Though some old books had been written on the subject of wizarding by observers of the art, there were no practitioners in Aremore, and Ban was left without access to a teacher. Instead, he chose to learn from the trees and beasts themselves, and studied mainly through experimentation. His small corner room on the top story of the pale limestone estate smelled constantly of pine and wax; musty bats and sweet winter berry poultices; the vibrant, spicy ink made from the heartblood of trees; and fire. He worked on a wolf-skin rug turned leather up to be drawn on with charcoal; there he etched out words in the language of trees and drew circles and root diagrams to guide him. Usually a half-empty plate of cheese and bread and cold, dry meat sat nearly forgotten beside him, and a bottle of wine he never bothered pouring into a cup. When working, he wore little besides heavy wool trousers dyed the brown of the winter forest, so he might easily paint charcoal runes across his chest, or cut the shape of his name against his collarbone.
Thus Rory found him when he shoved through the door joining their rooms, stumbling slightly from all the impassioned sex and the nearly empty bottle of wine he’d so recently partaken of. Flushed and unfocused, he blinked at his older bastard brother, surprised to find Ban even less clothed than himself and covered in streaks of ash writing in the language of trees. “Are you doing magic?” he cried.
Ban frowned from the center of the wolf-skin and settled his hands on his knees. The fingers of his right hand were blackened. In his left he held a trio of black raven feathers. He did not have the patience after midnight to walk his brother through his attempt to whisper a secret to a distant cluster of ravens with a thin rope of pine smoke.
“I am, yet it is late, and I should rest.” Ban eyed his little brother: the loose trousers and bare feet, the fur-lined robe and tousled hair, the long pink scratches distorting the flare of freckles down his neck. Ban pressed his mouth together. Rory had barely been here two weeks and already had a lover—or three.
“I want to know how to do magic,” Rory breathed, kneeling beside Ban.
This wizarding belonged to Ban, it was the only thing of his own, and he did not want to invite Rory to share it. Rory already had so many things that should have been his older brother’s. Ban said, “Listening to the wind demands quietude of the heart, peaceful breathing, and willingness to be still, brother. None of which are skills you cultivate.”
“Your heart is not quiet, either, brother.”
“I can see your flush right now.”
“You just disapprove of my nightly activities.” Rory’s smile was all teasing and smug delight.
“I do, but that makes my words no less true. You’ll never learn magic if you fix your attention and passion so firmly on a course of loud spirit.”
Rory nudged Ban with his elbow. “So that is why you eschew the naked entertainments? For your magic?”
“That, but for the more obvious reason, too.”
“What?” the earlson laughed.
“You could father a bastard,” Ban hissed.
“If he’s like my brother, Ban, it would be quite the thing! I welcome it.”
The bastard scowled, but his brother threw an arm about him, still laughing, and quite obviously meaning every word. “Never fear, Ban, no power in the heavens or the roots could get my lover with child by me.”
Ban began to sneer a reply, but caught the angle of his brother’s smile. “Is that a man in there?” he asked, hushed.
“Erus Or,” Rory confided. “He is strong.”
“You have to stop, you have to be careful.” Ban gripped his brother’s arms. “Didn’t you hear of the man Connley executed for the same?”
Rory shrugged him off. “I’ll be fine. This is Aremoria, not home. Besides, Connley killed that man because he was married to Connley’s cousin and betrayed her, not because he betrayed her with another man.”
Unsettled, Ban went to the window and gripped the cold stone sill. Even if he desired to, he could never take such risks in his position, despite Morimaros’s favor, despite his success in war. All Ban had was the thin iron rod of his reputation.
And there was his golden brother Rory, laughing with the carefree certainty of his own invincibility.
This plan of Ban’s now, three years later, would do all it needed to do: ruin Errigal and tear into the island’s foundations, work toward Morimaros’s goals and prove to Elia she’d done no wrong. But most of all, it would hurt Rory, stripping away his easy confidence. Ban was a wizard revealing the truth of the world to show Rory that people are terrible sometimes and unfair, that one does not always deserve what one receives, and that there are consequences to living carelessly.
That, Ban was willing teach his brother.
The snap of leather warned Ban that his father approached, clumping up the stairs as if already upset. That would work in Ban’s favor. He crumpled the letter in his hand and put both fists over his head, elbows jutting at the window casement.
“Ban!” Errigal snapped. “What is this?”
Ban straightened, his eyes down anxiously, and hurried to tuck the false letter away, in a pocket close to his heart.
The earl was alone, dressed in casual linen and wool, a sword belt strapping his tunic down, sheathing a plain soldier’s blade. Errigal put his fist against the pommel and glowered. “Why did you put that up so quickly, son?”
“It’s nothing,” Ban said, giving a tight shake of his head. His lip throbbed where he’d cut it wrestling Rory.
“Oh ho? Then why seek to hide it from me?” Errigal came forward, large hand outstretched. “If it is nothing, then nothing shall I see.”
Ban grimaced to hide the thrill of battle rising again in his veins. “It is only a note from my brother, and I’ve not
