It had always existed—the emptiness, the ruined promise that had most defined her in life, though to say so might have surprised many who knew her, if not those who loved her best.
The clinging loss was what helped her to remember the edges of a life shredded by death, helped her stitch a homunculus of a self together again, to remember a name. Not her own name. A name.
Connley, she wailed, scouring Innis Lear for him again. She’d lost him twice before, and thought, where thinking was possible, it might not happen this time because he said, he swore, to never leave her.
Her fingers raked through the thick canopy of trees, tearing leaves and breaking branches. She stomped and screamed, though no storm followed her wake, across the whole of Innis Lear. (Not near the Tarinnish, never that black lake, where the other one like her drifted and sang.) Her voice grated across the Jawbone Mountains and clawed into the moors, souring milk in pails, shattering glass, driving the birds from their nests in great flocks that blackened the sky.
The crows yelled back at her, and she ripped at their feathers; a silver eagle dove at her, but there was nothing to grasp in its talons, nothing to bite.
Water bubbled up in every well, gurgling with distress, smelling cold and angry.
The Poison Prince of Innis Lear ran from his bed to stand at the heart of Lear’s Teeth and call her by name. He stepped hard onto the island earth, blasting a wave of power from his center, and commanded, Be calm.
The wind died.
The well waters shivered with tiny ripples.
A crow yelled back at him, and its siblings arced in a motley cluster to land on the dark ruin of an ancient keep encircled by a newer, brighter castle.
The Ashling ghost wept.
CHARM
Lionis, early autumn
THE FULL MOON blazed over a brightly lit Lionis Palace.
Torches burned in the People’s Courtyard, warm as day, and long candles glowed from silver sconces lining the grand corridors. Firelight flickered along orange tapestries and velvet drapes, and gleamed against the limestone walls. The night itself was made white and orange, reflecting Aremore glory.
But Charm was distracted from the patriotic display because he’d never been in any place quite so full of men. He’d lived in army encampments along the River of All, visited smoking parlors, and the cat gardens, too: certainly there were places in Es Iniphet Es where men congregated in numbers that overwhelmed the girls and Mothers. On the various ships Charm had traveled upon to arrive in Aremoria, the sailors had been uniformly non-Mothers, their dress and attitude such that he’d had trouble telling the men from the girls frequently enough to stop trying. He’d used formal ambiguous address and none appeared to take offense as a Mother might.
The Lionis Palace reception room, however, was crushed with men in the richly appointed tunics, jackets, and trousers Aremore folk considered particularly masculine in flavor. Their velvets, fine wool, dyed and embroidered linen, gold and polished gemstone jewelry, and leather boots, gloves, and even light coats marked these men to be of the highest class. Women were present, too, in floor-dragging gowns to impede any urgent movement, their jewelry and hair more elaborate than their husbands’, sons’, brothers’, as was fitting at least. The braids looped loosely in ways that would never suit the hair of the oldest people, and Aremore hair colors ranged from yellow and gold to the russet of sunset and gleaming dark brown. Charm’s eyes were more used to searching for nuances in shades of brown and black, subtle bone structure and the tuck of an eyelid, the occasional gray eyes of a Godsman, or melon-pale skin and red freckles a rare prize.
Queen Celeda of Aremore waited at the far end of the reception hall upon a dais hung with orange. The gilded throne behind her was delicate but imposing, with lions carved into the arms and clawed legs. The queen smiled at Charm but said nothing, waiting tall and elegant as a date palm in red.
His aunt was introduced as Elodisil Honored of the line of the Great Mother of the Third Kingdom, the Luminous Phetira as herself, and he merely Echarmet of Kurake Queen, for a son of even a queen’s line needed no further designation. In turn they were given the names of two dozen royal Aremore cousins, councillors, and dignitaries. Elodisil greeted all and spoke eloquently of their easy travels and appreciation of the beauty of Lionis. His aunt offered thanks for the welcome, then on Charm’s behalf, being the highest ranking of their party, she presented gifts from Elophet and Kurake Queen for their well-missed friend and named-sister Celedrix. There were gifts for her children, too: Tigirsenna, the youngest; Vatta, the second-daughter; and Prince Calepia of course.
But the first daughter of Aremoria was not there to receive them.
ONCE THE FORMALITIES were passed, Charm and his aunt were invited to a more intimate conversation with only Celedrix, her children (those two present, at least), and a few of her favored courtiers.
They were led through a hidden side door in a striped wall panel beside the throne dais, into a matching portrait gallery with tall windows that overlooked a courtyard garden. Darkness and firelight transformed the window glass into rippling flames, casting eerie light upon the staring faces of former kings.
The moment the door shut behind them, Celeda smiled. “Charm,” she said warmly, while behind her the portraits watched him. In the unsettling light, he realized he was being judged by a heavy Aremore history.
“Moon And Shadow,” he said in the Mother-tongue. He would not be cowed, for he was worthy of this room and everything it represented.
Celeda stepped forward to embrace him, and Charm gave in gladly. The queen’s slender arms tightened around his shoulders and one hand reached up to his head, but she recalled herself in time: carefully applied yellow and orange clay powder had transformed his corona into a sunburst. Charm wouldn’t have minded if she’d mussed the stripes; she’d been a Father to him for nearly a decade, teaching him so much about action and honor, and he loved her. He’d forgive her almost anything.
They parted and she touched his cheek, then pinched his earlobe just over the lapis ring. “Oh, it is good to have you here. All of you,” she added, including Elodisil and Phetira in her welcome. Phetira murmured a prayer of introduction, and Elodisil leaned forward to brush her cheek to Celeda’s.
“Vatta, come here,” the queen said, holding out a pale hand to her second-daughter. Vatta’s skin was a breath darker than her mother’s, though her hair was the same. Her face was more oval and soft, her eyes tilted down toward her nose as her father’s must have. If her looks were any indication of Prince Calepia’s, Charm would be well pleased, however little desire might be mutual between them.
“I am glad to meet you, Princess Vatta,” Charm said.
Her cheeks flushed prettily as a glassflower. “I have heard much of you from my sister and mother, Prince Echarmet, and every word of it to your credit.”
Charm smiled and bowed over her hand in the Aremore fashion. It caused a ringing in the intricate silver harness he wore over his red linen. The metal molded in careful strips to his torso, shaping him handsomely, with the added function of armored protection, and across his back provided latches for the sheathes of his Sun and Moon swords.
Vatta, too, wore red, as did Celeda and Tigir—though theirs was a hotter tone, close to the burnt orange of their flag. He liked that they wore complementary colors of state, as if he were already part of the family.
“I apologize for my first-daughter,” Celeda said coolly, though the glance shared between Vatta and Tigir belied her calm. “Calepia is deliberate, and her rule will benefit from such a trait if she manages to find a sense of duty.”
Aunt Elodisil offered Celeda her bright moon smile. “Kurake was much the same as a youth, though she found her way when duty necessitated it.”
The queen nodded in appreciation of the kindness, and ministers burst in then with crystal glasses of wine, trays of snacks, and some stools.
Charm perched carefully, glad the seats were backless, and it occurred to him Celeda had expect
ed his swords, and planned for them. Affection warmed him, and he lifted his wine to salute her, reciting a family blessing in the Mother-tongue. Celeda lifted her glass in return, as did all those in the room, and then Charm gave his best translation for Vatta and any who were not fluent. It took several more words and fell less gracefully from his lips, but he managed:
“The blades of a single sword that cut in two directions never meet each other, but always guard each other’s backs.”
Vatta clapped, pleased, and Tigir asked her mother if she might train again with the Moon and Sun swords.
“Perhaps with Charm himself,” Celeda said, “If he would be so generous.”
“I would love it, and the princess Vatta, if she is interested,” Charm said.
“Oh yes, Mother.”
Celeda agreed, and shot Charm a brief look of approval.
The warmth in his spirit near glowed. Anything that Prince Calepia presented would be a worthwhile challenge for the reward of this family. Charm asked if Celeda sill practiced with her own swords; he was surprised she did not go armed and adorned, for she was a great warrior both here and at home. In fact, it had been Celeda who put a sword into his eleven-year-old hand when she first arrived in Es Iniphet Es, looking for shelter, friends, and purpose.
They had become each other’s purpose in many ways. And here, twelve years later, their efforts would come to fruition. She—and Aremoria—would gain a son of Elophet’s daughter-line, and Charm a crown of his own.
PRINCE HAL
Tenne-Tiras, early autumn
SOME CLAIMED THE Witch Elm of Tenne-Tiras had been a sapling when the furious wizard Lear cleaved her island from Aremoria a thousand years ago. Those of the Royal Libraries expert in trees thought it unlikely the elm was so ancient, though they admitted there were occasions in which they could not explain certain arboreal phenomena, especially when the trees in question grew near springs, beside old standing stones, or carried names like the Witch Elm of Tenne-Tiras.
The exact age didn’t matter to those who believed the tree to be blessed by earth saints or possibly the final resting place of an old king of the earth, now dancing and drinking in one of the castles beneath the hills. Folk of Tenne-Tiras village welcomed pilgrims and seekers of healing to their valley and pointed such people in the direction of the narrow path through their cow fields and past a grotto of flowering willows, to the crumbling well and gnarled old elm. Many came to pray or give offerings in order to keep happy the earth saints, though fewer now than two hundred years ago. The worship of the dead and prayer to the earth saints was no longer officially practiced in this country, relegated to only the most devout family lines, the most subtle farmers, herb witches who understood the relationship between respect for the land and stewardship of it, and the whims of bored nobility.
Or in this case, a reckless prince and her foolish companions.
Hal had wandered the forest for hours this past spring, listlessly hunting for the storied tree before thinking to ask any of the local folk for directions. They’d enthusiastically showed her the path.
It was a full moon tonight, and silver fingers of its light reached through the limbs of the surrounding trees. Crickets buzzed and a trio of frogs chirped at each other from three different angles. No other sound penetrated the shadowy grove; even the wind was still. Every subtle shift of Hal’s boot or shrug to resettle her cloak made a grating noise in the silence. Beside her, Nova held just as quiet, though while Hal’s silence was reverent, Nova’s was disinterested.
The Witch Elm rose at the north of the grove, with wrinkles and fissures in its gray-brown trunk giving it a glow of wisdom. This time of year its sharp leaves remained green, but its flowers had gone, replaced by tiny seeds encased in winged pouches and clustered along its branches. Those seeds shivered in no wind Hal could feel.
Candles had been secured to the roots and boles like natural altars, stuck in place with their own melted wax. Ribbons in blue, white, and yellow hung from the tree, tied with pendants and little bells. It was said that when the bells rang, the Witch Elm granted a prayer.
There were candles, too, pressed along the rim of the well in the center of the grove; a stubby, short thing built of crumbling limestone. The candles were set in the four cardinal directions, just over carved hash-marks in the language of trees; Hal did not know how to read them, though she guessed they said, daywise, nightwise, starwise, earthwise, which were the ancient words for east, west, north, and south. Still what they were called in Learish.
It was desperation, she acknowledged, that brought her to this witch tree, desperation and a ridiculous spirit. Riot, her mother would say. Saints and wormshit, her mother was going to be furious Hal was gone from Lionis tonight, but it was the closest full moon to the equinox and every star priest and itinerant iconographer and even a royal historian she’d pinned down in the library agreed that the best time to reach the earth saints was at a full moon near one of the quarter marks. The historian had offered to show her an annotated list of encounters with earth saints, but Hal only had time to ask how often the human in question survived. It had been a discouragingly low percentage.
Hal needed this to work.
She needed help.
With a huff of effort, Lady Ianta shoved her way into the grove and planted fists on her fat hips. She tilted her face up to the highest crown of the elm. “Hello, friend,” the old knight said in a rumble, then yawned, showing her teeth and tongue. Ianta rolled her neck and took a skin of sack from her belt. She unstoppered it and dribbled some onto the dry earth at her toes. “What a night, Hal. Here is a taste for Saint Elegar, whose heart was found in six pieces, at six different trees in ancient Aremoria, all beating still.”
“Morbid,” Nova murmured.
“What do we do?” Hal asked Ianta, ignoring the other woman.
“Do what I do,” Ianta said. Hal followed her to the well, where Ianta leaned over and spat into the depths. Ianta waited for a long moment, staring down as if she might see her destiny at the base, or find a reflection of distant water. Her wide-brimmed hat shifted, and Ianta moved fast to catch it, then tossed it to the earth and shook her hair out. The voluminous silvering curls bounced.
Hal leaned over the rim of the well, too, and spat. They did not do this in Lionis, at the cathedral well, but she’d read about it. She glanced across the moonlit grove to Nova, who shrugged and remained leaning against a young oak near the path. A shift of her glance downward taught Hal the younger woman was nervous.
“Now, this.” Ianta carried herself to the north face of the elm. She handed Hal her skin of sack, then pulled from her pocket a bundle of leather she unwrapped to reveal a glass vial and a mound of dried petals. She scattered the petals and knelt upon the leather with a grunt. The knight’s hair turned to threads of moonlight and her round cheeks puffed as she took a deep breath, held it, then let it stream out in a long sigh.
She held out her hand for the sack, took a long drink, then opened the vial and poured out a dark line of liquid onto the roots of the tree. “Blessings, from one old bitch to another.” Ianta laughed. She put a palm to the elm’s trunk. “I ask you to hear the words of this sad friend, to keep me in health as much as I earn, that I may live to see Hal on the throne. I ask you keep Celeda strong, because that one always misjudged her friends, and she needs her strength for the next few years. All the stars cry foul and danger, and Celedrix is no star-ordained queen, to weather upheaval alone or well at all.”
Taking another drink, Ianta spat her sack onto the roots. “My waters and my heart, to yours. I ask you, saints of the earth, to be patient with your faithless country. There are still folk who remember you, even in the palace itself. Like this prince, who comes to ask you for blessings tonight, her virgin appeal. Be kind to her, and do not whisper to her of death: let her dreams be peaceful ones.”
“Ianta,” Hal whispered, overcome with affection and shame.
“Come here, Hal, and talk to her. Give her yo
ur hand, and your honest request.”
Feeling foolish, Hal knelt and put her hand next to Ianta’s on the gray bark. “Um.”
After a moment of continued silence, Hal took a long drink of the sweet wine. With sack gentle on her tongue, she closed her eyes. “I ask—I ask you to listen to me, for I am your friend. Is King Morimaros one of you? I want to know what he—what you—want from me. I want to bargain.”
“Wormshit, Hal, don’t say that word.” Ianta shoved her with her thick shoulder. “You can’t bargain with earth saints. I thought you came out here to ask for a blessing! I thought you wanted to be respectful.”
“I do respect this, that’s why I’m afraid of them!”
Nova said, her voice a thin snap, “You shouldn’t fear anything, Prince of Riot.”
Hal curled her fingers harder against the bark, then with a small cry of frustration dropped her hand onto her thigh. “Please, earth saints, I’m the prince of Aremoria—like she said, the Prince of Riot, and a prophecy named me a lion, the lion. Morimaros appeared beside my mother and stared at me. I know you want me—us—to be something, to do something, and I want to do it for Aremoria, with Aremoria. But I don’t know how. What does Aremoria need from me, saints of the earth? Do you want me to break? More than I—than I already have? What do you really want? If you’d just tell me, maybe I could help you!”
Wind gusted, ringing the Witch Elm’s tiny bells; moon-white seedlings shook free and drifted down over Hal and Ianta. Hal laughed, a little hysterical, but Ianta sucked in a worried breath.
The prince used the tree to climb wobblingly to her feet. Her temples throbbed and the sweet remnants of sack soured in her throat.
Ianta grabbed her shoulder. “You need to calm down.”
“Why?” Hal jerked free. She flung out her arms. “There’s nothing to be calm about,” she cried as loudly as she could. “A man just arrived in Lionis to be my fucking husband, and the woman I love abandoned me, and my oldest friend is probably plotting against my mother, and even if she isn’t she’s gone, too! Nobody will let me just drink and whore in peace like they do you, they expect me to be a prince, and I have to be, Ianta—for the sake of this whole land! For the sake of my mother and sisters, who will die if we aren’t strong. I never got to choose this, but now if I don’t do it perfectly everyone I love could die, I’ll die, and here I am talking to a tree! A tree! If—fuck!”
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