The Queens of Innis Lear

by Tessa Gratton

  “Elia?” Osli nudged, dragging a short stool near the tub.

  Gaela sat up and waved over one of the house girls, who began the careful work of unbinding the mass of twists weighing down Gaela’s head. She’d not washed it since leaving for the Summer Seat, except to scrub at the scalp with clay powder. Now, they’d mix the clay with rosewater until it was a smooth, refreshing paste to be massaged into her head and hair. Gaela carefully closed the door to memories of such moments with her mother and Satiri.

  “Elia is in Aremoria, yes,” Gaela said, relaxing under the girls’ ministrations. “Regan and I share the inheritance, according to Lear. And he’s come home with me, until the Longest Night.” She groaned in approval as one girl dug fingers hard into the muscles at the base of her skull. “Then I will finally be king.”

  “And Regan’s claim?”

  Gaela glanced sharply at Osli. “She will not challenge me, but will be my royal sister, as ever. Her word, too, shall be law. Our husbands will accustom themselves to this arrangement, or kill each other trying.”

  Osli said nothing, and Gaela peered at the young woman’s face: oval-shaped with a small nose, with the sort of skin that pinked if the sun but glanced at her. Brown hair short as a boy’s. Those thin lips turned down.

  It was five years ago Osli had presented herself to Gaela in the shift and apron of one of the house staff. The girl had lifted her chin and met Gaela’s eyes proudly. She’d said, “I do not want to serve you in this fashion.”

  Gaela, well acquainted with communicating without clearly voicing her needs, had heard the message behind the words, and smiled. “How would you serve me instead, girl?”

  Osli did not return the smile. “As a warrior, like you.”

  After a brief study of Osli’s hands (strong and big) and posture (solid though skinny), Gaela jerked her chin toward the door. “Take your things to the barracks, then, and if you can make your way back to me by that route, you will get your wish.”

  It took only eighteen months before Gaela saw her again, beaten to the dust of the arena, but learning. A year after that, Gaela made her a captain, both for the girl’s sake as well as to stir up Gaela’s own ranks. Not once had Osli asked for help or expected special treatment for being a woman. She followed Gaela’s example as best she could, served well and without complaint, and for that Gaela now spoke. “Ask me what you will, Osli.”

  “Folks are saying the bad harvests are because the king stopped taking rootwater, and stopped giving his blood to the island.”

  Gaela shut her eyes and leaned in to the house girl’s massage. “Who? Who are you listening to that says such things? My retainers? My husband’s?”

  “My father,” Osli confessed.

  “Your father wants the wells open again.”

  “Yes. He’s lost more sheep this year, and it could be coincidence, but those who still hear the voices of the trees … the things they say of the king … my lady, I only wonder what you intend.”

  Gaela sat up swiftly, sending waves of hot water lapping over the wooden edge of the tub. “Do I not give my blood to this island?”

  “You do.”

  “Was I not born under a conqueror’s sky?”

  “You were.”

  “Do you doubt I am fit for the crown of Innis Lear?”

  “Never!” Osli grasped the rim of the tub. “Never, my lady. It is only your father, and he is here now. What should I say of him, what should we say to him?”

  “Say nothing of him, and nothing to him. He is old, and I am his heir. The time of witches and wizards is passing, Osli. We will be as great as Aremoria one day, as great as the Third Kingdom itself. They do not need magic, but only strength in their rulers and unity in their people. I’ll keep this island unified, under my rule, with my sister at my side. With me, you shall see it.”

  Gaela held Osli’s steady gaze, willing the captain to let go of hundreds of years of superstition, to see how star prophecy was only a tool, and the rootwater just water. The island was an island, and earth saints, if they’d ever been real, had left long ago.

  The young woman nodded eagerly. Gaela smiled.

  A knock at the door jolted Osli to her feet. She answered it, fetching back a message from Astore that he would see his wife before they joined the king at a feast.

  Gaela resigned herself to it, though she told Osli to pour a cup of wine for both of them to enjoy as she finished her bath. She drank deeply, imagining how it would feel when she wore the crown of Lear, when she sat on the throne at Dondubhan. How many days after the Longest Night would she wait before Lear died? An hour, or a week? Perhaps if Gaela chose to be merciful, she would grant Elia the goodbye none of them had been allowed with their mother.

  When she drained the wine, she stood. “The split gown,” she ordered, “with that dark blue underneath.”

  Stepping out of the bathtub, she was rubbed down with cloth, and then another girl spread cinnamon oil along Gaela’s spine and arms and belly; it stung every tiny open scratch, and Gaela relished it. That was why she preferred cinnamon. And that it cost her husband.

  These were the small prices he paid for ever having loved her, for thinking she was his.

  The dark blue wool underdress slithered over her loose and long, its hem curling about her bare ankles. The girls tied the cream gown on over it, arranging the split skirt carefully with ribbons that tied it in place. Laces pulled it against Gaela’s breasts, leaving her collar and shoulders bare for a thick silver necklace that pretended to plate mail. Her hair they twisted wet and bound low at her nape, with tiny silver combs tucked around the thick knot.

  With fine fresh lady’s boots tied onto her feet and her Astore ring on her right thumb, she left her rooms and sought out her husband. A satisfying hour since he’d sent for her.

  Astore waited in his study, a bright room just off the great hall that should’ve been a solar but that he’d cluttered with scrolls, maps, dusty books of war philosophy, and his own journals. South-facing windows were thrown open to the early evening sun, for Astore preferred to write by daylight.

  Gaela did not knock before entering. Her husband sat behind his desk. Letters were scattered about, and several ink pots. A dagger for cutting wicks and opening seals weighed down a pile of the thin paper he used for jotting notes and observations.

  “Ah, wife,” he said, coming around the desk. “While I waited long and longer still for you, I wondered if we should leave immediately tomorrow and take Brideton? Before Connley can even blink? It could be done in a pleasant afternoon, I think. What word from your sister? Did they go straight for Errigal, or stop at home first? And Elia, will she be cold enough to refuse the king of Aremoria, or shall we prepare for him, too?”

  Gaela did not answer, but only lifted an eyebrow. Astore stopped suddenly, a step away from her, and dragged his hand down his beard.

  “My stars and worms, woman, you’re beautiful.”

  She tilted her chin just slightly higher. Astore closed the step between them. His mouth brushed the hollow of her cheek, and he breathed hot against her ear. Gaela held still as a hovering hawk. She hoped he would not force his desire now; she did not have the mood for it, nor for arguing.

  One of Astore’s hands settled on her hip.

  “Regan will take her husband home to Connley Castle first, and we will all settle in to this new arrangement,” Gaela said softly, though not tenderly. “Then they will to Errigal.”

  “Damn them for sharing a coastline.”

  “Do not worry on it, Astore. The throne will be mine, and if you still refuse to trust me on that, let us march to Dondubhan tomorrow and I will sit myself upon it before all the island. I will drink that black water, and be queen in all ways.”

  His hand tightened on her hip. “Do not be so arrogant or impatient, Gaela. There are rules and traditions, and we will have the throne, in four months.”

  “I make the rules, Col,” she snarled, leaning in to him, lining up their bodies. “The
traditions will be mine to change.”

  “Some things are carved in stone, like this island itself. There is blood in the roots, and you must respect that. Innis Lear was built on magic, and united with it. With magic it can be sundered.”

  Gaela glared into his heated brown eyes. “The blood of this island is in me, Col Astore, and in your veins. None will take the crown from us.”

  “Half your blood is from a desert. You have to show the people here that you bleed rootwater.”

  She grabbed the collar of his tunic and made a fist. “How dare you suggest my mother’s line does not belong here! My birth was predicted by Lear’s stars, and her death confirmed it: we are intimately woven into the breath of this island.” The final words panted out of her, and Gaela struggled to remain calm.

  Astore kissed her, hard, and nodded against her mouth. “Yes, my love, that ferocity is pure Innis Lear,” he whispered, tugging at her.

  “Let me go.” Gaela tore free, sighing deeply. “We must feast with Lear and his men.”

  “Wait until the Longest Night to take the crown,” Astore said firmly. “You need the stars, Gaela, and the rootwater. You need the rituals. The people do.”

  “I know,” she snapped.

  He took her elbow and pulled her out into the corridor. Gaela did not bother to wipe the anger off her face, though she took his hand and held it in her own; she would not be led.

  Noise rose from the great hall, raucous and pitched like a brawl. Gaela frowned, but Astore put on a smile as they entered from the stairs directly connecting his study with the hall.

  Lear’s Fool danced a ragged, ridiculous dance to the clapping of half the hundred men crushed together—many were her father’s, though some wore the Astore pink. Food already filled trenchers, and the old king sat in Astore’s tall-backed chair, eating a leg of pheasant, laughing at the Fool.

  They’d begun the feast without the very lord of this castle. Gaela clenched her jaw, shuddering beneath a wave of fury. What if she cut his throat and all that hot blood poured out over the high table? If she drank from a cup of wine splattered with Lear’s blood, would it be as good as bathing herself in rootwater? What would the island say then?

  Astore squeezed her hand, as if he knew her mind. “Patience,” he murmured. Then he kissed her temple and grinned out at the hall as if they had intended this, calling for more wine and a loud welcome to the magnificent King Lear and his retainers.

  Gaela held her peace. She had patience, yes. The patience of a wolf; the patience of red-hot coals, tucked under black ash where their fire could not yet be seen, not until it was needed.

  And then everything that did not get out of her way would burn.

  SEVEN YEARS AGO, HARTFARE

  THE ELDEST DAUGHTER of Lear descended upon the village of Hartfare like a conqueror: back straight, shoulders spread, clad in glistening silver mail and a midnight blue gambeson over quilted trousers, thick-soled, polished boots, with a long cape rippling behind her, the Swan Star crest of Lear embroidered on it in brilliant white. Her sword hung at her hip and her shield was slung over her shoulder, reflecting dappled sunlight in flashes as her thick white horse chose careful, sure steps. She had no paint on her face, despite Regan’s insistence that it was required before considering oneself fully armored. Her dark mouth was set firm and frowning in her dark face.

  The princess shifted, stretching taller atop her horse as nausea gripped her hipbones and dragged long fingers down her lower spine. She rode eyes forward, straight into the central square, ignoring the villagers’ raised hands and surprised bowing. They knew her; who could not recognize Gaela Lear, the black princess, the warrior daughter of Lear? In the corners of her eyes she noticed as those who had never seen her—or had not seen her since she’d grown tall—now marked how like a man she seemed. How like a soldier she sat, breasts bound as flat as she could make them, allowing the chainmail and gambeson to curve as over a man’s strong chest. The bulk of the sword belt at Gaela’s waist made the dip of her hips more discreet, and her thighs were as strong as many men’s. Her life studying war in Astora had changed her.

  She reached the far end of Hartfare, where the witch of the White Forest kept her cottage. The perfectly trained horse stopped as Gaela leaned back in her seat. Dismounting, she ordered one of the gawking boys to see to rubbing down the beast if he wished to keep his staring eyes. She swung her heavy shield off her shoulder and propped it against the mud brick wall of the house.

  “Brona,” she called out sharply, a warning before pushing open the door. She ducked slightly under the sloped thatch.

  “Gaela,” the woman said happily, crouched barefoot by the fire. Brona’s mass of black hair was tied in messy knots down her back, and she wore heavy ruffled skirts and a loose shift that did not want to stay on both shoulders. The sunlight spilling in from the windows seemed to dance around her. Though the woman was almost twice Gaela’s age, around her Gaela felt still and old as an ancient spring.

  Brona stood, smiling. “Don’t you look glorious and intimidating. Come out back with me.”

  And with that, Brona vanished through the rear room of the cottage. Gaela followed more slowly, nudging aside bundles of hanging herbs as she passed through the longish, dim herbary toward the glint of daylight.

  Halfway through, a familiar pain clenched in Gaela’s womb. Refusing to bend, refusing to whimper, Gaela bared her teeth to the empty room, hissing breath at the drying rainbow of flowers and herbs. Dust motes shimmered in the sunny air like tiny spirits.

  Gaela snarled silently, impatient to walk again. She was not meant for this.

  The first time she’d bled, years ago, it had begun with days of lethargy and fever, until finally, with the first hot drops on her thighs, she ran to her mother in a panic. Dalat had hugged her and smiled, chiding Gaela for not listening the many times she’d been warned this would come. But Gaela never thought those warnings applied to her; they were for girls like Regan who would one day become women. Gaela had been absolutely certain she would never cross that threshold.

  Her body had betrayed her. And continued to do so, no matter how she fought, prayed, cursed, ran it ragged, or pretended.

  The pain loosened its grip, slinking into the hot muscles, waiting.

  When she emerged into the elaborate garden, there was Brona waiting with a sprig of some gentle green plant in her hand. “Here, child. Chew on this.”

  Gaela took it, tearing off a bitter leaf. She studied Brona as the tip of her tongue numbed pleasingly. She wanted to argue over the word child; she was past twenty years old.

  Brona nodded, though Gaela had said nothing, and touched Gaela’s cheek briefly in fond greeting. “You’ve not come here since your mother died,” Brona said.

  “This is no place for me,” Gaela said harshly.

  Sorrow warmed Brona’s glinting brown eyes, but she nodded. “I know.”

  Gaela was uninterested in reminiscing, or in regret. She would not discuss her mother or her mother’s death, not with anyone but her sister. She said, “I am here now because I need something from you.”

  Brona nodded. The wind blew through the canopy overhead, tossing blotchy shadows over the garden, and tiny crystals and bells hanging from the branches chattered and sang together. Gaela missed the controlled sounds of the barracks, of the practice grounds in Astora.

  “I’m engaged to marry the Duke Astore,” Gaela said.

  The witch only lifted her eyebrows, not in surprise, but to indicate she continued to listen.

  “I need…” Gaela hated how difficult it was to say what she’d come to say. It was a weakness to be afraid of the words, doubly so because her very need was a weakness. But there was no alternative: only the witch of the White Forest could help her, even if Brona wouldn’t understand. Not even Regan understood, so how could a witch like Brona?

  “He will want to touch me,” Gaela managed to say, quiet and low. A shudder coursed through her at the thought of it, of his hands on h
er waist, her breasts, and—memory triggered another sharp pain in her womb. Gaela could not hold back the gasp, and she pressed her hands to her belly, furious at her body’s betrayal.

  “Sit, and let me make you a tincture,” Brona said gently.

  “No medicine.” Gaela would not use any restorative herbs to face this regular battle. It was hers to suffer, and hers to defeat.

  Brona frowned and slid her arm around Gaela’s waist, rubbing the heel of her hand against the layers of gambeson and mail, into the small of the princess’s back. “All this weight you carry. Your mother spent this difficulty naked as a babe, so she could be rubbed and soothed.”

  “I remember,” Gaela panted. Dalat had withdrawn from court during these times to share the experience with her daughters and ladies, but that was not Gaela’s way. She crouched, alleviating the tightness in her back, but not the ache inside, not the viscous pain filling her hips like a cauldron of poison. The mail shirt dragged at her shoulders, shivering gently. It was a comfort to Gaela: her true, epicene skin.

  In silence they waited together for Gaela’s pain to pass. She breathed deeply, forcing her body to relax as best she could, and the witch held her cool hand against Gaela’s neck, patient and maternal.

  Gently, Brona said, “You need not marry if you find the thought of sexual congress so terrible, Gaela. If you cannot bring yourself to lie with a man, do not.”

  Gaela snorted at a woman like Brona offering such advice. “You know my stars, and you know Innis Lear. I will never rule if I am not married,” she said, upset at the raw quality of her voice.

  “I see,” Brona murmured. “Then what is it you need from me?”

  “I won’t bear children.”

  “I can help with that, yes.”

  The princess shook her head. Her brow pinched with misery. “No, I do not mean I want your potions or skins or abortifacients. I want this inside me destroyed. Burned out or removed, or erased with your magic, Brona. I want you to make me a man.”