The second night the story was about Kayo, who was in love. That story was a spark of warmth, a reminder that affection could still blossom and grow on Innis Lear, even in the past six years. Elia found herself teasing Brona, happy. Kayo himself admitted it in the morning, and admitted, too, that he’d asked Brona to marry him before and the witch’s answer remained always patience. “She will need to be patient with me now,” her uncle said, his hand hovering over the bandage on his face. The wound healed slowly, and Kayo had to be gentle with it or an infection might spread and blind him in his other eye, too. That Gaela had done this to him, so viciously, with such disregard, put Elia firmly in agreement with Rory: Gaela would make a terrible queen, even regardless of the island’s will.
Last night the bones and stars had told of a queen slowly being born.
Elia avoided the king of Aremoria completely: he and La Far lived with the retainers to keep knowledge of his identity shrouded in as much secrecy as could be managed. They did as her father’s retainers did, so it was easy to keep her distance. If she spoke to him, Elia was certain she would do irreparable damage between their countries. She did not forgive him—she could not, if she was to be queen of Innis Lear. But she did wish, some moments, she could find the strength to confront him, and then together they might commiserate over their hopes and fears regarding Ban the Fox.
Waiting put an edge to her voice; she could not relax. Neither did the island. Wind ravaged them, always, until only those who accustomed themselves to the noise were able to sleep. It begged and screamed wordlessly, but for the occasional cry of her name. Even under the brightest autumn sun, birds huddled in the crooks of tree branches and horses resisted leaving their barn.
She took several men to the navel well of Errigal Keep and pried off its cap. The well burped up a gasp of wind that ought to have been rancid but instead smelled like wine, sharp and sweet and heady. Drink, whispered the well. Eat, said the wind.
The hemlock crown had lost all its scent, and most of the petals had fallen in Elia’s wake. Aefa seemed relieved, but there was poison in the leaves and stems, too. Any part would suffice. And if she needed it, the island would show her where to find more starweed.
But Elia would not eat it, not yet. Not until she faced her sisters. She refused to take action that could not be undone.
And then the letter came, in the hand of a messenger in pink, who tore into the Keep sweaty and desperate.
Elia was in the great hall, seated at a long table near the hearth, peeling and chopping onions with women and boys from the kitchen. The stinky, tearful work was made better by the poetry and songs of the folk, who’d spread out here at her invitation because of the space and warmth; the gale outside had turned frigid.
Eager, ready, Elia opened the letter immediately. She read it, then again.
She sank to the rush-covered floor, sitting in a pool of bright red skirts, and read the message a third time.
Aefa knelt beside her and read the letter, too.
“Worm shit,” she said.
“Aefa.” Elia took a deep breath. “Aefa, send everyone away, and bring me Kayo, Brona, and Rory. And Morimaros. I would speak with them.”
“Morimaros?”
“This is the business of kings and queens. It is time.”
While Aefa hastened to comply, Elia hauled herself to the tall-backed chair just beside the hearth. She lifted the hemlock crown from the seat, sat herself, and settled the crown onto her lap. She read the letter again. Death or exile will be the only way.
Ban had failed her, refused to bring her sisters here. This stank of his destructive work: turning family against itself, lighting sparks for war to burn everything to ashes instead of nurturing growth, instead of protection.
And her sisters threatened to kill her.
Elia closed her eyes. She did not want to feel the betrayal. Not this time. Better to turn cold and still, better to breathe the emotions away, to diffuse them into air and mist.
But no. She had to feel in order to fight.
Tears flicked down her cheeks, and she did not break. She put her hands on the arms of the chair, leaned her head back, and let herself be hurt. And angry. And so very sad. All the whirling emotions gathered around her heart, squeezing, lifting, and she wept quietly as she waited. Tears dripped off her chin to tap the letter itself.
Her sisters claimed to be queens, but high overhead the wind threaded itself angrily through the stones of the keep, blowing frustration down the side of the mountain. The island disagreed. They had not made the bargain.
Warmth from the whispering fire enveloped her; she tried to pull comfort from it. The shuffle of folk leaving with onions and knives had vanished, replaced by the sure footsteps of those summoned. Elia left her eyes closed.
“Elia?” Kayo said.
She stifled the urge to leap up and offer him aid. Instead she smiled sadly. “I have news from my sisters.”
Chairs were moved, and a bench, too.
Kayo settled in a heavy chair to support his weary body, and Brona sat beside him on a stool; Aefa, Morimaros, and Rory shared a bench. Rory leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eager for her word, though with a slight frown as he could see how she’d been affected. Morimaros positioned himself nearest to her on the bench, and his
