ELIA STOOD ALONE in the center of chaos: she was as still as the Child Star, fixed in the north. All around her men and women moved and argued, swelled and pressed, pushing and pulling and departing in snaps of motion.
Pressure throbbed in her skull; her heart was a dull, fading drumbeat. Sweat tingled against her spine, beneath her breasts, flushed on her cheeks. Emptiness roared in her ears, shoving everything back—back—back.
Her stomach and lungs had always served her well—breathed for her, turned her food into spirit, given her song against fluttering nerves—and now, now they betrayed her.
As her father had.
Suddenly Elia bent at the waist, clutching at the empty pain in her stomach. She opened her mouth, but there was no cry. Only a silent gasp. Her eyes were not even wet.
She turned and ran, brushing past the king of Aremoria, ignoring the call of her name from too many familiar voices.
She had done nothing wrong!
In her hurry, she took the long way out the main doors and across the yard, stumbling toward the family tower. She clutched at the retainer stationed at the entrance but said nothing as she passed, up the stairs, up and up, one hand hitting hard against the black stone wall. She did not pause, blinded by shock, until she reached her room.
Rushing to the window, Elia stared out at the cold ocean and panted. The wind slipped in and tickled her skin, scouring her with unease. She closed her eyes and listened to the warning—too late! The voices obscured themselves in her ears; she was too out of practice with the language of trees.
The old magic of Innis Lear, bleeding through its roots, carved into the bedrock of the very island, a language of the hunt and fluttering leaves, a magic Elia had abandoned. She’d cut herself off from that comfort long ago, choosing instead the stars and her father. Choosing the cold, lovely heavens and those constant, promising stars.
The earth changed, human hearts changed, but the stars never did. Everyone Elia had known who listened to the trees and leaned in to the roots of magic had left her.
She had thought it was enough to be her father’s truest star.
She’d thought it was a test, and if she remained that true star, all would be well. She’d thought her father understood her, that they knew each other better than anyone else.
And, a voice whispered from deep in her heart, she’d thought she was better than her sisters. Pride had kept her from breaking in the Zenith Court. Pride had kept her from saying something ridiculous to placate her father. From simply opening her mouth and playing the game.
“Love shouldn’t have to be a game,” she whispered to herself, and to the uneasy ocean.
“Elia.”
She spun, stumbling in surprise. The king of Aremoria had followed her.
“Your—Your Highness.” Her voice seemed foreign, a raw rasp emerging from her throat. As if she’d been screaming for hours.
He frowned, though it barely shifted his stolid face. “Your distress is understandable.”
Elia did not know how to reply without shrieking.
The king took a deep breath. When he sighed, his broad shoulders relaxed under the orange leather of his coat. “I am sorry for what your father has done. We will leave in the morning. Pack only what is personal. When we arrive in Aremoria, my sister and mother will have you supplied with any needs.”
She opened her mouth but said nothing. The king waited, watching her with steady blue eyes. She looked away, at the walls and furnishings of her room. It was perhaps smaller than a king might expect. But it was warm and bright from the cream-and-yellow blankets and tapestries she and her mother had chosen, embroidered with spring green vines and pastel wildflowers like a woven spring day. Elia could see Dalat here still, a ghost smoothing her hand along the pillows, telling a story as she tucked Elia into the bed. The wooden ceiling was crudely painted with star patterns against a day-blue sky, a gift from her father so she could recite their names as she fell into sleep. Light and ocean breeze slipped through a single window. No glass panes had been put in, for Elia preferred a heavy shutter she could open when she wished. She’d been so happy in this room, and then so alone.
Finally, she glanced back to the king. She thought of what he’d said in her defense, and was grateful. “Thank you, Your—Morimaros. I am grateful for your—your aid. But I cannot marry you or go with you.”
Surprise actually found a long pause on his face. It parted his lips and lifted his brows. Both bare hands opened, and he twitched his wrists as if to reach out. “But, Lady Elia—”
Elia shook her head, distant from her own body. “I cannot—cannot even think of it.”
“Ah,” Morimaros breathed. Understanding smoothed away his surprise. “You are grieving. But go with me, in the morning, to Aremoria. You need time and distance from Lear’s terrible judgment, and I would give it to you.”
She had no idea how to tell him this did not feel like grief. She hardly felt at all. This nothing inside her was like a windless, dead ocean. Where was the crashing? Where were the waves and whitecaps, the rolling anger and spitting sorrow she should be feeling?
“I…” Elia removed her hands from her stomach and spread them, elbows tight to her ribs. “I don’t know.”
Morimaros took one step: long, for his legs were long. He was so imposing Elia had to hold herself still so as not to move away. A soldier and a king, a handsome man ten years older than her. This woman is her own dowry. At least it sped her heart up from the dull, slow shock.
“Go with me, Elia Lear,” Morimaros said gently. “What might I say to reassure you? I promise to welcome your mother’s brother Kay Oak if he desires.”
“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.