CONNLEY

The Summer Seat, late summer

SOMETIMES CONNLEY ERRIGAL felt like a ghost.

He drifted from one place to the next, one person to the next, on a whim that might have been his own, or a whisper from Ashling, or the nudge of rootwater in his veins. The place he most often haunted was the ruined star cathedral with its ancient well, there in the heart of the White Forest. As a child it might have been said he haunted his sister, Banna Mora, and then his grandmother Sin, existing only where they existed because they needed him; as an adult he frequently lived in the shadow of Rowan Lear, because Rowan Lear loved him.

Connley knew the folk of Hartfare had begun to name him the Witch of the White Forest because it made more sense to them than calling him by a human name—an infamous one at that, for both the ambitious duke and the wandering prince who’d carried it last on the island. But he liked his name because it gave measure to his only aspiration: to be as much a piece of Innis Lear as it was possible to be and live. For Connley was not only a name, it was a history, it was the stones of a castle, a memory, and a legend.

It was her favorite name.

He knew what she was. Rowan had explained it, several years ago, after digging through every story written down in every crumbling library on Innis Lear; after consulting the stars and roots; after interrogating Grandmother Sin, the oldest person alive on the island.

“The Ashling ghost should have been an earth saint,” Rowan had said. “But since the sundering, there are not earth saints on Innis Lear to help her transform, and so she is just dead, but with enough island magic to make her voice strong. Be careful, because she is wily like them, needy like them, and once she knows your name she will never want to let you go. But unlike them, she is alone.”

“I won’t let her be alone,” Connley replied. “Maybe that will make her less angry.”

He’d first heard her as a baby. She had cooed at him from the leaves rustling outside his parents’ bedchamber window, where his cradle rocked under the patient watch of a nurse. Her songs had been soothing and pretty, distracting him from tears, from food even, until his nurse complained. It wasn’t that the nurse feared voices in the wind—that would be ridiculous for a woman of Innis Lear—no, the nurse had disliked her small charge paying more attention to the wind than to her authority. So she’d been replaced with another who did not mind the extra help.

The ghost became Connley’s true nurse. All the children of the island’s trees are my children, she’d murmured to him when he was old enough. Once, he’d asked how she died, and Ashling flew into a rage, spinning up a whirlwind violent enough to rip the roof off one of the outbuildings. She swore and swore she did not know, she did not care, and nor. should. he.

Since, he’d only angered her once else: with his mouth on Rowan’s mouth.

Ashling had never liked Rowan. You only should love one prince, the spirit had insisted, voice acid with jealousy. He had argued, The more love I have, the more I can give. Rowan Lear is no threat to you, my lady, my island heart.

She did not agree, and made it known in tiny ways: hearths gone cold, rain spilling through his cottage roof, and cracked pots. Little goblin trespasses. But Rowan had seemed to appreciate the competition, and spoke directly to Ashling, though she never, ever answered. He called her broken earth saint, and promised if she ever harmed Connley he would find her bones and destroy her. The prince was never afraid.

Sometimes when they were together, Rowan would kiss Connley softly and whisper in the language of trees, This is a prayer for the spirit of ashes, then make love to Connley like it was a holy rite.

“Do you love her? My sister?” Connley asked Rowan, resigned and hurting, the day Rowan said he would marry her.

“I do, Conn. Listen: Since Banna Mora was thrust before me, bleeding across her cheek, bound in rope and iron, her mail shirt bright as moonlight, everything has been scraped from my heart but for her and Innis Lear.”

“I was in your heart.”

“I’m sorry. You knew we loved each other because we wanted it, not because it would last. I kissed you and pressed you down into the earth because you are the island embodied: rootwater shines from your eyes and the wind is always alive in your voice.”

“I’m not the island, I am a man,” Connley whispered back.

“As am I, and also a prince, and you were never a solution for my crown.”

Rowan Lear could be as cruel as the winter storms.

After the prince had gone, the Lady of Ashes enveloped Connley in gentle breezes, warm and earthy, and whispered with great sadness, I always knew he did not love you as I do. You were only ever practice for your stranger sister. Connley didn’t believe it of Rowan, but that did not cushion him from the pain of Rowan’s choice.

And now, here he was, faced with the same choice.

“Say something,” his sister said. Banna Mora leaned back against the table in her study, which served to put them at eye level.

Connley held her gaze. Her eyes were the same mix of green-brown colors as his own, but harder, always sparking and fixed on something; Connley felt like he never fixed on anything. He blinked several times and tried to remain still. His fingers moved, though, slowly as if playing a delicate harp against his thigh.

His sister had just informed him that she’d offered him in marriage to the Wolf of Aremoria.

“She is strong, and will be loyal, and I need her,” Mora said. “You must do your duty, Connley Errigal.”

Indignation halted his ability to speak. That she thought she had to argue pointed specifically enough at how she found him lacking. Of course he would do his duty, of course he wanted the best for Innis Lear, of course he expected to marry and become a father—he desperately wanted to be a father someday. Being a witch—and in love with Rowan—did not discount such things.

“I wish you had asked,” he finally said, chiding very gently.

His sister frowned back at him, a very dour, deep frown that spelled danger.

He held up a hand, and though he knew tears had begun to gleam in his eyes and the timbre of his voice shifted toward thick, he said, “I will marry your knight, if she wants me. But you should have asked before commanding.”

With that he left.

But the hall outside Mora’s suite was blocked by her husband, and Connley hit into him with a small grunt.

“Go with me,” Rowan said, taking his hand.

“You knew already,” Connley murmured as he allowed himself to be pulled through the narrow passage to a turret stair, and up, up to the ramparts. The ocean wind hit them both, blasting the tears from Connley’s eyes and pulling at Rowan’s hair so it rippled and twisted like tentacles against the deep blue afternoon sky.

The prince banished two retainers from the stretch of wall joining the family tower to the guest tower, in order to claim it for only themselves.

Connley freed himself of Rowan’s touch. “You didn’t think to ask me, either.”

“I knew you would agree.” Rowan glanced at him, puzzled seeming. “Was I wrong?”

Though he wanted desperately to say yes, to cry out Yes, curse you, sometimes you are wrong, Rowan Lear, it was not the case. Connley crossed his arms and leaned against the age-smoothed crenellation. From here, the Summer Seat wall cut down in line with the cliff itself, and the high sun washed the rippling ocean vivid blue. A hundred and more feet below, waves clawed at boulders and narrow, tide-filled caves.

“Good,” Rowan said. He lifted Connley’s hand and kissed the dry knuckles. “I have a thing to show you.”

Connley refused to look, but in the corner of his eye he saw Rowan tap a thin book against the rough stone. It was leather-bound and imprinted with pale green and yellow hawthorn leaves. This was the secret book Rowan often carried, but never had let Connley inspect. He turned a shocked face to Rowan, and the prince smiled very slightly. He paged it open and offered the whole to Connley.

It was written in the careful lines of the language of trees; neat, precise hash-marks. Connley read:

Grandson, either my own or that of my granddaughter—it is difficult to say by my prophecies and dreams. But—Grandson. This book is for you, though I did not know it until now, when the large bluebird I dreamed of again and again finally found me this morning. I dreamed of you, too, a child with hair like the sun, brighter than any earth saint’s child should have. How handsome you will be, and tall. Strange that I should dream of you, and strange that all my mother’s blood will be gone from your looks. Do you dream? In my dream you are dreaming, too, spread across a field of gray-green grass, grown to a man, at peace as you listen to the trees gossip. And then in my dream you are in a different land, hearing different gossip, and you are not sleeping, but dead at the crown of her ancient church.

My dreams are not prophecy, understand. They are stories the stars whisper to me as I sleep, apprehensions of my own heart that I cannot discover while awake.

Or sometimes I think they are only what my sister would have me believe. Her voice is so strong, sometimes I speak her name aloud as though to answer. Aefa hates it when I do, and it frightens my family. They fear I go mad as my father did.

Grandson—this is what I need to tell you: there comes a time when the stars will offer no solace, and you must open them. I cannot be certain what it means, but it is the thing I must say to you. That and: Innis Lear must always have a queen. Not a woman, but a queen. A lover for the island, a partner. Listen to Innis Lear, love the stars, partner with the rootwaters.

This is how to be a queen of Innis Lear.

You do not rule, you do not control, you become.

“This belonged to Elia the Dreamer?” Connley touched his mouth, so full of awe when he said her name.

“I was nine when the roses in the garden at Dondubhan revealed it to me. I’ve read it through so many, many times since.”

“Amazing, Rowan. I …” Connley glanced up, smiling.

Rowan touched his lover’s ear, fingers soft as a breeze.

It reminded Connley that Ashling was not going to be pleased when he left the island. His smile fell. “Why are you showing me this now?”

“I want you to believe that I trust you.”

Connley’s lips parted just enough for a soft sigh. He nodded. “Thank you.”

“I wish I could go to Aremoria for you, but I also believe you are uniquely suited for the task.”

“Of marrying Hotspur Persy? I think we’re nothing alike, if the stories are true.”

“Perhaps she is your undiscovered fire,” Rowan said tenderly.

Connley smiled sadly, whispered fire in the language of trees, and snapped his fingers.

Nothing. He scrubbed his palms on his thighs and tried again, but fire still forsook him.

“What I meant, Conn, was you are so purely you, with every part of yourself, that even walking off the island, crossing the water, and digging yourself into Aremoria, you will remain Innis Lear at your core.”

“You’re pretty purely you, Poison Prince.”

Rowan scoffed. “I know what I am. But my ambitions drive me constantly away from myself, and I must always check and safeguard myself, and my emotions. You are like an animal—you know what you need and you seek it out, patiently, without manipulating others or looking too far ahead. You wouldn’t sacrifice others, or ask anyone to sacrifice themselves. You don’t need any hemlock crown or star-sign painted on your cheek to remind you what your ambition serves. It’s a gift.”

“The island embodied. You’ve said that before.” Connley knew Rowan was manipulating him even now, but still wanted to be persuaded. He wanted Rowan to kiss him and push his ribs against the cutting crenellation. He wanted to feel more. Connley wanted the physical sensation, the grounding release—it made no sense that he found such freedom in being rooted in place by someone’s touch. He shivered hard.

Rowan put an arm around his waist and pulled him nearer. It was not the aggression Connley needed, but it helped.

The summer afternoon did not bite with sharp teeth, but only gnawed lazily with salty wind. Rowan murmured, “Listen to Innis Lear by listening to yourself, Conn. Love the stars, become—like Elia the Dreamer commands. That is my mission and I’ve followed it all my life. Listening led me to you, to my power, to battle, and to Banna Mora. It will continue to lead me until it leads me to my end.” Rowan’s hand tightened on Connley’s hip. “At the crown of her ancient church.”

“Do you know where that is?”

“I think …”

“Tell me.” Connley glanced at Rowan, at the angle of his strong nose above the curves of his lips.

“Aremoria. I think her is the first wizard Lear, and her church is in Aremoria. And I believe that before I die I will see Innis Lear and Aremoria joined again. Your marriage is a step on the path.”

Connley could barely even comprehend something so large as that. “Is there a true prophecy?”

“They’re all true,” Rowan murmured.

“The stars all babble now.” Connley caught his breath, recalling the line from Elia the Dreamer’s book. There comes a time when the stars will offer no solace. “No solace,” he said. “Now is the time—she wants you to open the stars.”

“Opening has been a recurring theme in many of these babbling prophecies.”

“The island, too, speaks of it. Open your eyes, the roots sometimes say to me, when I am already awake. They’ve never before. But Rowan, how does one open the stars?”

“Magic,” he said, softly obnoxious.

Cold dread tightened Connley’s throat. “Rowan.”

The Poison Prince stared out at the rippling ocean, and at the sky washed out behind the vibrant sun. Likely he saw far-flung destinies and strategy, too, and the very breath of Innis Lear. “By rejoining Aremoria and Innis Lear. That’s how I open the stars.”

“Oh,” Connley whispered, though it made no sense to him. But he finally realized what Rowan had brought him to this crenellation to understand. “Banna Mora’s quest is yours, too, given to you by the stars and roots of Innis Lear. You think it’s your destiny.”

Rowan’s gaze flicked to Connley for the briefest moment, eyes glinting with fear and friendship. “I think I won’t survive it. But it must be done. Something is wrong between Innis Lear and Aremoria, which is why we have half-made earth saints and the prophecies deteriorate. The island needs me to be its hands in this. I have become enough of Innis Lear to understand that much. There is that very old prophecy, too: The greatest king will reunite Aremoria and Innis Lear.

“You don’t want to be the greatest king.”

“Banna Mora does. We are the same in that, brought together for destiny.”

The Witch of the White Forest closed his eyes, swayed nearer to his prince, and focused on the press of Rowan’s fingers at his hip and the thin warmth of that sun, the boldest star.