“Dalat changed the entire island, with only a small vial of poison.”
Something in the witch’s voice caught Gaela’s heart; it skipped and started again. “She—she…” Gaela’s tongue felt heavy. It was very late, and she needed her sleep. She blinked slowly.
“It was the act of an earth saint,” Brona whispered. “A choice worthy of worship. This island has never forgotten Dalat of Taria Queen. Nor will it forget you.”
“No … it … will…” Gaela rubbed her face. She sighed. She was so sleepy. “Not.”
She tilted toward the hearth, but Brona caught her, an arm about her royal shoulders, and drew Gaela against her.
Brona gently helped her fall, whispering quietly to the fire and the wind, a blessing for Dalat’s eldest daughter.
TWELVE YEARS AGO, DONDUBHAN
IT WAS NOT unusual for the queen of Innis Lear to be seen wandering the halls of the winter seat well before dawn. The guards and castle folk had accustomed themselves to it, and assumed their foreign mistress slept poorly, or still followed the Third Kingdom tradition of rising early to be blessed by their luminous God. None minded, for insomnia was not so strange, and she was kind to them, and thoughtful, though often distant, as if her thoughts preferred to reside with her daughters, or drift with the wind, or perhaps keep themselves to memories of a sun so hot none of this island could quite imagine it.
This morning, the queen seemed more present, right there with them in the dark Dondubhan corridors, touching the stone walls, dragging her fingers along the seams. She watched her bare toes curl against the newly laid rushes: evergreen juniper and the first long-leafed sea grasses of spring. She breathed deeply, as if relishing the cold, damp northern air, the thin scent of low hearth fires, and the first hint of fresh rye seeping up from the kitchens.
This morning, the queen also seemed melancholy.
In an hour, the dawn would break on her eldest daughter’s sixteenth birthday.
The past week had been tense: less laughter, and the music forced in the hall. Gaela had stomped in her soldier’s boots and Regan pulled too hard when she separated locks of Elia’s hair to braid. The king held their youngest daughter too tightly, and watched Dalat as if she might fall without warning into the deep black waters of the Tarinnish. Elia had asked her softly, twice, Mother, what is wrong with everyone? And both times Dalat cupped her daughter’s warm brown face in a hand as black as night, smiled, and replied only, Tomorrow is your sister’s sixteenth birthday.
The queen could bring herself to say no more.
For my birthday this year, Elia had said, I would like my own set of holy bones. Like Regan’s, and Brona’s. There are nine holy bones, and Father says nine is the exact number of stars in the Lion of War, which is the constellation surrounding my birth star. And I will be nine years old.
Our Calpurlugh, Dalat had murmured, gently pinching Elia’s cheek. The queen had recalled her youngest daughter’s last birthday, when all she’d asked for was magic. Brona had braided tiny white flowers into Elia’s hair—starweed, as dangerous as any prophecy—and with a whispered word in the language of trees, the flowers burst into silver-white fire, exactly like a crown of stars. Elia had been pleased, but this terrible idea had blossomed in Dalat’s heart.
This morning, the queen chose an indirect path for her wandering, to mimic her usual ramble though the castle, but she knew her goal. Finally, when she reached Gaela’s chamber—not so far from her own as she’d made it seem—Dalat touched her hand to the smooth wooden door. A castle guard noted her from several paces down the hall where he was posted, and she smiled. His eyes politely flicked away.
Entering quietly, Dalat shut the door again behind her. Her first child maintained a sparse outer room, to discourage entertaining or comfort of any kind. Still smiling, the queen walked past the simple chairs at the cold hearth, a pile of leather armor, a stool stained from boot polish. Gaela did so prefer caring for her own tools. Pride lifted Dalat’s smile wider.
Both her first and second daughters slept in Gaela’s bed, and though she’d expected it, the image of Gaela curled protectively around her sister Regan wiped the smile from Dalat’s mouth. She closed her eyes against a swift cut of grief.
Dalat went straight to the window. The heavy winter shutter had been pried open and set on the floor, leaning beneath the sill. Damp wind spat at her, and no wonder her girls huddled beneath a heavy bearskin, imported from the Rusrike. The queen tightened the knot holding her robe closed. She put her hands on the stone sill and leaned out, but the walls of the castle were so thick that even bending fully at the waist her head barely peeked past the edge. Below, the sheer drop angled straight down to the Tarinnish’s black waters. Beyond, the foothills of the Jawbone Mountains. She could see miles and miles of the north island. None could approach this way without being seen. It was desolate and silver under the late horned moon and the scatter of winter stars. In the distant east, Dalat spied a hint of velvety blue. She breathed deeply, her stomach pushing against the corner of the window.
In the Third Kingdom, the sun would be up already, for the days were longer there. Her people would be breakfasting, spilling crumbs of biscuits and drops of last night’s wine onto the sand to honor God’s creations.
She hoped God would forgive her.
Putting her back to the window, the queen gazed at her daughters. She had tried to teach them about God, but not as earnestly as she might’ve. One zealous parent was enough for any child. And her people’s God was also the stars, after all, and the earth; God did not need or beg
