Aefa jabbed her bone needle too widely, and sneered at herself. She’d better think of something else. Like the Aremore soldier La Far’s very fine thighs. Except his eyes were so sad, and Aefa was ever surrounded by sad people.
She wished Elia would declare herself queen and let the consequences come.
She wished the wind would stop its angsty blowing, or she’d have to shave off all her hair to stop it coming unbound and sprawling across her eyes.
She wished …
A servant dashed in, fell to his knees, and hurriedly told Elia the barge had been sighted, far out on the turbulent horizon, with a sail striped in the orange, purple, and white of the Alsax.
“Thank you,” Elia said, standing immediately. They would need to hurry, if they were to intercept Rory before he could hear the dreadful state of things from anyone else. It was, after all, Elia had said aloud, her responsibility.
Aefa folded her work and hoped that the wind on the ride wouldn’t tear too much of Elia’s complicated braids free.
* * *
GULLS CRIED LOUDLY and salty water sprayed against the long legs of the dock as Aefa and Elia made their way along it. The amber beads in Elia’s hair caught the sun between every fast-moving cloud, flashing with fire then fading dull again. She wore the vibrant red gown borrowed from Hartfare, laced with the turquoise ribbons. Though not regal, Elia stood as tall as she was able, and the tight gown showed off the roundness of her breasts and hips. Though who on the barge there was to impress, Aefa did not know. She was just grateful Elia had finally accepted she needed to always present herself powerfully.
Limestone cliffs hugged this deep cove, and the water was a brilliant turquoise due to the copper in the sand. A few boats rocked on the incoming tide, though most fishers and trade barges were out on the choppy sea. Noisy voices floated from the open building where a dozen men and women struggled to organize stacks of barrels and crates to be put on a ship to sail out with tonight’s tide, down and around the coast to the Summer Seat. The dock master leaned outside his small watch building against a rusty barrel. Just off the water, where the limestone retaining wall held the sea back from the line of shops, flower and food stalls stood, mostly empty because of the incessant wind. It was the strength of a gale, a wild storm, but brought no rain or thunder. It was unnatural. Elia said the island was furious to have no king, and would continue until a new monarch was chosen.
The wind hissed over the water, throwing salt splashes up across the docks, staining the princess’s dress. Aefa sighed.
Together, the two of them watched the barge approach. Rory stood at the prow, glaringly visible with his bright red hair. He lifted a hand and waved it wide.
The princess remained calm and still, but Aefa was glad to see Rory; despite his rakish proclivities, he was good at heart, and she thought he’d support Elia with his entire being, which would soothe feathers at the Keep.
The sail was lowered as the dock master used painted sticks to signal the barge to its usual berth. With oars, the barge maneuvered itself. It was a long, flat boat, filled with men, the rear stacked with crates and barrels. A few called out in Aremore.
“Our luck for the most beautiful welcome and finest of women!” Rory yelled through the wind as the barge tapped the side of the dock and sailors leapt out to tie it off. Elia held her hand to Rory and met his eyes, smiling back, but sadly. His hair was a disaster of windblown red spikes, and his freckles blended against the brilliant pink of his wind- and sun-chapped cheeks.
Aefa stood closer to Elia. They were going to break his heart.
“I’m glad you’re home,” Elia said.
Around them sailors disembarked, and a few strong-looking men in plain leather vests and coats, perhaps hired to guard the goods. And there was Eriamos Alsax, his brown hair just as wrecked as Rory’s, but otherwise more put together. He’d traveled by sea all his life, Aefa supposed, as he greeted Elia with a touch of her hand and a bow, then winked at Aefa.
“Welcome to Innis Lear, Eriamos,” Elia said. “I hoped to take a moment with Rory before going to the inn where food awaits, though you are so very welcome to join us and stay with us at the Keep.”
“Thank you. Here is my sister Dessa.” He turned: one of the sailors bowed. She was dressed in men’s clothes, though making no effort to hide her womanhood. She smiled exactly like her mother, Juda, and her thick brown hair had maintained its curling shape during the voyage better than the men had managed. Rory offered Dessa his hand, and she took it easily, climbing out onto the dock to stand slightly too near him.
Aefa rolled her eyes fondly, but she was glad he might have some affection to hold him warm tonight, when he was mourning his father and realizing the treachery of his bastard brother.
“Welcome, too, Dessa Alsax,” Elia said. Aefa could see her lady’s strain as she maintained her poise. “I hope you’ll be our guests at Errigal Keep tonight.”
“Yes, home,” Rory said. “With several unexpected additions!” Some mischief peeked from the corner of his smile.
“Rory,” Elia began, but Eriamos cleared his throat and glanced at the contingent of guards. The young Alsax merchant indicated one of the soldiers who stepped easily from barge to dock. He was broad-shouldered and tall, turning to face Elia.
Aefa gasped like a child on her birthday.
This was no bodyguard or soldier for hire.
Standing before them was the king of Aremoria.
Morimaros was nearly unrecognizable in worn brown leather and regular gray wool. No brilliant silver pauldron graced his shoulder, nor the ubiquitous orange coat. His boots were scuffed; his trousers were old, soft leather. Nothing marked him apart from the rest of the soldiers. Even his sword was plain, sheathed in untooled leather and wood. His beard was gone, revealing a very square, very strong jaw and full, pink lips.
“Your Highness,” he said carefully.
Elia thrummed with tension. “Morimaros,” she murmured.
“Mars,” he said. “Only that, now.”
“Worms of the earth,” breathed Aefa.
“It’s safer,” said the soldier behind him: La Far! Aefa contained her swoon, though she could not hold back a saucy wave. The man remained stoic and sad looking, with his blond hair back in a tail. “And I’m Novanos here.”
Elia folded her hands carefully. “I did not ask you to come.”
At the cool tone, Aefa stepped close enough to Elia that their hips touched. For comfort or caution, she would be there.
The king of Aremoria reached into his gray coat and offered the princess a very small folded letter. As he did, Aefa noticed the bareness of his fingers. He did not wear the Blood and the Sea.
Unfolding the letter, Elia glanced down, and Aefa unselfconsciously peered over her shoulder. It was one line, efficiently scrawled, but bold in words:
The island is as ready for you as I can make it. I will not be returning to Aremoria.
Ban Errigal.
Truly, a bastard. And a traitor!
Rage coarsened Aefa’s blood, making her rigid. Beside her, Elia crumpled the note in her fist.
“Elia,” Rory said urgently. “Mars has come to offer his aid, his knowledge gleaned of our island from a commander’s view. And he seeks my brother, as they once were close. Take me to my father! All of us, please. I’m hungry, and so tired of the sound of waves.”
Closing her eyes for only a brief moment, Elia turned to Rory and took his hands. “Rory, please—I—I am so very sorry.” She stepped so they were a hand’s width apart. “Your father is dead, killed in defense of me, and you, and ever in service to my father. He died at the hand of the duke of Connley, who also is dead.”
A long moment of silence stretched, broken only by gulls and yelling dockworkers. All blood drained from Rory’s careless face, turning his freckles stark, and Aefa spied a contained wince on her princess’s brow as the bereft son gripped Elia’s fingers too tightly. “No,” he said, sinking slowly to his knees.
“It was a noble death, and you are to be proud of him. He knew you loved him, at his end,” Elia said.
Rory pushed his head to her waist, hugging his arms around her hips. She bent over him, her hands on his thick red hair, hushing his sudden gasp of grief, whispering her comfort, her apology, and allowing even her own grief, finally, to be spoken. A tiny tear slipped down Elia’s cheek.
Aefa worried her lip as Rory shook, clinging to Elia.
“We are here to help,” La Far said softly, at Aefa’s shoulder.
“Good, because much of what needs fixing is Aremoria’s fault,” the Fool’s daughter replied, without sympathy, and turned away.
MORIMAROS
THE BOLD RED suited Elia Lear, as did her clashing teal ribbons, pulling disparate parts of her costume together into a whole: so Mars had thought watching her from the barge, as she stood, eyes calm, chin up like a queen. Even as the wind tore at her skirts and hair. She bore it without wincing, as if it did not cut tears in her eyes as it did his.
Now, watching her comfort the young Errigal as the others began unloading the barge, Mars was unable to look away from her: the compassion on her face before it disappeared because she curled over Rory, the warm brown line of her arched neck. He wanted to put his lips there, or at least his hand, to show her he would support her, or nothing more if she wished.
Though it was terrible that the Earl Errigal was dead, it was good Mars had come. He’d sent Ban the Fox to Innis Lear to promote discord, and Mars knew his spy’s methods too well not to recognize the spiral of them. Errigal and his heir had been removed, putting Ban in the perfect position to take it all if he could convince someone to name him legitimate. How well the Fox did his work.
Mars clenched his jaw. Thinking of Ban turned his careful, meticulous thoughts to fire. Never before had he been betrayed like this, dismissed with so little explanation. I will not be returning to Aremoria.
It might as well have read, I will not be returning to you.
Mars had trusted that bastard. Given him every opportunity to achieve greatness. No one had expected so much of Ban as Mars had, and he’d been so very sure the Fox would rise to meet that expectation.
The king of Aremoria did not like this feeling.
He’d lost them both: Ban and Elia.
She did not even glance his way again.
Mars had thrown all aside to come here, just himself and twelve of his best men, men who’d served in the army beside him before his father died, when he was only Captain Mars, a soldier like them, fighting and aching to win and live and prove himself worthy. His mother had vehemently protested this scheme, but Ianta took his side, reluctantly, convincing Queen Calepia that Mars could not rule if he doubted himself. And he knew abandoning Elia Lear now would carve a doubt in his heart to last all his life. His sister did not know, still, of his relationship with Ban the Fox, and how tangled Mars’s feelings were for the two islanders. Doubt, yes, and desire, and a stubborn determination to be selfish for once.
The king knew it was the core of his coming here: pure, selfish need. He wanted Elia, and he wanted Ban—differently, maybe—and if Mars must set down the Blood and the Sea to get them—or one of them—or settle his tumultuous yearning—so be it.
Elia Lear had come home to reign, and Mars had followed her to see if he could shed his crown for even a little while.
“You need a drink,” the girl Aefa said suddenly to Rory Errigal, but she looked around to the folk still gathered, meaning them all.
Rory nodded against Elia—Mars unworthily wished to be the one pressed against her—and the princess helped him stand. She glanced to Eriamos Alsax and his sister Dessa. “We do have lunch at the inn. Come.” Her impossibly black eyes darted to Mars, including him, and she led Errigal down the dock.
Aefa pursed her lips at Mars, unaffected by who she knew he was. “Come you, sirs.” She flounced away, and Mars looked at Novanos, whom he knew to admire the perky, inappropriate young woman.
“Finish unloading,” Mars quietly ordered his men. “Help the Alsax and act your parts. “
Then he and Novanos followed in the wake of Elia Lear. Novanos said, “It will be easy enough for them, for they play what they are: soldiers.”
Port Comlack was as busy as it had always been, except for the frantic sense in the air, as if at any moment lightning might form out of the harsh, clear sky, and tear through town on this scalding wind. The inn where they were led was two stories wrapped around an inner court, but Elia went straight through the common room to a large table with benches on three sides. Sunlight and three great hearths lit the low-ceilinged room, heating it and casting out the briny smell of the sea. Six retainers stood along the rear wall, and a handful of regular folk chatted at a tall table, some eating hurriedly on stools by one flickering fire. Wind gusted against the shutters, riffling through the thatched roof overhead.
Elia sat Rory down and summoned immediate drink. She put her arm around his shoulder as though they were old friends—and they were, Mars knew, stamping down jealousy. He deserved her reprobation. Though he’d like to ask after Ban, to know if they’d spoken, or if she knew what had caused his Fox to turn away from Aremoria. From him. Had it been her doing? Would that make it easier to bear? What was the state of politics on Innis Lear? Where did Elia stand, and would she allow him to stand beside her? How did the wind scour the island like this, but bring with it no rain or storm?
“Rory, there is more,” Elia said, raising her voice. “My father, too, is dead.”
Shock clenched Mars’s stomach. She said it so coolly, as if unaffected, except there was a slight tremble in her hand as she reached for a pitcher of wine and poured it into cups. Pressing one into Rory’s hand, the princess put her back to Mars.
Aefa appeared before Mars and Novanos. “Well, sit down, sirs, don’t hover. Or else go stand with the retainers, since that’s your costume.”
The girl was correct: Mars stood out like this. He nodded at Novanos, who nodded more gently at Aefa. They began to step away, but Mars said, “Aefa, I would speak with your lady alone, when it pleases her.”
“It won’t please her,” Aefa said, ushering them to a different table.
Gritting his teeth for a moment, Mars put on a more concerned tone to ask, “What happened to Lear?”
“He was old,” she said, as if the answer were obvious.
The king sat carefully on a stool, balancing his elbows on the rough table, and Novanos sat across from him. A serving girl set beer down for them, and Mars made a valiant attempt not to glower.
“What did you expect?” Novanos asked in undertone.
Staring at the pale bubbles circling the top of the dark beer, Mars shook his head once. The beer smelled like new bread. He glanced at Elia, still holding her arm around Rory Errigal. Mars hadn’t spent much time with the young man, both lacking the occasion and disliking to be reminded of Ban. But he’d been told Rory was a flirt and quite good with his sword and shield. Two different girls in Mars’s castle had fallen to his charms, and possibly one of Novanos’s best soldiers. Ban had told Mars once that Rory took after Errigal, and it was easy to see. He touched Elia readily, and Mars forced himself to be glad the two friends had each other right now: he remembered too keenly the feeling of a father’s sudden death.
He wondered how Ban had orchestrated it. And if the Fox had anything to do with the death of Lear. Mars would place a heavy wager upon it. But he needed more information before he could unravel this web.
Novanos tried the beer and grimaced. Mars smiled a little at the man’s refined palate.
“You should at least attempt to relax,” Novanos said. “Use this as the only freedom you’re like to get the rest of your life. Enjoy the break from responsibility.”
“I’m going outside,” Mars said.
When his captain grunted in displeasure, Mars sourly added, “To enjoy my freedom.”
Controlling himself carefully, Mars left the inn. He stood in the st
reet, squinting up at the bleary sun and feeling like a spoiled child. The king of a beautiful, strong country, sulking as if he’d been sent away by his mother.
He’d wanted Elia to smile. To see him and be pleased, even if she strove to hide it. He’d wanted her to need him, despite those last words she’d said to him in Lionis, and despite that he’d lied by omission for nearly their entire relationship.
But her father was dead, so she couldn’t. Even besides that, she had so many things to think about; Mars knew very well the sort of pressure she was under now, no matter what her intentions for Innis Lear. He understood better than any, yet here he was wishing her to be as foolish as he had been, to drop her responsibilities, and not prioritize her grief or her friend’s grief and the loss of a strong earl, but Mars’s miraculous arrival. It was childish of him, and beneath them both. She would never appreciate it.
Laughing bitterly at himself, Mars turned to go back inside and be patient. He would be here for her, however she would use him: that was his goal.
A dark-haired woman stood in his way.
Mars froze.
“Go with me,” she said in a voice as regal as a queen’s—if queens ruled shadows and dreams.
“Where is Elia?”
“You are not yet granted an audience with our lady, but go with me up the cliff. There is a path offering very dramatic views.”
“Very well,” Mars said, low and strangely unnerved. Heat prickled up from beneath his skin; the sky of Innis Lear was cold.
The woman nodded and led the way, her skirts swinging freely around her worn boots. She was not dressed as a noblewoman: the green of her cinched tunic was faded, though her skirts were layered and ruffled, like a distant cousin of Ispanian fashion. She wore no jewels but a few links of copper tied to her belt, and silk ribbons held back the wind-snarled mass of her hair. A plain black jacket, also faded, fit loosely and clearly had not been made for her, but for a larger man. Despite the mismatched clothing and untended hair, she was gorgeous. Her warm tan skin showed some lines of age and laughter around her welcoming lips. Mars was not so used to being attracted to people as soon as he met them, but there was a familiar wariness in her brown eyes when she glanced back to make certain he followed.
The Queens of Innis Lear Page 57
