The Queens of Innis Lear

direction of Hartfare, where he could find shelter. Then Ban returned home, to lie to his father that Rory had fled. Errigal’s rage and grief had been wild, and this morning before dawn, Ban had left his still-drunken father, to lead several parties of men out hunting Rory’s trail. It had been no difficulty to whisper at the trees and ask a handful of crows to divert them all from any path that had his brother’s trace. By the sun’s zenith, they’d all split off, and Ban was alone. He took the opportunity to sink into the forest, to give some blood to the roots of the trees and say hello. Messages had arrived from his mother, on the wings of moths and kisses of wind. Then Regan had come.

“Did you find him? Did he give you that wound on your arm?” she asked.

Ban nodded, though he’d done it himself, knowing how to cut to make it seem enemy-inflicted. He sighed to make his voice breathy. “We fought, but he got away, running.”

Regan paused to touch his cheek where Ban had used his long knife to flick some drops of blood.

She smoothed her thumb down his rough jaw, then continued on.

Together they walked out over the moor toward Errigal Keep, past the iron chimneys. Their linked hands stretched between them. At the gate to the Keep, a bloodred flag for Connley had joined the winter blue banners of Errigal.

Ban needed to make a report for Morimaros.

But first, he would meet the duke, and lie to his father.

He escorted Lady Regan through the ward and into the old great hall, but that was not where the duke and earl were to be found. No, they’d retired to the former library, which had been Errigal’s study since his wife returned to her family some ten years ago.

The small windows overlooked the northernmost, narrowest section of the ward, from the rampart wall and up the rocky, barren mountain toward sheer blue sky. It was stark and beautiful, and very much emblematic of the iron backbone of Innis Lear.

Errigal slumped in his large chair beside the hearth, where a massive fire danced and snapped. A wide cup of wine was cradled in his lap; Errigal shook his head and muttered quietly. Connley stood at the windows.

When Ban and Lady Regan entered, Errigal hardly twitched, but Connley turned immediately.

The duke was a tall man, though not broad, with a fine posture and a gleaming wardrobe, several years older than Ban. Sunlight from the window brought out the rich gold in his hair and highlighted a break in his long nose, found the sharp corner of his lips. Connley wore no beard, and needed none—with such a charming smile he would wish nothing to hide its edges. Though striking already, the cut of his red velvet tunic only made the duke seem more bold, a daring figure with gold and jewels across his chest, at his belt and on his fingers, and in small chains around the ankles of his boots. The duke’s sword rested in a strapped sheath that did not protect the blade from wear, but showed off the shine and perfection of its steel. Ban judged him both proud and dangerous, recalling stories of Connley’s cold temper: anger or betray him, and your life would end swift and sudden. Loyalty, it was said, held together Connley bones.

Having him here would surely help Errigal turn entirely against Rory, though also make this game a more deadly one for Ban’s brother. He would have to work hard to keep Rory far away from the duke’s reach.

Ban bowed then, his scrutiny complete; Regan strode across the wooden floor toward her husband.

In his arms, she became as shining and perfect as the sword at his side. Not a witch, but a sleek weapon for drawing rooms and the great hall, a perfect halberd nailed to the wall as the promise of penalty, the seductive weight of implied violence. The duke kissed her lightly on the mouth, and Ban thought of her trouble carrying a child. It must weigh heavily on both of them. He would help, if he could, for it would not interfere with Morimaros’s plans. He tried not to wonder at his own motives.

Regan turned in Connley’s arms to say, “Here is Ban the Fox, my love. He escorted me out of the forest.”

“Ah, Ban!” Errigal lurched to his feet before the duke could speak, dropping the cup of wine. “Did you find that traitor, who was my son?”

“Sir,” Regan said coolly, “your son here bleeds. I tended his wound as best I could, but it should be seen by your surgeon.”

“Ban! Did the villain do that to you?”

It was easy for Ban to appear overwhelmed, trapped here in the middle of these three. Duke Connley stared at him with sharp blue-green eyes. Ban said, his gaze on Connley, but with words for his father, “He is responsible, sir, yes, but…”

Errigal’s face went red under his beard. “That traitor! Ah, Connley, what a time for you to be here. And yet, I was right: I told you I was right to fear the worst. My own true son fled for treason—for plotting to do me harm!—and still here my natural son stayed behind, loyal and what! Injured for his brother’s vile sake.”

Ban clenched his teeth over his father’s bloviating, but he fought to keep contempt from his voice and expression as he spoke. “I found him, Father, I found my brother and accused him—I could not help myself—and insisted he return with me. I said he must answer to you for what he wrote against you, and he said…” Ban shut his eyes as if feeling some inner pain. In truth, it was no acting: he felt that bite, though he had not expected to. Holding the king of Aremoria clear in his heart, Ban continued, “He said if I brought him home he would say it all came from me. He would put the