Elia Lear stopped at the base of the pavilion to glance at the canvas roof slapping hard in the wind. “Why do my sisters hide from the stars?”
Of course Lear’s youngest did not need to hide from the sky because she was a piece of it: her silver chain mail glittered like a shirt woven of stars, and her dress was cream and gray like a priest’s, but from shoulder to knee a tabard hung in a rich dark blue, vibrant enough to catch the light, and at her breast a single, blazing white star.
All who saw her understood: Elia Lear would not submit.
Kay Oak stepped to her side, leaning heavily on an old oak cane. The wound on his face was revealed: a swollen gash sewn with pale thread, a path of moonlight across his brown face. It marked out the earl’s left eye, and the surrounding bruise flared like a deadly dark flower. Beside him stood the witch of the White Forest, and with her a dozen women of Errigal and Hartfare, then the old king’s Fool, iron wizards, and more. There came the cragged Earl Bracoch, and the younger Rosrua, with Rory Errigal holding the chain of his father’s title instead of wearing it across his chest; the youngest man’s eyes hunted only for his bastard brother.
At Elia Lear’s other shoulder stood a gilded man, beardless, dressed like a noble retainer also in Learish blue: the king of Aremoria.
“We do not hide,” Gaela Lear answered her youngest sister, stepping to the fore of the pavilion. The self-proclaimed king of Innis Lear wore vibrant purple and red, with shimmering chain mail falling off her shoulders like wings. A sword and scabbard encrusted with gold and garnets hung heavily from a belt at her hips. Her hair was sculpted into a spiral crown with pale clay. That same clay dotted down her temples and cheeks in the mockery of a star pattern. Beautiful and striking, she embodied the Star of War, with all its promise of victory and glory and strength.
And Regan Connley was the matching Star of Death, in a white gown with scarlet trim and collar. Red paint colored her eyelids and her bottom lip, and streaked across her cheeks in violent lines. Her hair was loosely drawn back under a white mourning veil that ruffled and shivered in the wind like a furious waterfall. The simplicity only exaggerated her dangerous beauty.
With them stood the Fox of Innis Lear, in a dark gambeson and dull armor, his sword whispering at his hip; he was a shadow of war, a wizard’s secret form. He stared at Morimaros of Aremoria, in Elia’s dark blue, sword at his side but lacking crown and royal ring. The king’s eyes scoured the Fox with the penetrating force of the furious wind, angry, wounded, and worst of all: disappointment.
Gaela said, loud enough to be heard by all, “As agreed, come inside: we meet as rival sisters, not enemies.” With her middle sister in perfect alignment, they stepped back to welcome the youngest.
The Oak Earl gripped Elia’s elbow. “Change your mind,” he was heard to say, low and firm.
“I will not,” she said back, only a whisper in the wind, but he knew, and slammed his cane into the rocky moor.
The youngest princess left him behind, for only two would enter with her: a triangle complete, to face her two sisters and their wizard.
Elia stepped inside, followed by Morimaros of Aremoria and Aefa, the former angry and strong, the latter clutching to her chest a cloth-covered prize.
The noise of the wind changed, from desperate wailing to a dull, distant roar, as if those six stood inside the heart of a seashell, protected from the crashing ocean. Iron stands rose like spears in each corner, lifting plates filled with candles head-high. Chairs waited, but none sat upon them, and all ignored, too, the low table with dark wine and bright stone cups.
Gaela appeared amused at her little sister’s choices of seconds, but Regan eyed Aefa and her bundle suspiciously. Ban the Fox concentrated on his breathing; he’d not expected his former king to join them now.
“Sisters—” Elia began.
Regan interrupted, “You are bold to bring Aremoria with you. Have you fallen for his charms, baby sister?”
“We thought,” Gaela said, “you would prefer our offering.” She turned her gaze to the Fox, who stared at Elia.
“I have business with my old friend, the Fox,” Morimaros said threateningly. Elia held her hand to him, and he did not step forward.
The wizard said, “I ended our business.”
“That is not your right,” said the king.
“Morimaros,” Elia said. “This, now, is our turn to speak: my sisters and I. You are here on our sufferance.”
He bowed his head, though did not remove his gaze from his Fox.
Gaela smiled broadly at Elia. “You have found some iron in your worm-soft bones, or else been blessed finally by our imperial ancestors.”
“Circumstances have tempered me,” Elia replied.
“Then,” said Regan, “swear to us and retire to the star towers.”
“No.”
“No?”
Elia held out her hand, and Aefa Thornhill lowered her arms from her breast. She held a pillow, its prize covered with a thin blue cloth. The girl took a fortifying breath and picked the cloth up by a corner, sweeping it away to reveal a crown of freshly woven, slightly crushed hemlock. In the flickering orange candlelight, the starburst blossoms seemed to catch fire.
Regan gasped softly, eagerly, even, and Gaela laughed dark and loud.
“You are resourceful, Elia,” the self-annointed king, her sister, said. “Did Brona show you this? Or did the trees themselves whisper their secrets to you? Was it because you listened?” On the last word, the wolflike grin turned into a sneer, though Regan beside her seemed almost wounded.
“The trees,” Elia said. “You know what this means, then? We should eat it, and drink from the navel well, and be the queens of this island together.”
The three sisters stood at three points, the
