“Our luck for the most beautiful welcome and finest of women!” Rory yelled through the wind as the barge tapped the side of the dock and sailors leapt out to tie it off. Elia held her hand to Rory and met his eyes, smiling back, but sadly. His hair was a disaster of windblown red spikes, and his freckles blended against the brilliant pink of his wind- and sun-chapped cheeks.
Aefa stood closer to Elia. They were going to break his heart.
“I’m glad you’re home,” Elia said.
Around them sailors disembarked, and a few strong-looking men in plain leather vests and coats, perhaps hired to guard the goods. And there was Eriamos Alsax, his brown hair just as wrecked as Rory’s, but otherwise more put together. He’d traveled by sea all his life, Aefa supposed, as he greeted Elia with a touch of her hand and a bow, then winked at Aefa.
“Welcome to Innis Lear, Eriamos,” Elia said. “I hoped to take a moment with Rory before going to the inn where food awaits, though you are so very welcome to join us and stay with us at the Keep.”
“Thank you. Here is my sister Dessa.” He turned: one of the sailors bowed. She was dressed in men’s clothes, though making no effort to hide her womanhood. She smiled exactly like her mother, Juda, and her thick brown hair had maintained its curling shape during the voyage better than the men had managed. Rory offered Dessa his hand, and she took it easily, climbing out onto the dock to stand slightly too near him.
Aefa rolled her eyes fondly, but she was glad he might have some affection to hold him warm tonight, when he was mourning his father and realizing the treachery of his bastard brother.
“Welcome, too, Dessa Alsax,” Elia said. Aefa could see her lady’s strain as she maintained her poise. “I hope you’ll be our guests at Errigal Keep tonight.”
“Yes, home,” Rory said. “With several unexpected additions!” Some mischief peeked from the corner of his smile.
“Rory,” Elia began, but Eriamos cleared his throat and glanced at the contingent of guards. The young Alsax merchant indicated one of the soldiers who stepped easily from barge to dock. He was broad-shouldered and tall, turning to face Elia.
Aefa gasped like a child on her birthday.
This was no bodyguard or soldier for hire.
Standing before them was the king of Aremoria.
Morimaros was nearly unrecognizable in worn brown leather and regular gray wool. No brilliant silver pauldron graced his shoulder, nor the ubiquitous orange coat. His boots were scuffed; his trousers were old, soft leather. Nothing marked him apart from the rest of the soldiers. Even his sword was plain, sheathed in untooled leather and wood. His beard was gone, revealing a very square, very strong jaw and full, pink lips.
“Your Highness,” he said carefully.
Elia thrummed with tension. “Morimaros,” she murmured.
“Mars,” he said. “Only that, now.”
“Worms of the earth,” breathed Aefa.
“It’s safer,” said the soldier behind him: La Far! Aefa contained her swoon, though she could not hold back a saucy wave. The man remained stoic and sad looking, with his blond hair back in a tail. “And I’m Novanos here.”
Elia folded her hands carefully. “I did not ask you to come.”
At the cool tone, Aefa stepped close enough to Elia that their hips touched. For comfort or caution, she would be there.
The king of Aremoria reached into his gray coat and offered the princess a very small folded letter. As he did, Aefa noticed the bareness of his fingers. He did not wear the Blood and the Sea.
Unfolding the letter, Elia glanced down, and Aefa unselfconsciously peered over her shoulder. It was one line, efficiently scrawled, but bold in words:
The island is as ready for you as I can make it. I will not be returning to Aremoria.
Ban Errigal.
Truly, a bastard. And a traitor!
Rage coarsened Aefa’s blood, making her rigid. Beside her, Elia crumpled the note in her fist.
“Elia,” Rory said urgently. “Mars has come to offer his aid, his knowledge gleaned of our island from a commander’s view. And he seeks my brother, as they once were close. Take me to my father! All of us, please. I’m hungry, and so tired of the sound of waves.”
Closing her eyes for only a brief moment, Elia turned to Rory and took his hands. “Rory, please—I—I am so very sorry.” She stepped so they were a hand’s width apart. “Your father is dead, killed in defense of me, and you, and ever in service to my father. He died at the hand of the duke of Connley, who also is dead.”
A long moment of silence stretched, broken only by gulls and yelling dockworkers. All blood drained from Rory’s careless face, turning his freckles stark, and Aefa spied a contained wince on her princess’s brow as the bereft son gripped Elia’s fingers too tightly. “No,” he said, sinking slowly to his knees.
“It was a noble death, and you are to be proud of him. He knew you loved him, at his end,” Elia said.
Rory pushed his head to her waist, hugging his arms around her hips. She bent over him, her hands on his thick red hair, hushing his sudden gasp of grief, whispering her comfort, her apology, and allowing even her own grief, finally, to be spoken. A tiny tear slipped down Elia’s cheek.
Aefa worried her lip as Rory shook, clinging to Elia.
“We are here to help,” La Far said softly, at Aefa’s shoulder.
“Good, because much of what needs fixing is Aremoria’s fault,” the Fool’s daughter replied, without sympathy, and turned away.
MORIMAROS
THE BOLD RED suited Elia Lear, as did her clashing teal ribbons, pulling disparate parts of her costume together into a whole: so Mars had thought watching her from the barge, as she stood, eyes calm, chin up like a queen. Even as the wind tore at her skirts and
