“Ah, wife,” he said, coming around the desk. “While I waited long and longer still for you, I wondered if we should leave immediately tomorrow and take Brideton? Before Connley can even blink? It could be done in a pleasant afternoon, I think. What word from your sister? Did they go straight for Errigal, or stop at home first? And Elia, will she be cold enough to refuse the king of Aremoria, or shall we prepare for him, too?”
Gaela did not answer, but only lifted an eyebrow. Astore stopped suddenly, a step away from her, and dragged his hand down his beard.
“My stars and worms, woman, you’re beautiful.”
She tilted her chin just slightly higher. Astore closed the step between them. His mouth brushed the hollow of her cheek, and he breathed hot against her ear. Gaela held still as a hovering hawk. She hoped he would not force his desire now; she did not have the mood for it, nor for arguing.
One of Astore’s hands settled on her hip.
“Regan will take her husband home to Connley Castle first, and we will all settle in to this new arrangement,” Gaela said softly, though not tenderly. “Then they will to Errigal.”
“Damn them for sharing a coastline.”
“Do not worry on it, Astore. The throne will be mine, and if you still refuse to trust me on that, let us march to Dondubhan tomorrow and I will sit myself upon it before all the island. I will drink that black water, and be queen in all ways.”
His hand tightened on her hip. “Do not be so arrogant or impatient, Gaela. There are rules and traditions, and we will have the throne, in four months.”
“I make the rules, Col,” she snarled, leaning in to him, lining up their bodies. “The traditions will be mine to change.”
“Some things are carved in stone, like this island itself. There is blood in the roots, and you must respect that. Innis Lear was built on magic, and united with it. With magic it can be sundered.”
Gaela glared into his heated brown eyes. “The blood of this island is in me, Col Astore, and in your veins. None will take the crown from us.”
“Half your blood is from a desert. You have to show the people here that you bleed rootwater.”
She grabbed the collar of his tunic and made a fist. “How dare you suggest my mother’s line does not belong here! My birth was predicted by Lear’s stars, and her death confirmed it: we are intimately woven into the breath of this island.” The final words panted out of her, and Gaela struggled to remain calm.
Astore kissed her, hard, and nodded against her mouth. “Yes, my love, that ferocity is pure Innis Lear,” he whispered, tugging at her.
“Let me go.” Gaela tore free, sighing deeply. “We must feast with Lear and his men.”
“Wait until the Longest Night to take the crown,” Astore said firmly. “You need the stars, Gaela, and the rootwater. You need the rituals. The people do.”
“I know,” she snapped.
He took her elbow and pulled her out into the corridor. Gaela did not bother to wipe the anger off her face, though she took his hand and held it in her own; she would not be led.
Noise rose from the great hall, raucous and pitched like a brawl. Gaela frowned, but Astore put on a smile as they entered from the stairs directly connecting his study with the hall.
Lear’s Fool danced a ragged, ridiculous dance to the clapping of half the hundred men crushed together—many were her father’s, though some wore the Astore pink. Food already filled trenchers, and the old king sat in Astore’s tall-backed chair, eating a leg of pheasant, laughing at the Fool.
They’d begun the feast without the very lord of this castle. Gaela clenched her jaw, shuddering beneath a wave of fury. What if she cut his throat and all that hot blood poured out over the high table? If she drank from a cup of wine splattered with Lear’s blood, would it be as good as bathing herself in rootwater? What would the island say then?
Astore squeezed her hand, as if he knew her mind. “Patience,” he murmured. Then he kissed her temple and grinned out at the hall as if they had intended this, calling for more wine and a loud welcome to the magnificent King Lear and his retainers.
Gaela held her peace. She had patience, yes. The patience of a wolf; the patience of red-hot coals, tucked under black ash where their fire could not yet be seen, not until it was needed.
And then everything that did not get out of her way would burn.
SEVEN YEARS AGO, HARTFARE
THE ELDEST DAUGHTER of Lear descended upon the village of Hartfare like a conqueror: back straight, shoulders spread, clad in glistening silver mail and a midnight blue gambeson over quilted trousers, thick-soled, polished boots, with a long cape rippling behind her, the Swan Star crest of Lear embroidered on it in brilliant white. Her sword hung at her hip and her shield was slung over her shoulder, reflecting dappled sunlight in flashes as her thick white horse chose careful, sure steps. She had no paint on her face, despite Regan’s insistence that it was required before considering oneself fully armored. Her dark mouth was set firm and frowning in her dark face.
The princess shifted, stretching taller atop her horse as nausea gripped her hipbones and dragged long fingers down her lower spine. She rode eyes forward, straight into the central square, ignoring the villagers’ raised hands and surprised bowing. They knew her; who could not recognize Gaela Lear, the black princess, the warrior daughter of Lear? In the corners of her eyes she noticed as those who had never seen her—or had not seen her since she’d grown tall—now marked how like a man she seemed. How like a soldier she sat, breasts
