Elia turned and looked into his eyes. His expression left no room for whimsy or prettiness, and she wondered how a vibrant place such as this could have carved him into the serious, thoughtful man he was. But pride showed in his features, and a thin tension she was about to wind tighter. His orange leather coat hung open and casual, the tunic below untied at his neck. He wore no sword belt. The sunset lit his gaze and put fire along his bearded jaw.
“You are beautiful,” he said abruptly.
It caught her off guard, for she’d not known Morimaros to fill his own silences as if nervous. The thought that he was nervous alone with her, here on this balcony in the heart of his country and castle, was humbling as well as a thrill. Could she affect him as he did her? Could her voice set his heart pounding? She’d allowed Aefa to pamper her between the interrupted council meeting and this dinner: she bathed for too long and rubbed oil into her skin as well as her hair, until she felt soft and careful and made of the finest materials. Together they’d found a dress of sunny yellow and an overdress of meadow violet to compliment her best ribbons and lace wound into her freshly braided hair. It was sturdy and intricate enough to last a long while, especially if she wrapped it in a scarf to sleep.
Elia tried to bridle her racing thoughts, staring still breathlessly at Morimaros. “Thank you,” she managed.
He politely touched his hand to her elbow, guiding her around to the small table set for two, where he pulled the cushioned stool for her. She sat with her spine too rigid for comfort as the king leaned beside her to pour a clear yellow wine into her glass. He poured for himself, as well, before sitting across from her. At that silent signal, a duo of footmen emerged from the study with plates covered in cheeses, smears of jam and honey, and thin slices of smoked and salted fish.
Sparrows fluttered overhead, and Morimaros explained that he would come here as a boy to read his father’s treatises and lessons, and had begun feeding the birds. His sister named this balcony Mars’s Cote because of it. Elia watched how his mouth relaxed in the telling, as he spoke of his family with such obvious affection. This king was charming, but she felt a sadness reminiscent of envy. She wished she could relax into sharing a meal with him, to think merely of enjoying his company as if she too belonged here, another sparrow come home to roost and be comforted. But Elia could not forsake Innis Lear.
“The news from my sisters is not good,” she said, setting down a thin layer of unleavened bread she’d spread with apricot preserves.
He frowned, his glance flickering west, toward her island.
“My father has not changed his mind, or given any sign he means to. I fear—I fear my exile is not temporary.”
“From where does his madness spring, do you know?”
Elia took a small, hasty sip of wine. She set it down and folded both hands around the stem. “You have heard the story of my mother’s death?”
“That it was predicted by the stars.”
“That day, after she died, I have never felt such inconsolable despair, and I was so young. It was all my father, his feelings, and then my sisters both, spilling out onto me, all around me. My father gave what he could to me, and the island, but mostly to me.”
Morimaros took a breath, as if to speak, but remained silent.
“I was all he had, and the stars took so much from him. My mother, his brothers to make him king, his vocation. Can you imagine what that leaves a man, who then must try to be the king he is destined to be? The stars have been his only, only constant. Of course he can’t unlock himself from their prophecies, for fear of losing everything again.”
“Still,” the king said darkly, “he chose them over you, and set his kingdom on a path toward upset.”
“Better to push me away than have me torn from him because he does not do as the stars decree.” Elia forced her eyes up from the goblet. “Do you intend to invade Innis Lear?”
“If I must.”
The answer hardened her heart, squeezing out the prick of disappointment she felt, too. “What would make you think you must?”
His mouth pulled down. “Do you know what I saw, those waiting days in your father’s court?”
She met his eyes, nodding permission for him to continue, though she did not think she wanted to hear.
“A thin, rigid power, cracking in all the wrong places. Your father is a terrible king.”
Elia gasped in shock. “You know so much better?” she said angrily.
“I had a better example. My father was a good king. Perhaps your father was once, but no longer.”
She gripped her own arms. He spoke so matter-of-factly! Loyalty and love warred inside her against the need to understand, the need for change. She said, “My sisters are strong.”
“Dual queens will not hold, not when they do not act in complete accord.”
“They will, on the matter of keeping Innis Lear independent from you.”
Morimaros shook his head. “I had letters today, too. From Gaela and her husband Astore, as well as Connley. None of them agreed on their approach to me or even what they want from Aremoria.”
“What did they say?” she asked, too tentatively.
“Gaela warned me to keep my distance, saying that any action from me, including marrying you, would be seen as hostile. Astore asked me to back them against Connley, and offered me assurances of alliance if I do, when Astore is
