The Queens of Innis Lear

“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 (#ulink_0f5b173f-2f30-5cee-8afb-256de2c05da6)

IF ERRIGAL EXPECTED to have to drag Ban to an audience with the king, he was disappointed. During five long 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.

“My king,” Errigal said expansively.

“What, sir, do you come to bother me with this night of all nights?” The king rolled his head back to stare up at the sky, too bright yet for stars.

Lear’s hair remained as wild and ragged as it had been at the Zenith Court, his face still drawn and blotched with drink or anger or tears. A stain of wine spread like a heart-wound down the left side of his tunic.

Errigal knocked Ban forward. “Here is my son, Lear, come home from a five-year foster with the cousins Alsax in Aremoria. Ban the Fox they call him now, though he was only a bastard, or simply Ban, here.”

Ban’s shoulders stiffened as he bowed, turning it into a jerky motion. People here had called him Errigal’s Bastard, not just any. Ban stared at the king’s woolen shoes, wondering what he could possibly say that would not get him banished or killed. Play the role, Fox, he reminded himself again. Be courteous, and remember your purpose here. He’d earned his name, exactly as he’d promised himself he would. These people would respect it.

A groan sighed out of the king before he said, “Yes, I remember you. Ban Errigal. You were born under a dragon’s tail, bright and vibrant but ultimately ineffective.”

“I have been effective, King,” Ban said, straightening.

“Perhaps for the limited time you burn brightly.” Lear shrugged. “But it will be a limited time, and you will change nothing.”

Ban worked his jaw, chewing on every response before he could spit it out.

“His actions in Aremoria have been exemplary, by all accounts,” Errigal said.

“Aremoria!” Lear roared, surging to his feet. “Say no more of that place or that king! Stealing my Elia, my most loved star away!”

The Fool leaned up and sang, “Stolen with the same stealing as the clouds steal the moon!”

Lear nodded. “Yes, yes.”

“No, no,” responded the Fool. He was a long, lanky man, in a long, lanky coat of rainbow colors and textures. Silk, linen, velvet, strips of leather even, and lace, rough wool and soft fur, patterned in places, woven in plaid in others: a coat such as his marked him a man outside of station or hierarchy. The Fool was all men and no man at all. He wore the remains of a dress beneath the coat, and so maybe he was all women, too. And none.

The king frowned mightily.

Ban said, “I thought you had no daughter Elia, sir.”

Errigal choked on a furious word, and the king whirled to Ban. “A smart tongue, have you?” Lear demanded.

“The boy meant nothing by it,” Errigal said.

Ban met the king’s gaze. “You are wrong, Father. I did mean much.”

“Always defiant,” Lear said.

Ban held his tongue.