“Is that the sort of king you would have my brother be?” Ianta asked.
Mars could well imagine his sister’s expression, as cool as her voice, but likely with a mocking lift to her golden eyebrows. Novanos had reported that of late, Ianta and Vindomatos played a courtship game, though it remained unclear if Vindomatos desired Ianta herself, or to marry his daughter to Ianta’s son.
Silence dragged on behind him.
“It’s the kind of king our father was, Ianta,” Mars said. Their father had always encouraged Mars to view Innis Lear as a lost piece of Aremoria that needed to be reclaimed. There was an old prophecy, though one not officially espoused since forsaking religion; it claimed that the greatest king of Aremoria would reunite the island to the mainland.
Mars did not believe in prophecy, but he did believe in the power of his people, and their loyalty. Aremoria would rejoice if he regained the island. Especially if he did it with minimal loss of Aremore lives.
So he said nothing else, waiting for someone to press with a cause. Ianta said no more, and Mars thought he should tell Ianta of Ban’s mission. It would swing her arguments to know his man worked for their interests on the island, outside of Elia and marriage.
One of the councilors tapped a boot impatiently against the marble floor. Another sighed. Mars heard the tick of a glass touch the tabletop, and the soft gurgle of pouring wine. He still did not face them.
“Sir.” It was Efica. “You should marry her, first. Hold off Burgun that way, and it will be an opportunity for all our people to celebrate. Project strength.”
With that, he agreed. Rather desperately.
Kay Oak said, “Your majesty, it will go better for Aremoria in the long term if you marry an acknowledged queen of Innis Lear, not an exiled princess.”
“That’s true, though if she gains power, when you marry her the power would still be yours,” Dekos of Mercia said.
“No, I—” Kay tried to say, but Vindomatos interrupted loudly.
“If we act now, before they’ve consolidated their rule, it will be easier and faster, with less loss of Aremore life.”
Before any else spoke, one of the entrance doors clicked and suddenly swung open. Mars turned, alert for danger, though an urgent message was the most likely interruption.
Elia Lear halted a few paces into his throne room, chin up, mouth determined, eyes wide on him. Seeing her again was a revelation.
It always was.
Taking two concerned steps toward her, Mars said, “Lady Elia?”
Straw clung to the hem of her mint-colored dress, and her brown hands were so stiff and straight at her thighs it had to be an affectation. The throne room and the people in it fell away into a gentle roar in his ears, and Mars wondered if she’d like to go with him now down into the garden, and walk among the junipers.
But Elia instead turned to face the council table.
Kayo half stood out of his delicate chair, chagrined. Elia’s nostrils flared as the Oak Earl winced, and Mars recognized, finally, her anger. Her spark. His heart flew high with hope.
Elia walked to the edge of the table, stared at every member of his council; they gazed back unconcerned, curious, irritated, and a few as chagrined as Kayo, depending on their arguments.
The princess touched the corner of the map spread across the oval table, held down by weights sculpted into ships: an elaborately painted Innis Lear and its surrounding ocean, with the shores of Aremoria just visible.
“Are you discussing my island?” she asked, too softly.
“Elia,” Kayo said, fully on his feet now, sounding conciliatory.
She held up her hand for him to stop. Carefully, she turned to face Morimaros again.
“Yes,” the king said.
“You should not discuss Innis Lear without Innis Lear present. Not only is it insulting, it seems tactically unsound.”
His heart went wild at her offended tone, and his eyes ranged over her face as if all the pieces of it were separate, as if he could read her as clearly as any battlefield; she was a mystery in that moment. His lips parted, but the king maintained his silence.
The princess’s chest lifted faster; the only signal of the depth of her upset. She lifted her brow as if to encourage him. Yes? Speak?
As if he needed her permission.
“You are correct,” Morimaros said. “I apologize, Princess.” He ignored the shifting motions of his council; indeed, he only suddenly recalled their presence.
She said, “I was grieving when I took the haven offered by the Aremore crown, and I thank you, Morimaros, for the sanctuary provided so generously by your court, and for the time to appreciate my wounds.”
Mars nodded once. Any more and he would cross the small distance to her and touch her: take her wrist, brush his hand along her jaw, put his cheek to her curls.
Elia stepped nearer. “I am finished hiding.”
It was a concession, to having been weak. Mars admired her for it.
She said, “I must be Elia of Lear today and tomorrow, and more than I was last month.” Her eyes slanted toward Kay Oak to include him, before fixing her gaze again on Mars. “And this council should know that Innis Lear is not as vulnerable as we seem. We have a royal bloodline, born of the island roots and blessed by the stars, who will fight for it, and people unwilling to be conquered.”
Her voice only trembled slightly.
Mars stepped nearer. “That is good information to have, Lady Elia,” he said with equal formality. “Perhaps this council should adjourn and you and I will continue our conversation alone.”
“Yes,” she said.
Mars reached for her hand, and she gave it. He raised her fingers, barely grazing them with his own,
