this was faster than walking. They’d borrowed the horses and Elia’s hood from Lear’s own retainers, whom they’d met at the outskirts of the forest. The men had set up their tents there, until their king would emerge again. According to Captain Seban, the king and his Fool had been led into the forest by the Earl Errigal himself, only a few days past. They couldn’t bring their entire force to Hartfare, and so there they camped on the plain.
Though Seban wished to send some guard with the princess, Elia insisted she did not need it, for she’d visited Hartfare before, and knew the way. At Elia’s first blood, Regan had brought her, reluctant to travel so far without Gaela, but determined to give Elia what their mother had once given Regan.
Upon arrival, Brona had offered Elia a small glazed urn. The true gift had been the memory attached: of sitting in her own mother’s library, just herself, the queen, and Brona. Dalat had given Brona this same urn.
That was the extent of the memory, but it was enough. Elia had felt a homecoming, and unexpectedly, felt loved.
Brona had hugged her, then hugged Regan, too—who allowed the embrace, surprising Elia more than anything. The sisters spent two days in the little village, under thatched roofs bursting with spring flowers, learning songs from the trees, drinking honey water and a very fine, delicate alcohol Brona promised she made only for new women and the sisters they brought. Those few days were the only time in her life Elia had spent with only Regan, without Gaela. She’d believed, then, that Regan had enjoyed it, too. When they returned to Dondubhan for the winter, however, Regan had become as cool and disregarding as ever. Though every once in a long while, she would seek out Elia, making a point to force her into an opinion on some thing or another, and Regan would, if often disdainfully, listen. But then came Connley.
Elia shivered as wind found a way into her cloak and set a chill to her spine. She flexed her hands, regretting her lack of gloves. But of course, the retainers had none to fit her.
She wished for her sisters to come here to Hartfare, so the three of them might peacefully determine what was best for Innis Lear, in this safe, warm, center. Elia worried that peace was more impossible than it had ever been, now that she had chosen to come home without consulting them first. She did not want their throne, but they would never believe it. Especially not now, when the island whispered its unhappiness to her, and called her queen. And what could Elia tell them about the king of Aremoria? And his spy?
Wind whipped suddenly, spilling a ferocious fall of rain upon them. Elia’s horse jolted forward a few steps before settling, and she thought she spied the flash of fire glow through the bending, shifting blackness ahead. Elia smiled, despite the terrible evening. Hartfare was a good place. Her father was ahead of her, and sheltered, though she knew not how his mind might be. A warm hearth would allow Elia an easy chance to speak with him, comfort him, and perhaps smooth the terrible fissure between them. She was ready, if not to forgive, then to understand. And that was ever the first step.
The trees opened up, finally, revealing a rain-washed clearing. Thunder marked their entrance with a roar, and a flash of lightning on its heels cast the village they faced in a frozen moment of silver and fire.
Aefa pushed around and ahead of her, calling out to the village that their princess had come. Elia pulled her horse still, patting her soaked neck. Aefa managed to rouse enough people out in the rain to listen to her, saying she traveled with Elia Lear and requested someone to take them to Brona. There followed a flurry of very wet motion, and Elia was lifted off her horse, a cloak thrown over her, while the horses were led away into one of the nearest buildings. She and Aefa ran with their escort to the distant edge of the village, splashing mud and gasping as rain slapped their eyes and leapt into their mouths.
The door to Brona’s cottage was propped open, promising warm, fiery sanctuary. Elia stumbled across the threshold, looking wildly about the room. There was the long, scarred oak table, there the hearth with its welcoming fire, over which hung a pot of soup and two pots of boiling water; the whitewashed walls and
