LITMIR.BIZ

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off the king’s table at the west end, and benches were full of earls and their retainers, the companions of the visiting kings, and all the resident families. A small side door to the north of the throne, hidden behind a wool tapestry of a rowan tree, led through a narrow corridor to the guardhouse and beyond to the royal tower so that the king and his family did not ever need travel outside from their rooms to the court. Everyone else was expected to enter through the heavy double doors far across from the throne. It was through the small door that Elia arrived, alone.

      It was no way for a princess to make an entrance. She lacked companion or escort, had been been denied her sisters’ company, and Lear himself refused to leave his chambers, trapped in a sudden fit of starry obsession he would not share with her. There’d been a time Lear loved entertaining, loved the swell of noise that signaled a well-shared feast, Elia was certain of it, though the memories were dull with age. She’d been so small, delighted at every chance to sit on her father’s knee and listen to the songs and poetry, to eat strips of meat from Lear’s hand. He’d liked to dot cream and fruit syrup onto her face like constellations, sometimes daring to do the same to Dalat.

      Elia paused in the arch of the doorway, carefully reeling in the far-flung line of her heart. She breathed slowly, banishing memories in favor of the cool responsibility of representing her family.

      She could hardly believe Lear had abandoned her tonight, when the kings he himself had invited were waiting, expecting to be fed and flattered. It spoke to the changes in him, his most capricious stars winning whatever battle raged in his mind.

      Food had already been served, for which Elia was grateful; there was no need to make an announcement now, or put herself at the center of attention. She stared out at the chaos of people, the laughing and low conversations, the men and women of the kitchens moving skillfully about with full jugs of wine and trenchers of stewed meat. There were the kings of Aremoria and Burgun, seated at the high table with Connley and Astore at either end. Aremoria spoke evenly in response to Astore’s boisterous laughter, while Burgun and Connley seemed to grit their teeth behind smiles. Elia could not be sure if Connley’s dislike of Burgun aligned her with him for the first time.

      She should go direct to the high table, she knew, and reminded herself firmly. She should be gracious and calm, perhaps tell the story of her wager with Danna, or ask after the kings’ own families. Though that would invite questions in return about her sisters and father. No, she could not lead them so easily into uncertain territory. Just as she took a step, a beloved voice called, “Starling!”

      Spinning, Elia held out her arms in preparation for her mother’s half-brother to pick her up in an eager hug. The Oak Earl had always been a brightness in her life, rather a rarity after Dalat died. But Kayo could not help making a bold impression, with his stories from the Third Kingdom, from trading caravans and merchant fleets, deserts and inland seas the likes of which few in Innis Lear could truly imagine. He ventured westward every two or three years, carrying trade agreements for Lear while growing his own riches, but for the most part, he lived here on the island, where his favorite sister had been so happy. He had never taken a wife, instead latching on to Lear’s family like a cousin. Kayo was perhaps the only person in the world all three Lear girls admired: Gaela for his adventures, Regan for his penetrating insight, and Elia because he came home.

      “Uncle,” she said now, carefully, as she was always careful when performing emotions in public.

      “Elia.” The Oak Earl leaned away, gray eyes full of gladness. He lowered his voice, bending to knock their foreheads together affectionately. “How are you?”

      “Nervous, I admit,” she said, breathing in the sea-blasted smell of him.

      “So would I be. Do you have a favorite between your suitors?”

      “No,” she whispered.

      “Aremoria, then,” Kayo said.

      “Burgun has been more interested in me,” she murmured. “Courted and flirted and given me gifts.”

      “Is that the sort of husband you want? The sort who buys you?”

      She angled her head to meet his gaze. “I don’t know Aremoria at all.”

      “He has the more certain reputation.”

      “But certain of what?” she asked, almost to herself.

      Kayo smiled grimly and offered his arm. She took it, and together they went to the high table. Elia introduced Kayo to Aremoria and Burgun, and her uncle effortlessly launched into a tale of the last time he’d passed through the south of Aremoria, on his way home from the Third Kingdom.

      Able to relax somewhat, Elia picked at the meat and baked fruit in the shared platter before her, sipping pale, tart wine. She listened to the conversation of the surrounding men, smiling and occasionally adding a word. But her gaze tripped away, to the people arrayed before her, who seemed boisterous and happy.

      The Earls Errigal, Glennadoer, and Bracoch sat together, the latter two both with their wives, and Bracoch’s young son gulping his drink. A familiar head leaned out of her line of sight behind Errigal, just before she could identify him.

      It might’ve been the drink, but Elia felt overwhelmingly as though this bubble of friendliness would burst soon, bleeding all over her island.

      Or it might have been that she herself would burst, from striving to contain her worries and loneliness, from longing for inner tranquility in the face of roiling, wild emotions. How did her sisters do it, maintain their granite poise and elegant strength? Was it because they had each other, always?

      Elia had never known her sisters not to present a united front. Gaela had been deathly ill for three whole weeks just before she married, and Regan had nursed her alone through the worst of it. When Regan had lost her only child as a tiny month-old baby, Gaela had broken horses to get to her, and let no one blame Regan, let no one say a word against her sister. Elia remembered being pushed from the room, not out of anger or cruelty, but because Gaela and Regan forgot her so completely in their grief and intimacy. There was simply no place for her. Though, like tonight, they did sometimes push her out on purpose.

      The first time had been the morning their mother died.

      After being refused by her sisters tonight, Elia had gone to Lear. He’d opened the barred door to the sound of her voice, only to stare in horror and confusion. “Who are you?” he’d hissed, before shutting the door again. Right in her face.

       Who are you?

      Elia wanted to scream that she did not know.

      She lifted her wine and used the goblet to cover the deep, shaking breath she took, full of the tart smell of grapes.

      This was worse, more uncertain, than she’d ever seen her father. Perhaps if she’d not decided to continue her studies this spring at the north star tower, and instead had remained at his side after the winter at Dondubhan, he would not be so troubled. Perhaps if her sisters bothered to care, they could help. Or at least listen to her!

       Dalat, my dear.

      Had Lear expected his wife tonight, not his youngest daughter? Was he completely mad?

      She should ask the stars, or even—perhaps—slip out to the Rose Courtyard again, and try to touch a smear of rootwater from the well to her lips. Would the wind have any answers?

      The Earl Errigal slammed his fist on the table just below Elia, jolting her out of her traitorous thoughts. Errigal was arguing ferociously with the lady Bracoch, and then Elia’s eyes found the person she’d missed in her earlier agitation.

      Older, stronger, different, but that bright gaze held the same intense promise. It was him.

      Ban.

      Ban Errigal.

      An answer from the island to her unasked questions.

      He was dressed like a soldier, in worn leather and breeches

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