THE BALCONY OFF Morimaros’s study was a round half-circle protected by a short marble rail carved like a trellis of fat-blooming roses. The stone blossoms trailed down the side of the tower toward the central courtyard, where Elia supposed sometimes the people of Lionis would gather to hear their king. She touched both hands to the rail and leaned out with her face raised, imagining all of Aremoria below her, a crown wound through her elaborate braids, and voluptuous layers of an orange-and-white royal wedding gown spilling over her body. Or perhaps she would wear the dark blue and white of the house of Lear. But then, she could hear Aefa insisting, Elia had always looked most beautiful in the colors of fire.
Like the sunset spread across the great spill of city hills before her.
It was a breathtaking sight, unlike any beheld on her island. Elia had believed she’d understood summer and the end of summer, before. Innis Lear held the season rather in reserve, parting warm mists and rain for moments of crystalline sunlight, and cool, lovely afternoons of wildflowers and breezes. It was a flash of a smile, appreciated more because of its fleeting nature.
But Aremoria did not let that smile pass or fade without worship. The countryside grabbed at the shortening days, made itself rabid with color. Elia was used to rusty autumn oaks and crisp browning leaves, not this wilderness of vivid green and gashed, bloody purple, nor the narrow strips of yellow as bright as topaz. The white city reflected the sky, and the rolling hills were emerald and golden fields as far as she could see beyond the city walls. Aremoria was violent with life, while Lear froze and ached at the precipice of death. She did not like to think—would not think—that lately the island seemed to court decay harder and longer, barely relinquishing winter in time for any spring.
How Elia missed her island, even so; how she longed for the desperate, dangerous beauty of churning seas, and the naked enduring mountains, and the hungry shadows of the White Forest. She tried, for a moment, to compose herself, to close off the ache for home.
“Elia,” Morimaros said from just inside his study. “I’m sorry for being late.”
Before she could turn, the king of Aremoria came behind her and put his hand delicately against her back. The touch held her open, somehow; sharpened her yearning.
“Lady, are you so unhappy here?” he asked. “I see only sadness when you look out at my city.”
She did not answer, breathing deep for calm and concentrating on the warmth of his hand. His thumb skimmed her skin, at her spine just over the collar of her dress. She had no wish, still, to marry, but how easy it would be to take what he offered, to turn herself over to this strong king, to let herself be subsumed under his power. The way she’d been subsumed under her father. Was this why Regan chose Connley, because he was so vibrant he could fill all the cracks in her spirit?
Elia turned and looked into his eyes. His expression left no room for whimsy or prettiness, and she wondered how a vibrant place such as this could have carved him into the serious, thoughtful man he was. But pride showed in his features, and a thin tension she was about to wind tighter. His orange leather coat hung open and casual, the tunic below untied at his neck. He wore no sword belt. The sunset lit his gaze and put fire along his bearded jaw.
“You are beautiful,” he said abruptly.
It caught her off guard, for she’d not known Morimaros to fill his own silences as if nervous. The thought that he was nervous alone with her, here on this balcony in the heart of his country and castle, was humbling as well as a thrill. Could she affect him as he did her? Could her voice set his heart pounding? She’d allowed Aefa to pamper her between the interrupted council meeting and this dinner: she bathed for too long and rubbed oil into her skin as well as her hair, until she felt soft and careful and made of the finest materials. Together they’d found a dress of sunny yellow and an overdress of meadow violet to compliment her best ribbons and lace wound into her freshly braided hair. It was sturdy and intricate enough to last a long while, especially if she wrapped it in a scarf to sleep.
Elia tried to bridle her racing thoughts, staring still breathlessly at Morimaros. “Thank you,” she managed.
He politely touched his hand to her elbow, guiding her around to the small table set for two, where he pulled the cushioned stool for her. She sat with her spine too rigid for comfort as the king leaned beside her to pour a clear yellow wine into her glass. He poured for himself, as well, before sitting across from her. At that silent signal, a duo of footmen emerged from the study with plates covered in cheeses, smears of jam and honey, and thin slices of smoked and salted fish.
Sparrows fluttered overhead, and Morimaros explained that he would come here as a boy to read his father’s treatises and lessons, and had begun feeding the birds. His sister named this balcony Mars’s Cote because of it. Elia watched how his mouth relaxed in the telling, as he spoke of his family with such obvious affection. This king was charming, but she felt a sadness reminiscent of envy. She wished she could relax into sharing a meal with him, to think merely of enjoying his company as if she too belonged here, another sparrow come home to roost and be comforted. But Elia could not forsake Innis Lear.
“The news from my sisters is not good,” she said, setting down a thin layer of unleavened bread she’d spread with apricot preserves.
He frowned, his glance flickering west, toward her island.
“My father has not changed his mind, or given any sign he means to. I fear—I fear my exile is not temporary.”
“From where does his madness spring, do you know?”
Elia took a small, hasty sip of wine. She set it down and folded both hands around the stem. “You have heard the story of my mother’s death?”
“That it was predicted by the stars.”
“That day, after she died, I have never felt such inconsolable despair, and I was so young. It was all my father, his feelings, and then my sisters both, spilling out onto me, all around me. My father gave what he could to me, and the island, but mostly to me.”
Morimaros took a breath, as if to speak, but remained silent.
“I was all he had, and the stars took so much from him. My mother, his brothers to make him king, his vocation. Can you imagine what that leaves a man, who then must try to be the king he is destined to be? The stars have been his only, only constant. Of course he can’t unlock himself from their prophecies, for fear of losing everything again.”
“Still,” the king said darkly, “he chose them over you, and set his kingdom on a path toward upset.”
“Better to push me away than have me torn from him because he does not do as the stars decree.” Elia forced her eyes up from the goblet. “Do you intend to invade Innis Lear?”
“If I must.”
The answer hardened her heart, squeezing out the prick of disappointment she felt, too. “What would make you think you must?”
His mouth pulled down. “Do you know what I saw, those waiting days in your father’s court?”
She met his eyes, nodding permission for him to continue, though she did not think she wanted to hear.
“A thin, rigid power, cracking in all the wrong places. Your father is a terrible king.”
Elia gasped in shock. “You know so much better?” she said angrily.
“I had a better example. My father was a good king. Perhaps your father was once, but no longer.”
She gripped her own arms. He spoke so matter-of-factly! Loyalty and love warred inside her against the need to understand, the need for change. She said, “My sisters are strong.”
“Dual queens will not hold, not when they do not act in complete accord.”
“They will, on the matter of keeping Innis Lear independent from you.”
Morimaros shook his head. “I had letters today, too. From Gaela and her husband Astore, as well as Connley. None of them agreed on their approach to me or even what they want from Aremoria.”
“What did they say?” she asked, too tentatively.
“Gaela warned me to keep my distance, saying that any action from me, including marrying you, would be seen as hostile. Astore asked me to back them against Connley, and offered me assurances of alliance if I do, when Astore is king. He suggested we might work this out as men, which I took to mean he does not trust his own wife, though perhaps I misread it. And Connley declared that he holds the loyalty of the Errigal earldom, and if I want iron from them, I must back him. As his wife does, though her sister might protest. This period before Midwinter is already hanging over disaster.”
Elia shook her head, disbelieving. “And so you must invade? To save Innis Lear?”
“Innis Lear once was part of Aremoria.”
“Eight hundred years ago!”
“I would see our lands reunited.”
“Innis Lear will not choose you if you invade. Not the people, and not the roots. Not even if you think you’re saving us.”
“Aremoria needs the minerals buried in your mountains, needs the trade advantages. Aremoria needs her western flank secure, and Innis Lear is a volatile neighbor. But”—Morimaros inclined his head nearer hers—“none of that makes my words any less true. Innis Lear will destroy itself if left on this path. A ruler must recognize this and make a choice, where land cannot choose or act.”
Elia stood up and returned to the edge of the balcony, but faced Morimaros. She studied him, his hard handsomeness, the certainty in his eyes. Nothing about him suggested he did not believe everything he said. Her sisters were right. Gaela and Regan both—the king of Aremoria saw weakness in Lear, and he would blow through, expecting little resistance, unless Elia proved otherwise. And so far all she’d shown Morimaros was her own grief; none of Innis Lear’s strength, none of what she knew to be true about stars and roots, or even what her father had ever done well, what would make Innis Lear thrive. She thought of Lear’s expectant face, the strain with which he coaxed her to answer his terrible instruction at the Zenith Court. Star prophecy was woven into the bedrock of her island, but it had led them before to ruin.
“You don’t understand Innis Lear.”
“Perhaps.” Morimaros came to her. “But I understand rulership, and I understand balance.”
“You do not respect prophecy or the songs of the Aremore trees. There is no rootwater in your city wells, no voice for the wind or roots of this land. Ours may cry out for help now, but unless you embrace what those of Innis Lear require, you could never be our true king. Not unless you submerge yourself in the rootwater at the dark well of Tarinnish, when the stars are brilliant and ready on the Longest Night, and prove the island accepts you. Your blood and the blood of the island, one blood bringing life.” Elia felt breathless, imagining it from the handful of stories she knew about how Innis Lear made its kings.
He would never. He couldn’t.
Slowly, Morimaros reached out, giving her ample time to avoid his touch, and took both her elbows in his hands.
“Innis Lear is a mess, with no strong head, no direction. It is not because your father closed the holy wells, or because he gave all to the stars. That is only how he did it. By offering the people nothing else to believe in when he forbade access and censured their faith. He gave Innis Lear no common enemy, nor any common hero, nothing to unite his people and keep them bound to their crown. He rejected them, preferring the distance of cold stars to the warmth of his close blood. And your sisters? They may be individually capable of ruling, but what of giving your island a hero or myth or anything to heal the wounds inflicted? And what of their husbands? They are all too selfish to understand the weight of a healthy crown. And if your sisters could somehow come to deny their own desires, cast off such quarrelsome husbands and devote more to the island than their own wounds, would the people of Lear agree to follow them, women who have been nothing but angry and cold? You see, I know much of the history of strife over the crown of Lear, Lady.”
Elia stared in shock. How dare he say such things about her country, her family? She clenched her jaw, then said firmly, “My sisters are determined, Morimaros. They will fight, and the people will accept them, because they are daughters of the island. Gaela is immensely powerful, like a saint already in her reputation, and Regan is known to commune with the roots. There is more than belief on Innis Lear. It is magic, real magic in our blood and in the song of the trees. My sisters are the new story of Innis Lear. And—and if nothing else could bring Connley and Astore together, it is the prospect of Aremore invasion.”
“I would use all of this to your advantage.” Morimaros drew her closer to him by her elbows, as near into an embrace as he ever had. “Make you the new faith. I would make your sisters and their husbands understand the only thing to stop my invasion is their sister Elia on the throne of Lear.”
Elia shook her head, denying the thought of it, even as her skin warmed. “Me? That is impossible. I was never built for it, Morimaros. I am a priest, no more, and hardly that, any longer.”
“I cannot believe that.”
“Then believe that I do not want to be queen. I never have wanted such a thing. I want my life to be my own.”
“We do not always have a choice in that matter. Even kings.”
“Do not take that choice away from me,” she commanded, or tried to: her voice shook.
He studied her for a moment. “Your uncle, the Oak Earl, wants the same as I. He argued in my council today that Aremoria’s best move is to put you on the throne of Innis Lear, and have a friendly neighbor, open trade without offense to the Third Kingdom. That it is what your father wanted, what he expected to have done at the Zenith Court.”
Horror stalled her voice. Elia closed her eyes. “I do not want to be queen of Lear. I do not want to vie with my sisters for the crown. I do not want to face their furious disdain. I have never wanted this. I want my father safe, and at peace for the last years of his life. I want—I want to do some good. Let me write to my sisters, negotiate with them. For my father, and for peace between them. They will choose one to rule: it will be Gaela. As is her birthright. If they know you are not readying your warships, they might relax enough to listen. To calm their husbands.”
“You believe your sisters can create balance? Can make Innis Lear strong? And do fair business with me? I do not see it.”
“And yet what do you see in me that makes you so certain I should be a queen, so certain you can trust me?”
“Elia.” His voice was hot suddenly, lacking his usual reserve. “I saw it the day we met, in small things, things you would not remember because they were so naturally part of you. And I saw it blossom when you stood before Lear and did not play his game. Not for power or aggression or anger, but for love. You can bring people together, instead of dividing them. That is what strength is. And what love should be.”
Elia, fighting tears, said, “Then for love, let me try to save my father, and resolve these things between my sisters to make a strong country before you wreck it.”
“I will not be the one to wreck Innis Lear.”
Desperation compelled her to say, “Don’t go to war, Morimaros. Say you won’t, and I’ll marry you. Make me your queen, keep me here in Aremoria, but never go to war with my sisters.”
The king released her suddenly. Some strong emotion rippled across his face. “You would marry me for your island’s sake, but not my own?”
“Your sake?” Elia’s heart clenched, and her fists followed. “I thought marriages between kings and queens were for the sake of alliance. I thought you wanted my position and leverage over my island, Your Highness, not my heart.”
“I find … I would have both,” Morimaros said.
She stepped back, her hip pressed to the stone rail.
Her sister Regan’s voice hissed at her, Use this to our advantage, little sister. Use his heart to gain what you need. And Gaela’s triumphant, disparaging laugh echoed.
The king waited as she thought, his eyes taking in every detail of her.
Shivering, Elia said, “I would prefer that, too. Both, I mean.”
Morimaros leaned in to her, bringing his hands up to cradle her neck. His thumbs touched her jaw. They were so close, too close. He was all she could see of the world, and his desire to kiss her was painted clear on his face. She hoped desperately he would not. She couldn’t imagine what she would feel if he did, or how his kiss would change her. She only knew that it would. She wasn’t ready.
“I see many possible consequences to your father’s choices, your sisters’ choices,” Morimaros said softly. She smelled the sweet, clear wine on his breath. It made her want to lick her lips; his nearness pressed her anger in too many directions. The king continued, “Your choices are more mysterious to me.”
“Everything I do is so simple,” she whispered. “I only want to live and practice compassion, and follow the path of the stars and earth saints. I cannot be responsible for the lives and deaths and rages and regrets of others.”
“I want…” Morimaros leaned away from her. He shook his head and turned to gaze at the shadows that overtook his city, turning it violet and blue and gray with deep twilight.
She waited, but he did not continue. As if the king of Aremoria did not know what he wanted, or could not quite bring himself to say the word aloud. “Tell me what you want.”
He leaned on his hands, gripping the stone rail of the balcony. His head dropped, urging her to touch his arm. She did, then slid her hand down the orange coat to place her fingers delicately atop his. Turning his hand up to put them palm to palm, Morimaros said, “I want … to only care about what I want, Elia Lear.”
The words were both heartbreaking and offensive, and yet when her name was in his mouth, it sounded like a queen’s name.
She withdrew her hand and left him below the new-pricked stars, understanding something more about rulership, and rather less about love.