“It only broke things,” Ban whispered.
“I’m sorry for that. For my part in it.”
Frowning, Ban gripped his brother’s arm. Even not understanding, he could give Rory this: the illusion of forgiveness.
Rory nodded heavily and climbed to his feet. A tear caught in his eyelashes and glinted in the lantern light. He nodded. “Fine. Good then. I’ll—I’ll grieve you, you know. When you are dead. Had you not killed our father, I might have named my heir for you, the uncle who should have taught him to make swords and climb trees and drink beer. Who should have—should have…”
Ban slowly stood, too, and gave in to a sudden impulse: he hugged Rory, and said, “You could name a daughter after me, then.”
His brother’s arms came around him, too tight, tight enough to kill. Ban held his breath and did not struggle until Rory’s embrace loosened into something real. Rory whispered, “No, I don’t think so.”
“I understand,” Ban whispered back.
Rory released him, backed away, and said, “Goodbye—good night.”
The earlson left, and Ban did his best to banish all thoughts: of his brother, of the morning, of the last week or years or—
The Fox stared at his father’s withered body. He went to the broken wine bottle and slid the largest pieces together with his boot, then picked them carefully up. Cradling the shattered glass, Ban climbed the stairs out of the cellar, and made his way to his own room.
MORIMAROS
MARS BARELY SAW the corridor in front of him as he strode through Errigal Keep. He slid his hand along the stone wall, but his vision was a blur of blue-black wrath, and fear, and guilt.
His name was called behind him, and he ignored it the first time. The second time it was said sharply, and he paused, leaning into the wall. It was Elia’s voice, Elia Lear come after him.
She ducked around him, putting her small body between him and the heavy stone wall. Her dark eyes were glaring, now they were alone, her mouth bowed in displeasure. Anger, even. She put both hands on his chest and pushed.
It did not budge him at all.
“How dare you take this onto yourself, Morimaros,” she said furiously.
“It had to be done,” he said back, just as upset. He curled his fingers around her wrists, squeezing with careful control. “Ban Errigal was mine—my soldier, my spy—and now mine to show justice.”
“Revenge, you mean!”
A retainer passed, solicitously ignoring them.
The king took deep breaths in an attempt to rein in his emotions. But the air was thick, the corridor narrow, and beautiful Elia so close. His throat narrowed, too, and his chest clenched. He had to breathe. Mars jerked away and dragged Elia with him. She walked stiffly as he led her outside into the cold night. Soldiers camped everywhere, shadow bodies, impossible to tell apart. Around the long dark wall of the Keep he and Elia went, and to a corner where the outer fortification and the castle joined. There he stopped, turned her, and tucked her against the sheltered corner, blocked the wind with his body. He gasped for air, head fallen back. The night sky was blissfully huge and clear, the stars bright.
“Breathe, Morimaros,” she said gently, unlacing the ties at the collar of his dark blue Learish tunic. She freed his throat, then slid her hands up to his smooth jaw. After a brief touch, she dropped her hands and sighed angrily.
“Elia,” he said, low and longing.
“You acted the king—it was my negotiation. You undercut my authority.”
“No! I was a man—your man, to fight for you. Like the Fox himself said: kings use champions to fight their battles. Let me be your champion.”
“It should have been my choice; you should have listened to me. If you were my man, my champion, you would have stopped when I said no.”
Mars opened his mouth to argue, but couldn’t. He snapped it closed again, clenching his jaw in renewed anger—at himself, at the Fox, at all of them.
“I should send you away. Now. Before dawn can come and—”
“No, Elia, please.”
She crossed her arms. “Would you even go? If I commanded you to get your men and go before dawn, sail away so I could deal with this on my own, would you? I do not think so. You are not very good at taking orders.”
He stared at her, wanting nothing so much as for her to touch him again. His shoulders heaved. His thoughts fled through a maze of possibilities: the answers he could offer, the actions he could take, and what she would do, then his response, and on and on and on. It all turned to tragedy. For himself, and for ruined Ban Errigal.
In the end he said nothing.
“I thought so.” Elia’s arms relaxed until she held them still at her sides. “Then tell me, why did you do this? Challenge him?”
“I did it for you.”
“No, you did not! You did it for you. So why?”
Mars burst out, “Because I had to! Because he betrayed me. He was mine, my soldier and spy and—and my friend, and he threw me aside!”
“He was mine first. And before that he was his own, and his spirit belongs to Innis Lear. None of us are yours, Morimaros. We do not do things as you do; we have rootwater and poison in our blood and that makes us strong. This is not your island. It is mine.”
His hands shook. His heart, too. He’d not felt helpless like this since he was a small child. Not even when his father died and Mars had slid the Blood and the Sea onto his finger. “I know,” he said. “But you’re right, I don’t—I don’t know how to be other than a king.”
“You don’t have to. You can’t, and we shouldn’t have pretended otherwise.”
The grieved wisdom in her eyes filled Mars with longing again. To bundle her away to some safety, to tear her from all of this so she never had to carry this kind of weight. The kind
