And Rory Errigal smiled always.
Even at his grim bastard brother.
Ban fought against the tug of a smile on his own face, wondering how long it would be before Rory saw and recognized him. They’d served together in Aremoria for two years, until Rory’d been called home last year to serve in the king’s retainers. They had not seen each other since.
“Curan!” called Rory. “Hello!”
The wizard nodded at the two young men and one woman currently working another bloom free of another fire, then turned to face the young lord, wiping his hands on his leather apron. “My lord Rory, welcome home.”
“I wasn’t quite sure what the trees were saying as I rode in, but I see now they were welcoming new iron.” Rory strode over, having dropped the reins so his horse heaved a sigh and meandered slowly after him, casting several long looks toward the Keep and her eventual stable.
“You’re out of practice listening,” Curan said.
“So it happens with the king’s retainers.” Rory shrugged as it if they were not discussing forbidden magic. Always so certain he is untouchable, Ban thought, amazed.
Rory said, “This is your crop of apprentices? Is Allan still here? I heard he married and left our valley.”
“Allan is—”
“Saints’ teeth!”
All the wind seemed to quiet, even, and the hissing of fires and clang of hammers, at the shock in Rory Errigal’s voice. His powerfully blue eyes widened. “Ban?”
Ban reluctantly passed his tongs to another student and wiped his hand over his cracking, muddy hair. “Hello, brother.”
Before aught else but a merry cry, Rory threw himself forward, flinging his considerable muscle mass against Ban. Ban stumbled; Rory caught him with an elbow around the neck, and like that the two brothers hit the ground in a full wrestle.
If they were to greet each other in the way of dogs, so be it, Ban thought viciously, and fought back hard. Ban was not as strong or bulky as his brother, but he was fast and smart and practiced at these games. He would not let Rory have this easily.
Rory grunted a laugh of surprise the first time Ban almost slipped free, their legs still tangled and bracketed together. Ban twisted his entire body to gain the upper hand, but he could not quite keep hold against Rory. They rolled, scraping hands and knees and chins on the rough mountain path, and Ban tasted blood in his mouth. He hissed like a badger or a furious snake, and Rory cried out, “For Errigal!” before throwing his shoulder into Ban’s gut with another laugh.
Breath snuffed out, Ban heaved and gasped, half thrown over his brother’s shoulder, then managed to turn his flail into a firm stomp of his boot against Rory’s thigh.
Rory fell.
They both went down.
Rory tried to throw Ban out of his way, but managed to land partially atop him anyway, and Ban flung out his arms, flat on his back and barely breathing. Blood slicked down his chin from a cut inside his lip.
Overhead, the sun and tapestry of clouds turned slow, dizzy circles.
They’d been like this as boys, after Errigal stole Ban from Hartfare and his mother when he was ten: wrestling, running about together, climbing trees, foraging, playing at swords, often with the youngest daughter of Lear as a pretty third. While Elia had loved Ban despite his situation, Rory hadn’t seemed to even notice what that situation was. It had frustrated Ban, then, but he’d loved his brother for never making him feel small.
Ban blinked. It was a long time ago, years and several wars since. But Rory likely remained as unaware as ever of the bitterness in Ban’s heart. The privilege of ignorance—yet one more advantage never accorded to a bastard.
Rory groaned and turned his head to look at Ban from one eye. “You learned some tricks!”
“Give me a sword and I’ll win,” Ban gasped. He couldn’t move his legs, trapped as they were under his brother.
“Ha!” Rory shoved up with his hands, pinching Ban’s legs in the process. Ban was delighted to see a smear of blood on Rory’s cheek, dirt ground into it.
He sat up, felt the heat of battle expanding through his core, and the promise of bruises and pulls he wouldn’t truly know until he woke up the next morning. It was good, and refreshing. Familiar, too.
Ban offered Rory his hand. The brothers leveraged their weight to stand up together.
Curan crossed massive arms over his chest. “You can be done for the day, Fox, in perhaps an hour.”
Chagrined, he agreed.
“You’re learning iron magic?” Rory’s voice held, predominantly, curiosity, yet also a tight hint of a darker thing.
“I am,” Ban answered cautiously.
“Well! I need a shower.” Rory clapped his hand too hard on Ban’s back. “And to see Father and tell him my news.”
“News?” Ban repeated.
“Gossip more like, and letters from Astore.”
“I’ll go right after you, when I see to my bloom.”
Rory smiled, nodded to Curan, and headed for his patient horse.
With unaccustomed fondness, Ban watched Rory lead the mare down the unobtrusive rocky path to the Keep’s rear wall.
A wind blew suddenly out of the north, bringing a voice from the White Forest: Ban, it called. Ban Fox, Ban Errigal, Ban, Ban, Ban!
He looked, along with Curan and every one of the apprentice iron wizards.
Son!
His mother called him to her. Ban grimaced, avoiding Curan’s curious eye. He was not ready to go to Hartfare, not yet, not before he set his games in solid motion. Brona would tease the truths out of him, attempt to convince him to stop. That, Ban would not do.
Shrugging off his thoughts, Ban turned to care for the iron.
* * *
BAN TOOK THE worn, black stone steps up to his chambers two at a time, eager to bathe and find his brother again. The Keep bustled with sudden preparations for a feast in Rory’s honor, to welcome him home.
There’d been no such feast for the older Errigal son’s return.
Ban shook away the hurt as best he
