No, it could not be true. He had set this island free.
At dawn, Ban had murmured Good morning and received no response. He’d put his cheek to twisting gray roots and asked, Are you listening? He had called out to the rustle of branches that hid small animals, next to a formation of swans nestled at the frosty edges of a pond. None acknowledged him.
As they rode around the Star Field, Ban stared at the piles of island stones, at the altars covered in pale candles, at the trio of gray-robed priests casting a star reading in the center, bent and huddled and still as hoary statues. Could they feel the change in the wind, sense the dangerous silence? Soon he would have to tell them—someone—that the king, too, was dead.
Then Dondubhan Castle appeared.
Ban had not quite remembered the brutal grandeur of this fortress, nor the huge, rippling black waters of the Tarinnish. As a boy he’d been overwhelmed by its size, the number of families it could contain, and the power embodied in every large chunk of blue-gray stone. But Elia had lived here, and so Ban had loved it.
At the open gate they were challenged, until Osli called out their names and Regan lifted her face in a portrait of disdain. The beardless, clear-eyed soldier who spoke wore white on his sleeve, and said, “The lady will have to be informed of your arrival. None are allowed inside but her retainers, not since Astore’s death.”
Stunned, Ban glanced at Regan, who shuddered and clutched her reins tight enough the leather cut into her palms. Osli began to ask what had happened, but the lady Regan cut her off, caring nothing for another dead man.
“Stand aside,” Regan ordered, suddenly livid and alive, and then pushed her horse on through the long, dark tunnel arch. Ban hurried after on his own steed; the stone floor off the tunnel gave way to a packed-earth yard. Regan dismounted, tossing the reins to a soldier dashing up. “Take me to my sister. See these two loyal retainers fed and sheltered, then in an hour bring the Fox to us.”
Ban slid off his horse. “My lady,” he said, hoping to halt her. He’d rather go into this fortress at her side. But Regan pierced him with a look. She shook her head, and in the language of trees said, I need my sister only.
Bowing, Ban let himself begin to feel the hours of exhaustion, and cold, and hunger. It was a relief, too, to hear the language of trees after four days of silence, even from another human.
As Regan was led quickly away, Osli turned to him and said, “I must make my report to the commander and discover what happened. You’ll do all right on your own?”
A tinge of humor was buried under her words, and so Ban summoned up a small smile. The retainer recognized that Ban had always been on his own, and would continue to survive it well. They’d discovered a tense camaraderie on the journey: nearly the same age, both outsiders on their chosen paths, dedicated to these royal sisters. Osli was as devoted to Gaela and therefore the lady Regan as Ban had once been to Morimaros, for Gaela, too, had given Osli the opportunity to make herself in her own image. Ban hoped, for her sake, that Osli never turned so capable of betrayal as he himself.
She offered her hand, and Ban clasped it.
A young man in Astore pink, but without the trappings of a retainer, fetched Ban and brought him into Dondubhan Castle.
Though the outer wall and barbican was a looming fortress of thick rock peppered with narrow-eyed arrow slits, inside, the castle keep itself spread much more elegantly, with dark wood and pale limestone arches and massive towers of blue-gray stone. It had glass windows as tall as Ban himself, and central trees planted in the interior that lifted high to give shade to the courtyards. Blue banners clung to the walls, most striped now with undyed wool for mourning. Ban was dumped in a lower-level room, one that he suspected by the stark furnishings was often reserved for star priests. Before the servant left, Ban caught his arm. “What happened to the Lord Astore?”
The young man grimaced. “Killed, by our lady,” he said, before leaving swiftly.
Ban shook off his disconcertment and did his best, in the narrow quarters, to rinse his body and scrub dirt from his scalp. He had no razor, but thanks to Ban’s maternal bloodline his beard never grew in thick, covering his jaw only softly with black hair, not too patchy, nor too unkempt. Keeping his mind as empty as possible, he warmed himself dry by the fire before reluctantly putting his dirty clothes back on. As he waited for his summons, Ban removed the little braids still stuck in his hair. He ran his fingers through for want of a comb, and bound it all back in a single short tail. Chunks and wisps fell around his face.
Ban paced, putting his thoughts in order: he must confess to having seen—spoken with—Elia, at Hartfare. That she was searching for Lear, and she wished to meet with both Gaela and Regan south at Errigal Keep, that she hoped still to find a plan for peace. Elia now knew of his former loyalty to Morimaros—his treason to Innis Lear. Ban considered confessing that, too, but whereas it hurt Elia, it would likely only inspire rage in her sisters. They would deal worse with the treachery.
Ban turned to the window and leaned out. The sky was a cold blue, clouds moving faster than they ought. This room overlooked the choppy Tarinnish, not the inner courtyards and garden lanes, and Ban was glad, since the dark and tumultuous waters did reflect his spirit.
He wasn’t sure he could bear seeing the gardens and verdant nooks, the havens of his fearsome youth. Once in a garden here, Elia had whispered to him that she dreamed
