Gaela reveled in the cold wind, though winter itself she despised: layers of wool weighing her down, and the constant snow of the north trapping her inside, where there was little space to breathe or loom large. Tight quarters, sweat, pine-sharp incense, and fire all the time, wet socks from melting ice, all were oppressive and overwhelming, heavily laden with memories. Dalat had loved the winter, been fascinated by ice crystals and the patterns of snowflakes, sometimes even leaving open a window, and wasting wood to beat back the cold. She would wrap herself and Gaela and Regan in massive bearskins to watch the snow fall, so crisp and quiet.
This was before Elia arrived, loud and interrupting.
Gaela could not stand the smell of fur in the winter.
But it was not yet that darkest part of the year, and Gaela led her army to join with Astore at the seat of her childhood. Together they would push south to take back Lowbinn and Brideton, crushing Connley’s arrogant claims while he sat in Errigal. If he would take the iron for himself, then Gaela saw no reason to let Connley think to keep any of the north.
Her only regret was leaving before Osli had returned from delivering letters in Errigal. But it was taking her longer than it should have, and Gaela could not wait.
Slivers of cold wind cut inside her throat as she breathed deep to call an order to move her retainers faster. Now that they’d crossed around the Star Field, their destination was visible.
The castle at Dondubhan embraced the Tarinnish, the largest, deepest lake on Innis Lear. Its name meant well of the island in the language of trees, and was one of the few words all still recognized. Even in the height of summer the black waters were cold with runoff from the mountains.
Gaela led her men from the karst plain of the Star Field down toward the marsh surrounding the lake and the river it fed. They met with the West Duv Road, narrow here, and built of stone to lift itself out of the muck to cross the Duv River over three thick stone arches. No more than two horses could walk abreast for the final hundred feet of the approach to the fortified first wall of Dondubhan. The wall rested on foundations as old as the island itself: a handful of massive blocks of blue-gray basalt gifted to the first people from the earth saints, pushed out of the roots in fully formed boulders and columns. If the stories were to be believed. Again and again, over generations, earls and kings had built the walls taller, adding an inner castle and fortified towers and longer arms of the wall to curl halfway around the Tarinnish. When the moon was brightest, the castle rock glowed, as eerie as swamplights or wandering spirits.
This afternoon, beside the dark blue and white swan flag of Lear, Astore’s salmon crest flew from the tallest tower, snapping in the bitter wind. Men on the forward ramparts held up their hands to greet Gaela and her men, flying a matching banner. The drawbridge sat open, like a wide, wooden tongue, but her army was forced to wait while the iron-toothed gate was lifted for them to pass.
Gaela jogged her horse through the twelve-foot tunnel and into the forecourt, his hooves tapping lightly.
They rode to the center, and Gaela pulled her horse up, calling behind for her captain to halt and bring in only the first squad of retainers: the inner courtyard was filled with soldiers, blocking the edges so her men would not all fit as they should.
Her husband waited, astride, at the fore of his own men.
Sun glinted off Astore’s chest plate, formed of three arched salmon in a trefoil. His helmet was hooked to his saddle, but otherwise Astore dressed in full war regalia, including the great sword on his belt. Fifty of his best men swept to either side of him, equally ready for battle. Behind him, the five thick blue towers of Dondubhan rose, shading him with their authority.
Impressed, Gaela nudged her horse nearer to his. “Husband, you’ll leave me no time to don my own plates.” She put a hungry smile on her face. “Though glad I am to see you so fine and ready to chase our great purpose.”
Astore did not smile in return. His pale face remained rigid. “That will not be necessary.”
Gaela narrowed her eyes. “You have not reclaimed the border towns without me.”
“I will.”
“But why?”
“You are my wife no longer, and have no cause to ride beside me.”
The eldest princess laughed loud, for all these retainers to hear and take to heart. “Yet you are my husband, and thus married to the ascending queen of Innis Lear. But perhaps my father’s mind has infected yours, and you, too, will betray the woman you’ve professed to prefer?”
“Get off your horse, Gaela.” Astore flicked his gloved hand, and ten of his men dismounted, approaching her. She knew them all, had practiced with some. They willingly had called her their lady. Only two did not readily hold her in esteem.
“I will not,” Gaela said, heart racing as she readied for battle.
With a small sigh and a tightening of his lips, Astore nodded. Then he said, “Detain her.”
The men moved, and those of Gaela’s command who had pushed into the forecourt shifted nearer to her in returned threat.
“Stop,” Gaela ordered Astore’s men.
They did. A few glanced nervously at their
