“You were supposed to be telling stories of your own exploits,” Ban said softly, affection warming his belly beside stinging guilt.
“Ban! Ha! Worms!” Rory held out his arm. “You tell them a story about me, then.”
Ban smiled tightly, aware that though his presence didn’t quite crush the spirit of the room, he most definitely quieted it. They’d accepted him, to be sure, but he had not earned their ease. “Rory, I have an urgent matter for your ears only.”
“After, then,” Rory promised, grimacing wildly for his audience. He snaked through them, coming up to Ban. “What it is, brother?”
“Wait,” Ban said, leading Rory up into the kitchens again, and out one of the rear corridors toward the strip of earth between the kitchens and the inner stables. The evening sun shone, still high enough to glare over the outer black wall of the Keep. Ban put his shoulder to the rough wall and pulled Rory very close. “You spoke with Father as soon as you returned today?”
“Yes, I told you that, just before bathing.”
“And not again? Not recently?”
“No.” Rory’s brow wrinkled.
Ban nodded as if confirming suspicions. “Did he seem well? You parted on good terms?”
“What is going on?” the legitimate son eyed Ban crown to boot.
“He’s furious at you for something,” Ban said evenly.
“Furious? At me? What for?”
“I don’t know, but he raged at me for it, just now.”
“I must go to him. Discover the cause.”
“No, Rory, wait. He is in a killing manner. You should leave for a few days.”
“Leave! I just arrived!”
Ban took a long, calming breath. “Let me be your ambassador. Go to Brona’s house where you know you can be safe. I will send to you what I discover, and when you should return.”
Rory bit his bottom lip, as he’d done in uncertain times as a boy. It struck a blow to Ban’s conscience, but not so deep that he altered his words.
“Trust me, Rory,” he said. “Go.”
“Some villain has done me wrong,” Rory said softly.
For a moment, Ban thought he’d misjudged his brother and that Rory saw through the pretense and accused him. But no, Rory just took Ban by the shoulders and dragged him into a crushing embrace. Slowly, Ban brought his arms up. “Go armed,” he murmured, and Rory jerked.
“Armed?”
“You cannot be too careful—these are strange times. Fathers against children…”
“Like the king,” Rory whispered in a hollow, suddenly fearful tone. “He spoke of the eclipses as portents, and our father, too, was on edge over the whole business. Banishment and disloyal daughters, and some eclipses. He must be hunting danger—oh, worms of earth.”
“Yes,” Ban said through gritted teeth. Their ears pressed together.
“I go, but with your love, brother,” Rory said. “And you remain with mine.”
Ban hugged his brother, learning something himself. This was the lesson: while Ban had used his father’s greatest weaknesses against him—mistrust, bullish ambition, and obsession with star-signs—against Rory, Ban had used only virtue.
ELIA
THE BALCONY OFF Morimaros’s study was a round half-circle protected by a short marble rail carved like a trellis of fat-blooming roses. The stone blossoms trailed down the side of the tower toward the central courtyard, where Elia supposed sometimes the people of Lionis would gather to hear their king. She touched both hands to the rail and leaned out with her face raised, imagining all of Aremoria below her, a crown wound through her elaborate braids, and voluptuous layers of an orange-and-white royal wedding gown spilling over her body. Or perhaps she would wear the dark blue and white of the house of Lear. But then, she could hear Aefa insisting, Elia had always looked most beautiful in the colors of fire.
Like the sunset spread across the great spill of city hills before her.
It was a breathtaking sight, unlike any beheld on her island. Elia had believed she’d understood summer and the end of summer, before. Innis Lear held the season rather in reserve, parting warm mists and rain for moments of crystalline sunlight, and cool, lovely afternoons of wildflowers and breezes. It was a flash of a smile, appreciated more because of its fleeting nature.
But Aremoria did not let that smile pass or fade without worship. The countryside grabbed at the shortening days, made itself rabid with color. Elia was used to rusty autumn oaks and crisp browning leaves, not this wilderness of vivid green and gashed, bloody purple, nor the narrow strips of yellow as bright as topaz. The white city reflected the sky, and the rolling hills were emerald and golden fields as far as she could see beyond the city walls. Aremoria was violent with life, while Lear froze and ached at the precipice of death. She did not like to think—would not think—that lately the island seemed to court decay harder and longer, barely relinquishing winter in time for any spring.
How Elia missed her island, even so; how she longed for the desperate, dangerous beauty of churning seas, and the naked enduring mountains, and the hungry shadows of the White Forest. She tried, for a moment, to compose herself, to close off the ache for home.
“Elia,” Morimaros said from just inside his study. “I’m sorry for being late.”
Before she could turn, the king of Aremoria came behind her and put his hand delicately against her back. The touch held her open, somehow; sharpened her yearning.
“Lady, are you so unhappy here?” he asked. “I see only sadness when you look out at my city.”
She did not answer, breathing deep for calm and concentrating on the warmth of his hand. His thumb skimmed her skin, at her spine just over the collar of her dress. She had no wish, still, to marry, but how easy it would be to take what he
