скачать книгу бесплатно
“It is, my lord,” she agreed. “The Lion of War, rampant and constant as Calpurlugh, but instead of a stationary constant, it circles the same piece of sky, protecting or confining.”
Morimaros cleared his throat. He had not moved nearer to her for his reading, but maintained his stance at the fore of his retainers, shoulders back and hands folded behind him. “Is Calpurlugh not the Eye of the Lion? It has been years since my astronomy lessons, but I thought they were pieces of each other.”
“Pieces that never see one another, yes,” Elia said. “They are not in sequence together, but only one or the other. Depending on the stars around them, it is either Calpurlugh or the Lion that shines, never both.”
“Alas,” Ullo of Burgun said.
“But the Lion is bold, and on an equinox dawn as this is, he is isolated but surrounded by … possibility.” Elia felt an unusual urge to couch her reading, for this was a lonely one, and she could imagine it heartbreaking for a man already isolated within a crown. It was not a future she would choose for herself.
Morimaros did not seem affected, though, or particularly invested in the reading. His blue eyes remained calm, and he showed neither disappointment nor pleasure, as if none of this mattered at all.
Irritated to feel she’d wasted her time, when he had requested this reading in his letter—had it been his only way of flirtation? Appealing to her interest though he shared it not at all?—Elia straightened. “I am weary, sirs,” she said, “and my companion must have arrived by now. I must see her and rest after my travel down from the north.”
Immediately, Morimaros bowed, accepting her withdrawal.
The Fool clapped his hands. “I would go with you, to see Aefa.”
“Please,” Elia said.
Lear put a hand on Ullo’s shoulder, but said to both kings, “You will see my Elia again at tomorrow’s Zenith Court, where all I have promised will be decided.”
The king of Aremoria said, “I hope I may speak with you, Lear, further?”
Truly, Elia thought as she kissed her father’s cheek, it was her father that Morimaros had come to treat with, not her. He obviously wished alliance and dowry; not a queen, not herself.
Ullo offered his hand, and she took it, glad he at least bothered to pay her personal attention, even if his eyes lingered too long on her neck, on her wrists and the line from breast to waist. Tomorrow she would be rid of both these kings.
The king of Burgun escorted her out of the courtyard, the Fool following behind with a weird, affected gate. When they emerged into the inner yard, Elia angled toward the family keep. “Thank you,” she said.
“I hope we can continue our courtship, even beyond tomorrow.”
“I have … enjoyed your letters,” she acknowledged, thinking of Aefa’s recitations.
Drawing her nearer, Ullo said, “I would rather your good opinion than your father’s. Aremoria may be a great commander, but I rule from the heart, and I want only what is best for my people. I think you are it, and beautiful.”
Though uncomfortable at the touch of his hip to hers, Elia appreciated the honesty. “I will not favor Aremoria over Burgun based on these stars.”
His smile was radiant.
The Fool’s face appeared between hers and Ullo’s. He smiled madly, showing all his teeth. “I was born under a grinning moon, see?”
“I do,” Ullo said, laughing as though charmed. He took the hint, and stepped back from Elia, bowing over her hand. “Until tomorrow, princess.”
The king of Burgun and his maroon retinue passed beyond her, marching at a leisurely pace toward the guest tower. Elia wondered at the wisdom or folly of putting both kings in the same place. They clearly did not get on, and they had been at war for two consecutive summers. Had it been her father’s decision, and had he done so with a mischievous mind? Or merely at the suggestion of the stars?
“I think you would make a great queen,” the Fool said, touching her hair. She suspected he’d found one of the crystals pinned with the silver web. Elia turned her head. The Fool’s eyes were so like Aefa’s, though the white lids drooped heavier with age despite his being nearly two decades younger than Lear. She smelled spiced meat on his breath, and the earthy fresh henna in his hair.
Elia put her fingers on his red-stained bottom lip. She did not want to be any queen, nor did she feel suited to the job. “Hush, before the stars hear.”
“The vault of heaven does not listen to fools,” he said brightly, and danced her across the yard.
FIVE YEARS AGO, (#ulink_dc7348bb-e3d7-54a2-bc1a-b98bfd634353)
ASTORA (#ulink_dc7348bb-e3d7-54a2-bc1a-b98bfd634353)
THE STAR CHAPEL of Astora was built into the surrounding mountains, formed of heavy limestone and plaster, painted generations ago with gold flake and indigo to make the first chamber like the vault of heaven. Regan Lear passed through it, unconcerned with the public sanctuary. Heads turned as star-kissed priests and the prayerful noted the middle daughter of their king gliding through sharp and smooth as a galley in calm waters. Not since her elder sister’s wedding to their duke two years ago had Regan come into this chapel, but she was immediately recognizable. Against the martial Gaela Astore, who covered herself most days in armor and the raiment of men, it was perhaps a surprise to gaze upon such a sleek, feminine princess. Regan’s gown was voluminous and pale as the sky at dawn, dragging behind her in a perfect half-circle of oystered layers. She wore a veil of thin silver chains woven through her curls, and looped beneath her chin from delicate brooches at her temples. A dripping crown of rain.
And most startling of all, this princess smiled.
Today was the first day Regan had been truly happy since her mother died.
She reached the arched doorway leading to the Chapel of the Navel and heaved it open. The staircase was narrow and cold, and instantly she was assaulted by the damp air blowing down from the chapel above. This was the oldest chamber in the church, carved high into the side of the mountain long before any dukedoms, when the island welcomed people into its bleeding heart.
Regan lit no candles from the small storage alcoves. In violet darkness, she steadily ascended. Her thin-soled slippers tip-tapped against the stone, echoing forward like a gentle warning. She paused to toe them off at the top of the stairs, proceeding forward in bare feet. The passage was not long, but it narrowed in the center before widening again, like a birthing canal. Or that was how Regan imagined it, her smile brightening.
The Navel itself was merely a stone rectangle cut into the mountain, with a ledge carved along the walls for sitting. The entrance through which Regan had arrived looked directly across the twenty-foot length and through two narrow stone columns, outside into the dark valley below. Astora City was a warm glow, and beyond, velvet hills lifted gently away, before the stretch of purple sky.
A six-pointed star had been carved through the roof, allowing moonlight and starlight to shine dimly in. It was not the proper time of year or night to serve its greatest function, at the apex of the Longest Night Moon.
Regan moved directly below the skylight, where the slate floor had cracked with age, and knelt beside the only adornment: a stone water basin carved beside a deep, narrow well. The well was covered with a wooden lid, so Regan shoved it aside. She dipped her fingers into the stale, tired water, ruining the dull reflection of the night sky, and touched the wet blessing to her cheeks, her lips, and then the linen over her belly. Her hand remained there, cupping the only star Regan cared for: the new pinprick of light in the deep recess of her body.
She bowed her head, a smile continuing to play at her lips, and thought of the life in her, the dynamic, dangerous spark. Her breath was low and long, deep and content. Not a feeling Regan was accustomed to, being a woman of sharp, fierce ambition. She rarely experienced anything like peace in her heart. Satisfaction, however, was a thing she’d recently come to know quite intimately, and she was pleased to discover how the one could lead to the other.
The stars grew bolder as she waited, and color fled the sky until it was black as black could be.
Regan imagined the moments approaching again and again: her stern sister’s mouth falling open in surprise; their embrace; the tense, rough argument, followed by renewed dedication to each other. It was a thrill to anticipate the special, unique pleasure of being of one mind with Gaela, the most ferocious, the great pillar of her heart.
Of course she heard her sister approach.
A clatter and grunt, the oddly gentle ringing of metal, like a song.
Regan straightened her shoulders, held her penitent pose.
Behind her, Gaela burst into the room with a quiet curse.
“Sister,” Gaela said harshly. Not from anger or irritation, but for herself. Gaela wielded her words and movements like armor and war hammers. Regan preferred her own thorns to be small and precise and subtle, though no less deadly.
Settling back onto her heels, Regan sang out in the language of trees. Sister! One of the only such words Gaela understood.
Gaela Astore fumed out of the shadows, stomped to Regan’s side, and fell hard to her knees. She wore leather and wool, an empty sword belt and a skirt of mail. Her hair was twisted back like the roots of an oak, pulling her forehead wide. She was a beauty, despite herself, Regan had always thought: a slice of moon, magnificent and dangerous.
“This should be filled in,” Gaela said, gesturing at the old well. “Why did you wish to meet here? After all these months.”
Regan waited, patient with Gaela as with no other.
Gaela’s eyes roamed her sister’s face and body, coming to rest on the hand still curled at Regan’s belly. “Yes,” Gaela whispered. And her mouth broadened into a toothy smile.
Regan grasped Gaela’s hand and flattened it against her belly, pressing their hands together there. “The future queen.”
“Or king,” Gaela answered, fisting her hand in the layers of Regan’s skirt, and dragged her sister toward her. They embraced. For so many years this had been a piece of their goal: Gaela on the throne of Innis Lear, with Regan’s children for her heirs. Gaela had been sixteen when she swore to her sister, fast and secretly, that no child would lock into her womb, she would make sure of it. We will be king and queen of Lear, iron-strong Gaela had promised her willow-thin fourteen-year-old sister. No matter husbands or rivals, it will be you and me, our bodies and our blood. Regan had kissed her cheek and promised.
Regan kissed her again now, and touched their cheeks together. She braced for the next step.
The lady-warrior took Regan’s shoulders in demanding hands and said, “How long?”
“I only was certain five days ago, and so it will come in the earliest weeks of spring. You are the first to know.”
“You must marry, and fast.”
“We’ll say we eloped already, and everyone will believe it.”
Gaela’s brows lifted. “Of the neat, passionless Regan Lear? I have my doubts.”
“But, sister”—Regan’s lips pressed a secretive smile—“they will believe it of me with this man. That we were forced to hide our passion from the king.”
“Who is the father?” Gaela growled.
This sparked a brilliant fire in Regan’s eyes: shards of brown and tan and a blue just like their father’s, tossed together in a tempest that seemed a gentle brown when beheld from the distance most gave between themselves and the sly middle daughter. Only a handful of people stood close enough to know Regan had slices of her father inside her eyes. “Lear will be so furious, Gaela,” she whispered, glee and cruelty warring in the thin tone. “And Astore, too. It is the worst and the best I could do.”
Understanding passed swiftly to Gaela. “Oh, Regan, my love, you did not.”
“Connley, Connley, Connley,” Regan said, differently each time. First casual, then wicked, then deep in her mouth, as if she could taste him buried there.
Gaela thrust herself to her feet. “His grandfather despised our mother! His mother sought for years to marry our father! You give Connley the hope of the crown now?”
“His children only.” Regan slid to stand as well. “And a knife in our father’s heart.”
“So, too, it will divide us, all the more because my husband and your lover are chiefest of rivals.”
“It is done.”
“You should have discussed it with me!”
“You did not ask my advice when you chose Astore!”
“Ah! But Astore was the obvious, only choice! He is fierce and, by our father’s and other men’s reckoning, worthy of the crown. The anticipated alternate, should the line of Lear fall, because of his proven strength and his blasted stars. I chose him to play the part I want him to play. He thinks already to have a crown from me. Connley will not rest with that. Does he fear you? I will not believe if you say he does.”
Regan touched her tongue to her bottom lip, uncontrolled before her sister as she was before no other. “He does not fear me, no, nor I him. But Connley feels a more possessive thing for me, one that will not drive him away as fear or pity or sorrow might drive yours.”
“Surely you do not speak of love,” Gaela scoffed. “Love is no strength.”
“Not even between us?”
Gaela scoffed. “This is not love between us, we are one. We are beyond love!”
“Are we?” Regan touched her sister’s earlobe, tugged gently. She knew Gaela had a heart of iron in her chest and cared only slightly for anything she did not feel in her very bones. Worse yet was Gaela at expressing emotions that were not the fiery sort, were not those powerful feelings allowed to great warriors and kings; she disdained all things considered womanly as she disdained her own womb. Regan could not remember if Gaela had been born so, or learned it from their father, his stars, and Dalat’s death. All Regan knew was that her sister had the stars of conquerors in her sky, and such men did not love well. Gaela thought she was beyond love’s reach, while Regan believed herself to be composed of nothing but love. Terrible, devastating, insatiable love.
“So.” Gaela sighed gruffly and put her hands on Regan’s hips. “This is the child of two royal lines, then.”
“Three, sister. Lear and Connley and the Third Kingdom.”
“Connley’s grandfather said it was a taint in the blood of the island, that Dalat was here.”
“My Connley is proud of it,” Regan said.
“Connley. Connley.” Gaela narrowed dark eyes. “You have laid yourself with him, you bear his child, and yet do not call him the name his mother gave him?”
Regan forced herself not to lower her lashes, angry at how difficult it was to hold her sister’s gaze in this moment. The union with Connley would be a wedge between them; Gaela was unfairly correct. But she still protested, “Connley is himself, and so too is he his land, his title, his own ferocious crown, sister. Connley is all the crags and peaks, the rushing waters and moors of the eastern coast.” Regan’s voice lowered again, memories of skin and cries and a bed of earth quieting her. “Connley is so many things more than his person.”
Gaela sucked in a shocked breath. “You spoke of love, but it is your love. You love him.”
Regan shuddered, skin tightening around the dangerous expansion of her heart as something quickened, much lower.
“Regan.”
“Gaela.” Regan sighed. “Don’t you see how this is our best result? Who better to father your heirs than our father’s least favored duke, one sure never to align on his side? Lear will have to swallow it, he must, because here, listen: Connley’s stars predict it! I’ve seen his birth chart, and the trees are adamant. The rest of the island will rejoice at the wisdom of it. Better than marrying me to Morimaros of Aremoria! Even you see the folly in allowing talks of such nature. Connley is already ours; he is entrenched in Innis Lear, sprung from our storm-wracked waves and rooted in iron. And, Gaela, his land is wild and his keep strong; his wells are far better than this one beside us. Deep and rich and flowing. They did not give up on the rootwaters as Father ordered. Do you see? Together you and I bring the two greatest dukedoms under the line of Lear. Through your rightful crown, and my growing child. We will make this island ours, the opposite of our father’s foolish skyward devotions and heartless intentions!”
“Maybe,” Gaela said, unusually thoughtful. Gaela, who had always favored more direct responses. At seventeen she’d bargained with Astore directly, demanding military training for herself. At nineteen she’d plotted to poison their father, and only Regan had convinced her sister of the folly of losing the king before he—or the island—blessed Gaela’s inheritance. Love him, or pretend to; let his throne be a rock of strength and a known position, while we shore up the rest of the island for ourselves, until we are ready and our methods are impenetrable.
“I promised you years ago,” Regan soothed. “I promised you that we—that I—would be his downfall. Do you remember the star under which I was born?”
“None.”
Regan swallowed the bitter word. “None. I was born under an empty sky, a sliver of blackness our father cannot bring himself to love. You were born under the Star of the Consort, with the Throne on the rise. Double stars, which Father claimed negated each other for how they were webbed that night by the sheer, high clouds. But you and I know my star was already with you. The Throne and the Consort, you and me. Father could never understand, but we do. We understand, Gaela.” She clutched at her belly, the tiny star she couldn’t yet feel, but already burned in her heart. Regan would destroy the world for this singular star of hers, this helpless, sparking thing. When she told Connley she was pregnant, if he hesitated for even a moment, the man—no matter how passionate, how glorious—would be sliced from her life. Regan stared at her sister, willing Gaela to agree, to accept Regan’s word.
She did. Of course she did. Gaela twisted around to dip her whole hand into the well. She splashed the holy water against Regan’s neck.
With the sky as witness overhead, and the sleeping city of Astora below, the sisters made new promises to each other, against their father, and toward the future of Innis Lear.
REGAN (#ulink_ab00bc30-90b8-59c4-9e94-9a160ef2485a)
REGAN KNEW THAT when in residence at the Summer Seat, her sister Gaela did not share chambers with the Duke Astore, but chose instead to occupy the rooms that had been hers as a child, when this castle was Gaela’s favorite for its nearness to the rocky cliffs and caves their mother had loved.
Immediately upon arriving at the keep, Regan left Connley to find his supper and knocked gently at Gaela’s chamber door. “It’s me, sister.”
The door was thrown open and there Gaela stood, regal and tall in a dark red robe fastened with a sash, thick twists of black hair loose around her shoulders. Regan slipped inside and nudged the door shut again before putting her arms around Gaela’s neck and touching their cheeks together.
Gaela kissed Regan’s temple and cupped her sister’s face. “Your eyes are pink.”
Regan, who had only just divested herself of her cloak and muddy travel boots, pushed away and wiped her hands down the front of her bodice, as if her palms were filthy. They were not. Her hands paused for a breath just over her belly, and her face lowered.
“No!” cried Gaela, whipping around to swipe a clay jar of wine off the near table with her fist. It broke against the floor. The wine splashed, staining the wooden slats.
Starting at the streams and tiny reddish puddles, at the shards of clay, Regan saw flashes of hardened brown flesh, pieces of herself sprawled broken there. She clenched her fingers into fists, bruising her palms with her nails. The hurt relieved her.
“Why?” Gaela asked in a low, dangerous tone. She leaned back against the table, gripping its edge.
“I don’t know, Gaela,” Regan snarled.
