Her father was not here.
Wind slammed the door behind Elia. Lightning flashed, and suddenly the storm was a violent monster, a devourer. What had it already destroyed?
“Kayo?” called Brona, hurrying in from the rear, hair gorgeous and wind-tossed as ever, wool wrapped around her as a mantle. A wildness brightened her eyes, but the witch’s face fell into a flash of despair before she tightened her expression. “Elia. I should not be surprised by this, given the talk of the trees.”
“Are you all right? What’s wrong with my uncle? Where is my father? He was supposed to be here.” Elia clamped down on her own rising fear.
Brona shook her head “The old king ran into the wind, before the storm was so terrible. Some hours ago now. Your uncle Kayo and the Fool ran after.”
Elia started for the door again, but Aefa was there blocking the way, windblown and waterlogged, frowning through long strands of hair plastered across her face. Aefa said, “I want to go after them, too. But that’s madness, Elia! We must wait.”
“Warm yourself here, and wait as Aefa counsels.” Brona took Elia’s shoulders with an urgency Elia did not feel was deserved. “None should be out in this. Not your fathers, nor—nor Kayo.”
“Why?” Elia asked softly, hearing, or sensing, a thread of panic in the saying of her uncle’s name.
“Your…” Brona stopped. She let out a breath, then said, “He is badly injured. I’ve been caring for him and it … he should not be out of bed at all, and much less so on a night like this.”
“What happened to him? Will he be all right?”
“If he comes back safely, yes, perhaps. Or perhaps he will be blind.”
“Blind!”
“Everything I can do, I have done.” Brona met her gaze with such force of certainty, Elia let her eyes drift closed. For tonight, that was true of herself, as well. Everything I can do, I have done. But when the sun rose again, so much would rise with it.
“Your mother lives two cottages south of this one,” Brona said to Aefa.
Elia said, “Go, see your mother, Aefa.”
With a frustrated little press of her lips, Aefa nodded and dove back into the rain.
“Tell me how my father is, or was,” Elia asked, as Brona sat her down beside the fire and began pulling off her hood and coat with quick, efficient movements.
“Lear is lost in himself, and in the stars inside his head, much worse now than at this time last year, or even from the start of summer,” Brona said, after she’d stripped Elia of the wettest outer layers, and poured hot water into mugs for them both. Elia huddled in a blanket at the ancient wooden table while Brona pressed dry her hair and picked out the worst tangles.
“My sisters,” Elia whispered. “They set him out into this.”
“Your sisters…” Brona’s hands paused, but the words continued. “Lear was on this path before Gaela or Regan did anything. It began long ago.”
“Their choices did not help,” Elia said stubbornly, gripping her clay mug, seeking the warmth as if she could draw it through her palms and into her heart.
“No, they did not help. They let anger and hurt drive them.”
“They should be better, if they would be queens.”
Behind her, Brona sighed. The scrape of the pick was gentle on Elia’s scalp. “No, neither should wear the crown.”
Elia turned in the sturdy old chair. “Why do you say so?”
Firelight found all the warmth in Brona’s lovely face. In her hand she held the horn pick, and the loop of small amber beads unwound and free of Elia’s braids for the first time in days. Brona stared rather bleakly at the fire and said, “Gaela abandoned both stars and roots, and believes in no authority but her own. And Regan is afraid of her own power, as she is lost to her own heart, too consumed by the magic of the island. Both will lead to no better ruling than your father’s obsession with stars, without balance.”
So the wind and trees believed, too. Elia sighed. “Gaela won’t be swayed by this reasoning—she’ll say Aremoria has no rootwater, no prophecies, and still is strong, does well enough to win every battle they’ve had, these last few decades. And she’s right.”
“Aremoria is not Innis Lear.”
“I know, very well, what Aremoria is,” Elia said irritably. “But then Gaela will also say she believes in Regan’s power, enough for us all, that they make their own balance together, enough to lead those who would wish the stars to bear true and those who long for the roots.”
“Gaela is incapable of balance!” Brona cried, flinging the horn pick to the ground with such force it snapped. The witch gasped for breath as Elia gaped at her, never having seen the woman so out of sorts. Then Brona put her fists hard against her hips. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t—Kayo. It was Gaela who hurt him, Princess Elia. Your sister lashed out when he only tried to protect your father, and … he may go blind for it.”
Elia’s shock was drowned by the storm’s sudden gust; it tore and crashed into the shuttered windows and rattled the front door. They were out in that maelstrom: her father and uncle. Aefa’s father. She set her mug on the hearth and went to Brona, taking the witch’s cold hands. “Everything we can do, we have done,” she whispered.
Brona looked steadily at Elia, coming back to herself. Her cheeks were flushed. “There is more reason you should be queen instead.”
“Oh, Brona,” Elia murmured. She did not want to hear, not now.
“Neither of your sisters can bear children.”
“Are you certain? How can you know?”
“Gaela, ever drastic, chose to make herself, and ensured nothing could be planted within her. While Regan never was given the choice. This is
