To the north the horizon blisters with bright firelight from the fortress of Dondubhan, where the Midwinter celebration lifts the Longest Night into glory and hope, where all her people still sing, drink, and dance. Where the king of Aremoria waits, summer gold and patient, for the queen to return, and the half-blind Oak Earl smiles at his new wife, and Rory Errigal wears a new duke’s chain, shirt stained from excess wine. Their queen should be there, she knows, and she will be. But this last atonement must to be served, this final moment to bury the remains of war and suffering and broken hearts.
It’s her lady Aefa and the weary retainer La Far who cover her absence at the festivities, both of whom can understand her need for privacy, though only Aefa knows the true cause of it. This is a secret shared only by three women in all the world: Aefa, Brona the witch, and the queen of Innis Lear.
The queen scrapes her hand down the smallest standing stone. She tilts her head back to peer at the moon and its skirt of brilliant stars as it hovers over the rugged top edge of the stone. In her cream-and-gray gown, she might be a saint herself, a reflection of the Star of Sorrow, for the queen wears mourning clothes: no colors or dye, only the natural shades of wool. Even her coat is white fur and soft tan leather, rustic and unfashionable, but it hardly matters to her. She’s tied up her own hair with plain string, and for jewels only agreed to the silver circlet crown and a necklace set with diamonds the Aremore king gifted to her.
“Elia,” says a quiet voice behind her.
She breathes her misty breath against the ice of the stone, and turns.
The man is only a shade, a lean figure in a black coat, hood raised, sword at hip. A traveler’s pack slides off his shoulder and slumps against the ground. He steps nearer.
The queen says, “I heard Ban the Fox finally died in Hartfare, despite his mother’s best care.”
“He did,” comes the low reply. “And in Hartfare we heard the queen will not marry Aremoria after all.”
A smile glazed with bittersweet humor pulls at her lips. “This morning the star priests presented a new royal prophecy: This queen will never marry, and the father of her heirs will be a saint of the earth.”
“Mars is good enough to be an earth saint,” the man says.
The ache in her heart is nothing but a shadow of passion, lacking all rage. She can carry it, though it feels like swallowing ice. “When she came for her own wedding, Brona brought me a long box of bones and ashes. I will bury them in the deepest part of Innis Lear, so her son will always be part of my island’s heart. But you, I—” Her courage breaks, and she quickly turns her face away.
He appears there, holding her jaw in cold, bare hands. He lifts her chin, and she feels her strength return as she looks into his ghostly, familiar eyes. His face is thinner, sharper, wild and biting.
She takes a breath and says, “You I will not see again.”
“Not on this earth, not in this life,” the shadow whispers, as if it is all the voice left to him.
The queen brings her hands up between them to tug the gloves from her fingers. She lets them fall to the frozen ground. Drawing nearer, she touches his face, thumbs gentle at the corners of his mouth. “Go,” she breathes. “And be something new.”
“Promise me something,” he says, tilting his head against her left palm.
Her brows rise, willing to hear him but not to swear unknowingly.
“When you bury the Fox, do it on a night with no stars.”
She brushes her thumbs over his mouth, nods, and releases him.
The shadow-man leaves, pausing only to scoop up his bag before walking far off, to vanish in the sparkling blackness of this Longest Night.
The queen kneels, her back to the smallest standing stone. Its chill, and the ice of the earth below, seep into her body. She leans her head back so the silver crown taps the rock, and she closes her eyes to the fine moonlight.
Stars shine, and the moon too, turning the frosted grass and low hills of Innis Lear into a quiet, cold mirror, until heaven is below her, around her, and everywhere.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my AP English teacher, Pat Donnelly, at St. Teresa’s Academy in 1998, for first helping me explore my hatred for King Lear.
As always with writing, this book would not exist without the support of friends and peers, especially: Julie Murphy, Bethany Hagen, Justina Ireland, Laura Ruby, Anne Ursu, Kelly Jensen, Leila Roy, Sarah McCarry, Kelly Fineman, Dot Hutchinson, Robin Murphy, Lydia Ash, Chris McKitterick, Brenna Yovanoff, Dhonielle Clayton, Zoraida Córdova, Ellen Kushner, Racheline Maltese, Joel Derfner, Delia Sherman, Karen Lord, Stephanie Burgis, Tara Hudson, Rebecca Coffindaffer, Sarah Henning, Robin McKinley.
Thanks to my family, always ready with a hug or wiseass comment. Usually both.
My editor Miriam Weinberg went above and beyond with this book, pushing me and trusting me beyond all reason. I’m forever delighted to have your wit, talent, and passion in my life and work.
Also thanks to everyone at Tor who has been welcoming and worked tirelessly for me, especially Anita Okoye, Melanie Sanders, and Lauren Hougen, and Irene Gallo and the design team for this powerful package. I submitted the first novel I ever finished to Tor, back when I was still in high school, and was thankfully rejected. But it’s a dream come true to see that logo on the spine of a book I wrote.
Eternal gratitude to my agent, Laura Rennert, who has never given up on me, and all of Andrea Brown Literary Agency for such abundant support even during this dark time line.
And
