FIVE YEARS AGO, HARTFARE
KAY OAK WALKED alone.
Despite the perfect afternoon, the peaceful clouds so high overhead, every breath was agonizing.
He’d not rested since leaving the wedding ceremony at Connley Castle, but instead taken a horse and ridden hard west, unthinking, a weight like murky water pressing down and all around him, darkening his vision. The horse moved under his urging, into the White Forest, and Kayo only knew to aim for the center, the heart of the woods, where there would be sign in the form of tattered cloth hanging from branches.
He’d never been to Hartfare, and not spoken with Brona in years. Not since that night of his sister’s year memorial, when the witch had told him everything he’d missed while working his trade routes. When the witch—this island—had broken his heart. But he knew the path to her lost village, as everyone did, from songs and rumors.
The blue cloth markers appeared, and he allowed the horse its head for a while. Once they reached the village, he slid off, dropped the reins, and walked on, past curious women and children, and some few men, past barking dogs delighted to meet someone new, past cottages and finely tended gardens and smoking fires. They pointed silently the way to the witch, knowing without asking why Kayo had come.
The door to Brona’s cottage was shut, and he leaned against it, slumping with his forehead to the grainy wood. Beneath his forehead, the door shifted, opening. Kayo stood, lips parted, dark eyes wide.
Brona was there, luscious and tall and numinous.
He said, “I didn’t know where else to go.”
She took one of his hands and led him inside, closing the door behind them.
Daylight poured in through small, square windows, and the fire was low in the hearth. Brona wore a plain blouse and striped skirt, with a bodice loosely holding it all together, tied with violet ribbons. Her feet were bare. She put him at the long table near the fire, on a bench, and silently set about making a plate of food. Kayo slouched wearily, staring at her, feeling dull and undone.
But his pulse had slowed, and gradually his breath evened.
Brona gave him a small crescent pie stuffed with turnips, onions, and savory gravy and set a jug of ale between them, along with two cups. She poured, and they drank.
Kayo ate the pie carefully, letting the simple flavors ground him, and watched Brona’s face. She remained as beautiful as she had been six years ago: dark hair unbound around her tan, freckled face; soft everywhere but the corners of her eyes and the sharp slash of her black brows. Her mouth was too plump not to think of ripe figs.
He’d not tasted a fig since leaving the Third Kingdom.
A shudder passed through Kayo and he finished his food, licking the last crumbs from his thumb. He reached for the ale and drank. All while the witch studied him.
She poured a second helping of ale and said, “I have heard Regan’s wedding was beautiful, though they infuriated the king by sharing a bowl of rootwater.”
“They did, and it did,” he said slowly, suspecting the trees themselves must have whispered the news to her, for no human messenger could have beaten him to her door.
The witch slid his cup nearer to him and cradled her own. “I am here, Kay Oak.”
“I … don’t know what to do,” he said. “Tell me what my sister would wish me to do. All is falling to pieces, and I don’t know that I’ve done any good here.” His own voice was unrecognizable to him, tight with desperation. He hid his face in his hands. Both his elder nieces were married now, to enemies that would tear apart this island—and he couldn’t see how to stop them. Particularly that slick son of salt, Tear Connley. Kayo slammed his hands flat on the table. “And by my sister’s word, I cannot tell Regan why it is so wrong that she married Connley!”
“I know,” Brona murmured. She put her hands atop his. “I know, Kay. And Regan would not listen, if you could.”
He dragged in a deep breath. “My land is dying. And the lands around mine, too. The shepherds must take their flock higher and higher, farther inland toward this forest, because even the moors do not make thick enough blankets of food. The past two years my cows have birthed fewer and fewer calves. The trees blossom only half the time, depending on how far they live from the heart of Innis Lear.”
The witch nodded. “The island pulls inward, to consolidate its power since our king closed the navels and ended all the root blessings.”
“What is to be done? I feel this island in my bones, Brona. I feel the promise I made to Dalat, and I despair.”
“As do I, Kayo.”
“Brona…”
“Wait, and be strong. It will be the right time, when Elia is older.”
His pulse gasped. “Elia! Elia is a shadow of herself, and untouchable. I should take her, spirit her away to the home of our mothers, and save her, if that is the only possible thing.”
“What would she be in the land of your mothers?” Brona asked.
“A granddaughter of the empress, beloved at least, and encouraged to thrive. Her father, stars protect him, strangles her with his devotion.”
“But what would her potential be?”
“Whatever she wished. You cannot know what it is like in the Third Kingdom. Women are … you are the strength and hearts of the world. You rule it and we know why, there deep in the desert.”
Brona smiled a little.
Kayo pushed on, “Her people are there, too. Elia would be among her own. Less rare, but less burdened, too.”
“Does she want to leave?”
“No.” Frustrated, he made his hands into fists. “But she can’t know what it would be like. She’s never known anything but Innis Lear. She’s only
