The Queens of Innis Lear

by Tessa Gratton

  The youngest princess faltered back from the vitriol, knocking into a wall of leather and muscle: the king of Aremoria. His even, shrewd gaze leveled over her head and landed fully on her father.

  “It seems, Lear,” Morimaros said, calm and clear, “Quite strange that this girl to whom you previously vowed the greatest of affections should in the course of not even an hour strip away every layer of love you once felt. What incredible power she has to erase a lifetime of feeling in one rather quiet moment.”

  “When she was my daughter, I thought her power was that of the moon when it darkens the sun, as her mother’s was,” Lear said, sour and sad. “I thought she would be my comfort and queen, as her mother was. Now she is nothing, worth nothing.”

  Morimaros turned his gaze off the king and put the full weight of it onto the daughter. “This woman is her own dowry.”

  “Take her, then,” Lear said nastily. “She is yours, mine no longer or ever again.”

  “Father,” said Elia.

  “No!” The king covered his eyes, clawed his face. “No father to you, for you cannot be my daughter Elia. My daughter Elia should have been queen, but she is nothing!”

  “No!” Elia cried. It was the loudest she had ever been.

  Even Gaela and Regan seemed surprised: the one grimacing, the other with her lips coolly parted.

  Kayo said, “Lear, you cannot be—”

  “Silence, Oak Earl. I loved her most, yet when I need her, she turns on me. She should have been queen!” Lear flung himself back onto his throne so hard it shifted with a groan.

  Kayo strode forward and went to his knees before the throne. “My king, whom I have ever loved and respected as both my liege and my brother, do not be hasty.”

  “Would you put yourself in my furious sights now, Kayo?” demanded Lear. He turned to Connley and Astore. “You two, divide this island between yourselves, in equal parts. All of it to you and your issue with my daughters. Gaela and Regan both be all the queens of Lear! There are no others!”

  “Lear!” yelled the Oak Earl, slowly stretching to his feet. “I will challenge this, I will speak. Even if you tear at my heart, too. I chose this island and your family—our family!—long ago. I have defended your countenance against rumors and detractors, but now you are acting the madman all say you’ve become. My service to you—and to Dalat—insists I speak against this wildness. You are rash! Giving two crowns will destroy this island, and for God’s sake, Elia does not love you least.”

  “On your life, be quiet.” The king closed his eyes as if in pain.

  “My life is meant to be used against your enemies, Lear, and right now you are your own enemy.” Kayo ground out the last between his teeth.

  “Get out of my sight, both of you—go together if you must, but do not be here.”

  “Let me remain, Brother Lear.”

  “By the stars—”

  “The stars are false gods if they tell you to do this thing!”

  Lear leapt to his feet again with a cry of rage.

  Astore dove between the king and Kayo. “Be careful,” he said to the Oak Earl.

  But Kayo shoved him away, angry as the king. He cried, “My sister, your wife, would hate you for this, Lear. She died for your stars, man! Was that not enough? And now you give over your kindest, best daughter? How can you? How dare you? And divide your island? Do this and you undercut everything wise and good you have ever done! One heir is all! Make one of them the queen, or this island will tear apart, and do not abandon Elia, who loves you best!”

  Lear put his nose to Kayo’s, making them two sides of a raging coin. “You say you chose us, but you do not act it. You do not believe in my stars, you do not cleave to my will, and despite always saying otherwise, you have taken no wife or rooted in your lands here. Always half here and half away, Kayo! You said you were mine, but you never were. You never were!” The king’s mouth trembled. “Go to the god of your Third Kingdom, Kayo. You have the week to be gone, and if you are seen in Lear after that, you will die for heresy.”

  The king’s shoulders heaved and pink blotches marred his cheeks. Before him Kayo bowed his head.

  Silence dropped like rain, scattered and in pieces all around, smothering everything.

  None in the great hall moved, horror and shock rippling throughout. Gaela bared her teeth until Astore put his hand to her shoulder and squeezed, his eyes wide; Regan had bitten her bottom lip until blood darkened the paint smeared there already. Connley put a hand to his sword, though whether to defend the panting Oak Earl or the wild king it was impossible to say. Beyond them, the Earl Errigal’s face was red, and he held a young man tightly by the arm. That young man stared at Elia, fury alive in the press of his mouth. Retainers gripped weapons; the creak of leather, and gasps and whispers skidded through the air.

  It was all a trembling mountain ready to erupt.

  They say Elia alone remained calm. The calm of the sun, it seemed, that need do nothing but silently stand. She reached out and put her trembling hand against Kayo’s arm. “Father, stop this,” she said.

  “I do not see you,” Lear snarled.

  She closed her eyes.

  Kayo said, hard and firm, “See better, Lear.”

  Then the Oak Earl turned and swiftly hugged Elia again. He cupped her head and said, “Stand firm, starling. You are right.”

  Again, Elia Lear remained silent.

  Before going, Kayo said to Gaela and Regan, “May you both act as though everything you’ve said today were true, if you have any respect for your mother’s heart.”

  The entire court watched him stride away from the throne. At the rear he paused, turned, and flung a final word at the king: “Dalat would be ashamed of you today, Lear.”

  With a flourish, he departed, and his going burst open the threads of tension that had held the Zenith Court together: it erupted into noise and fury.

  ELIA

  ELIA STOOD ALONE in the center of chaos: she was as still as the Child Star, fixed in the north. All around her men and women moved and argued, swelled and pressed, pushing and pulling and departing in snaps of motion.

  Pressure throbbed in her skull; her heart was a dull, fading drumbeat. Sweat tingled against her spine, beneath her breasts, flushed on her cheeks. Emptiness roared in her ears, shoving everything back—back—back.

  Her stomach and lungs had always served her well—breathed for her, turned her food into spirit, given her song against fluttering nerves—and now, now they betrayed her.

  As her father had.

  Suddenly Elia bent at the waist, clutching at the empty pain in her stomach. She opened her mouth, but there was no cry. Only a silent gasp. Her eyes were not even wet.

  She turned and ran, brushing past the king of Aremoria, ignoring the call of her name from too many familiar voices.

  She had done nothing wrong!

  In her hurry, she took the long way out the main doors and across the yard, stumbling toward the family tower. She clutched at the retainer stationed at the entrance but said nothing as she passed, up the stairs, up and up, one hand hitting hard against the black stone wall. She did not pause, blinded by shock, until she reached her room.

  Rushing to the window, Elia stared out at the cold ocean and panted. The wind slipped in and tickled her skin, scouring her with unease. She closed her eyes and listened to the warning—too late! The voices obscured themselves in her ears; she was too out of practice with the language of trees.

  The old magic of Innis Lear, bleeding through its roots, carved into the bedrock of the very island, a language of the hunt and fluttering leaves, a magic Elia had abandoned. She’d cut herself off from that comfort long ago, choosing instead the stars and her father. Choosing the cold, lovely heavens and those constant, promising stars.

  The earth changed, human hearts changed, but the stars never did. Everyone Elia had known who listened to the trees and leaned in to the roots of magic had left her.

  She had thought it was enough t
o be her father’s truest star.

  She’d thought it was a test, and if she remained that true star, all would be well. She’d thought her father understood her, that they knew each other better than anyone else.

  And, a voice whispered from deep in her heart, she’d thought she was better than her sisters. Pride had kept her from breaking in the Zenith Court. Pride had kept her from saying something ridiculous to placate her father. From simply opening her mouth and playing the game.

  “Love shouldn’t have to be a game,” she whispered to herself, and to the uneasy ocean.

  “Elia.”

  She spun, stumbling in surprise. The king of Aremoria had followed her.

  “Your—Your Highness.” Her voice seemed foreign, a raw rasp emerging from her throat. As if she’d been screaming for hours.

  He frowned, though it barely shifted his stolid face. “Your distress is understandable.”

  Elia did not know how to reply without shrieking.

  The king took a deep breath. When he sighed, his broad shoulders relaxed under the orange leather of his coat. “I am sorry for what your father has done. We will leave in the morning. Pack only what is personal. When we arrive in Aremoria, my sister and mother will have you supplied with any needs.”

  She opened her mouth but said nothing. The king waited, watching her with steady blue eyes. She looked away, at the walls and furnishings of her room. It was perhaps smaller than a king might expect. But it was warm and bright from the cream-and-yellow blankets and tapestries she and her mother had chosen, embroidered with spring green vines and pastel wildflowers like a woven spring day. Elia could see Dalat here still, a ghost smoothing her hand along the pillows, telling a story as she tucked Elia into the bed. The wooden ceiling was crudely painted with star patterns against a day-blue sky, a gift from her father so she could recite their names as she fell into sleep. Light and ocean breeze slipped through a single window. No glass panes had been put in, for Elia preferred a heavy shutter she could open when she wished. She’d been so happy in this room, and then so alone.

  Finally, she glanced back to the king. She thought of what he’d said in her defense, and was grateful. “Thank you, Your—Morimaros. I am grateful for your—your aid. But I cannot marry you or go with you.”

  Surprise actually found a long pause on his face. It parted his lips and lifted his brows. Both bare hands opened, and he twitched his wrists as if to reach out. “But, Lady Elia—”

  Elia shook her head, distant from her own body. “I cannot—cannot even think of it.”

  “Ah,” Morimaros breathed. Understanding smoothed away his surprise. “You are grieving. But go with me, in the morning, to Aremoria. You need time and distance from Lear’s terrible judgment, and I would give it to you.”

  She had no idea how to tell him this did not feel like grief. She hardly felt at all. This nothing inside her was like a windless, dead ocean. Where was the crashing? Where were the waves and whitecaps, the rolling anger and spitting sorrow she should be feeling?

  “I…” Elia removed her hands from her stomach and spread them, elbows tight to her ribs. “I don’t know.”

  Morimaros took one step: long, for his legs were long. He was so imposing Elia had to hold herself still so as not to move away. A soldier and a king, a handsome man ten years older than her. This woman is her own dowry. At least it sped her heart up from the dull, slow shock.

  “Go with me, Elia Lear,” Morimaros said gently. “What might I say to reassure you? I promise to welcome your mother’s brother Kay Oak if he desires.”

  “Why?” Elia leaned her hand on the windowsill, not facing Morimaros, but not giving him her back either. Was Elia Lear even her name anymore? “Why do you still want me, Your Highness? I bring nothing with me, none of the things you would have gained. No throne, no power here. And perhaps this madness runs in my family and I’ll lose myself with no warning someday.”

  “I intended to gain a wife, Elia, and that is still my intention. I do not need your father’s riches, and if I wished more land I could take it. What I want is a queen, and you were a queen today.”

  The compliment forced her head away; she looked outside at the rolling blue ocean where it blended into the hazy sky at the horizon. Why was he so kind? She longed to believe him, and yet found it nearly impossible. Was that her father’s legacy? “I wasn’t a queen,” she whispered.

  Morimaros grunted.

  She said, “Queens mediate, they solve problems and make people feel better. I did none of those things, sir.”

  “I would prefer a queen who tells me what she believes to be true.”

  This time Elia smiled, but not happily. It was a smile of knowing better. Until this afternoon she would have sworn that was her father’s preference, too. Did all men know themselves so poorly? “So you say until I contradict you.”

  He smiled, too, and she recalled thinking before that only his eyes made him seem softer. She’d been wrong; a smile did it as well. “Perhaps you are right, Elia, and all kings prefer to be pandered to.”

  She began to apologize but stopped herself. He made the distinction himself: he was not a man, but a king. What other option did she have but to go with him in the morning? She was lucky he claimed to understand and was willing to give her some time at least. To overcome this grief, as he called it. She’d been disinherited, her titles and name stripped away. She was not Lear’s youngest daughter.

  Her lungs contracted.

  Where else could she go besides with Aremoria? Her mother’s people? Was that where Kayo would choose? Despite growing up with stories from her mother and uncle, from Satiri and Yna, despite being surrounded by the beautifully dyed rugs and delicate oils, the clothing and scarves and books, Elia still could hardly imagine the Third Kingdom. And it was so very far away from her beloved island, her cliffs and White Forest and moorland, and from her father whom she could not just abandon. He would need her again, before the end. Before long. Elia’s heart was here, and she could not just run away from her heart.

  But she had to go somewhere, and this king seemed so genuine.

  Putting her hands back to her stomach, Elia folded them as if it were a casual move, not a thing designed to keep herself from cracking. “I will go, for now.”

  Instead of smiling triumphantly or at least as if her answer pleased him, Morimaros slipped back into his impassive formality. He bowed to her, deeper than a king should. She bowed as well, unsure whether she was steady enough to curtsy. She said, “My girl, Aefa, will go with me.”

  “As you like,” he said crisply. “It will be good, though my mother and sister would be happy to provide help or companionship for you.”

  “She’s always expected to be with me, and would have no place here alone.” It occurred to Elia that Aefa might prefer to go to her mother in the White Forest. But it was spoken aloud now, and Elia did not wish to take it back: without Aefa, she’d be alone.

  Morimaros nodded. “Sleep well, then, if you can, Elia. I will leave you to prepare.”

  At the last moment, Elia took Morimaros’s large, rough hand. Her fingers slid over a garnet and pearl signet ring; her thumb found his palm, so chilled there against his warm skin. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes level with the tooled leather shoulder of his orange coat.

  He hesitated for the space of two breaths, until Elia grew nervous and would have taken her hand away. “You are welcome,” the king of Aremoria finally said, covering her entire hand with his.

  And then he left her.

  Before the door swung closed behind him, Aefa appeared, shutting it firmly with herself inside. Tears sewed her lashes together.

  “Oh, Elia,” the Fool’s daughter whispered thickly. “Your father.”

  Elia held out her hands. Aefa hugged her, crying, and it was Elia who tried to offer shelter from her numb, absent heart.

  THE FOX

  IF ERRIGAL EXPECTED to have to drag Ban to an audience with the king, he was disappointed. During five l
ong years in the Aremore army, Ban had learned to not put off unpleasant tasks, for they tended to only become more unpleasant with the stall. Besides, Ban had a job to do here, and meeting with the king at his father’s side was one of the first steps.

  And so, though facing Lear was the last thing Ban wanted, he swallowed his rage from the Zenith Court, and tried to be grateful this meeting would take place in the retainers’ hall over a meal.

  Unfortunately, Ban had forgotten how quickly his appetite deserted him under the king’s critical gaze.

  The retainers’ hall of the Summer Seat was long, like the court, but lacking a roof. Built of timber rather than stone, it was more like a stable, Ban thought, with rows of benches and tables and a high seat for the king. Gulls perched on the walls, waiting to scrabble for leftovers, and the king’s collection of hounds slunk under legs and begged with open mouths. Lear’s retainers all wore the king’s midnight blue and carried fine swords, and they drank from goblets etched with the rampant swan of the king or striped in blue. A raucous, messy place of men, at least it was kept clean in between meals and celebrations by the youngest retainers and hopeful sons. Ban had spent plenty of mornings tossing pails of water and slop over the side of the cliff just outside the arched entryway, spreading fresh hay and rushes, and scrubbing the tables of spilled wine and grease. His brother, Rory, had chafed under the drudgery, but Ban appreciated any sort of work with immediate, provable results.

  Tonight, the retainers’ hall was subdued, given the day’s events. It rubbed Ban poorly to enter at his father’s side and witness hushed conversations and side-eyed glances, despite plenty of flowing beer. This was not how the king of Innis Lear’s men should present, as if nervous and cowed! Not under any circumstance. The proud Aremore army would never have fallen prey to a scattering of nerves. Some smiled welcome at Errigal; others offered tight-lipped warnings. But Errigal scoffed and stormed up the side aisle to where the king himself slouched in his tall chair, the Fool lounging beside him in a tattered striped coat with his head against Lear’s knee.