The Queens of Innis Lear by Tessa Gratton
A few weeks later, Ban was sent to Aremoria.
Part
THREE
THE FOX
LAST NIGHT A crow had perched outside his too-narrow window, yelling bloody murder: Ban could no longer ignore his mother.
So he’d left before dawn, taking one of his father’s lanky horses.
Once through the black gates of the Keep, Ban gave the horse her head, urging her up the rocky path toward the White Forest of Innis Lear. The horse leapt forward, eager to race, as if Ban’s jittery energy translated through seat and saddle. Ban leaned forward, his cheek near the horse’s neck, and they shot into the trees with a crack and slap of branches and yellowing leaves.
As Ban traveled, he built thin layers of emotional armor around himself, to perhaps hide from Brona all the hope and fury and fault that roiled darkly in his heart like gathering storm clouds. He knew himself to be an excellent liar, having spent years as the Fox, but as a boy, his mother had always seen right through him.
For a long while the horse made her own way along a deer path and then a creek bed, dashing then walking again, hopping over fallen branches, picking her way carefully over mossy ground. Ban only kept her nose pointed north and west, toward Hartfare.
Around them the forest woke, chirping and buzzing with the last of summer, the flies and bees and happy birds whispering a welcome to him. He murmured back to the rich shadows and voluptuous greenery: low ferns glistened with dew, moss and cheerful lichen climbed the trunks of the trees, and the thick canopy of leaves turned the light itself glassy green. Here, inside the White Forest, was the only place the island’s roots still held any joy.
This was what needed most to be restored, once Lear’s oppressive rule had ended, once his legacy was torn apart. The heart of the island would thrive, and its rootwaters spread to every edge once again. Ban would make it so himself, and Morimaros would allow it, because the king of Aremoria understood balance, and could be made to understand the workings of root magic on Innis Lear, even if there was no faith under his crown.
And it would be easy, if Ban’s father’s state was any indication.
Last night Errigal had wrapped his heavy arm around Ban’s neck and said, “If it were not for the year between your birth and your brother’s, I might wonder if some earth saint had not switched you in the night. You my true son, and Rory the cur he’s proved himself to be.”
“Peace, Father,” Ban had said through clenched teeth. “You still do not know his true heart.”
Errigal had thrust Ban away. “You keep defending him and I’ll charge you as an accomplice, boy! Deny you both!”
“I am no accomplice, my lord, I only wish to find him.” Ban touched the hilt of his dagger, for he wore no sword to dine with the duke and his lady. “It is hard to believe this villainy of Rory. Because he is my brother.” It should have been what Errigal said: I can hardly believe this of Rory, because he is my son.
But Errigal only tore at his beard and cried, “What could brotherhood be to him, when fatherhood is so clearly insignificant?”
And Ban was forced to be silent, or spitefully call out his father’s hypocrisy.
The duke of Connley had distracted Errigal with an argument on economics then, and putting men north, as close to Dondubhan as they could without directly challenging Astore. Regan added an elegant opinion here and there, reminding them it was Gaela they should avoid challenging. Ban had wished to leave, but the lady’s eyes settled upon him, despite her attention to the arguing. He’d struggled to keep the truth of his anger off his face, to be only her wizard, showing no emotion more than mere irritation at his father’s drunkenness. In the end, he lowered his gaze, afraid she would perceive too much.
Now, Ban thought again of her lovely, cool eyes, her grace, and what a dangerous presence she carried, what determination and poise.
It was disloyalty to Mars to even consider the idea, but Regan Connley, Ban thought, would make an excellent queen. Better than Gaela, who was a suit of armor, a blunt, deadly weapon, and better than Elia, who was not a weapon at all.
Though if anyone could manage to sharpen her into one, it was Morimaros of Aremoria.
In the forest, bluebirds fluttered in Ban’s path, following him, and flickers of pale light caught his gaze as the moths returned, marking the forward path. Ban gave the horse’s withers a friendly thump and pulled her back, angling her in the direction of his mother’s village.
Hartfare was supposed to be difficult to find, except to those who understood the forest or could hear the language of trees. It was no den of outlaws, but a haven for people who did not fit in the towns and cities or keeps and castles of Innis Lear. Some were like Ban’s mother, foreign in blood or clinging to the old earth ways; some had lost their homes and families; some had been otherwise unwanted; some made outlaws by political slant rather than malicious intent; some merely preferred the gentle heart of the forest and did not mind living close to the wilds and saints and spirits of the dead.
Ban had lived there the first ten years of his life, unaware of the reputation he’d been born into according to the greater world of men and kings. Hartfare was an adventure for any young boy, but unlike many there, Ban knew his father. Errigal had been a bright, blustery, frequent presence, rushing into Ban’s life like a spring flood, then out again on a galloping steed. He’d been a handsome warrior, a laughing, loud nobleman who made Ban’s mother laugh in turn, louder than any other. And like most children, Ban had assumed nothing would change, that always he’d be helping his mother in the garden, running with the other children after small game, or mushrooms and wild onions, up all night to listen to the creaking voice of the forest. That he and Brona would be a permanent duo, Ban growing into a natural extension of the witch of the White Forest, the shadow-lady of Innis Lear. He would always be her son, a witch he hoped himself, and Ban would then dream of his own shadow-names and power. It was Brona who drew attention and trade to Hartfare: Errigal and Errigal’s like, bold visitors from every corner of the island, or more often sneaking men and desperate women who needed, begged, and paid for Brona’s magic.
Then Queen Dalat had died, and soon after Errigal took Ban away from Hartfare, to live with the king’s court under an open, starry sky. Brona had not argued. She’d cared more for the fate of Hartfare than his own. Though she’d loved her son, she’d not chosen him.
It had seemed, at least for a time, that Ban had been chosen instead by his brother, and by Elia. But they too had not cared to keep him close, had not fought against his banishment to Aremoria.
What would Brona see in Ban now? As a grown man, after so long apart? He still felt too much like a misbehaving boy dragging his feet. Was there any chance she would approve of him using his Learish magic in Aremoria? Would she be furious he’d waited weeks to come to her hearth? What might she be like now, with the island’s roots so withdrawn and unhappy? Could he even trust his memories of her, as they were the memories of a child?
Ban put his shoulders back and pushed his cloak off his left shoulder to clearly reveal the sword strapped to his hip. It did not do to hide his weapon; only thieves and criminals—and spies—did not display what strength they held. His mother hadn’t seen him in years, nor he her, but he could not bring himself to pretend. There was no point in slicking back his choppy hair or trimming it into harmony. No point but to relish the scars on his face and hands, the hard lines war and wariness had cut into his features at too young an age. Brona would see through any lies regardless, unless she’d lost that sharp acumen for judging men. He hoped not—it was why Ban had sent Rory to her in the first place. She would keep him safe no matter what news she had from Errigal Keep, because she’d see the blunt honesty and goodness in Rory himself. The glorious sun to Ban’s wan moon, brothers separated as much by their birth as by their spirits.
Ban Ban Ban, said the trees. You’re home!
They fluttered leaves, reached for him; they chided him for staying away and they sighe
Lady Regan loves you, he said.
The White Forest replied, Regan, poor Regan, she needs us but she does not love us.
Both, he said, frowning. She needs you and loves you.
The trees hissed and sighed. One whispered, Elia, and another, Saints of earth, but before Ban could find it, find that tree who said her name, the echo had vanished and all the forest sang together joyfully.
The Hartfare path appeared as if in a dream, at the edge of a narrow clearing and marked with several tatters of blue wool, as if strips of some dark sky had become caught in the reaching branches. Hardly more than a hunter’s lane, but enough for the horse to recognize. The way to Hartfare, once found, lasted only a mile or so before spilling both horse and soldier into the village.
Ban slid off the horse and stood, amazed at how it had grown.
There were perhaps forty cottages, ten more than when he’d last been here. Some little huts for livestock, rows of gardens, and the public house, and his mother’s herbary. It smelled and sounded as he remembered—splatter of mud, clang of metal, and his father’s laughter and his mother’s quiet singing; Brona smearing blood off his palm from a shallow gouge and saying a charm, something Ban could not quite remember, but it made him feel glad. The memories were as distant as dreams, but surely they were real because dreams would not smell like crushed flowers and shit.
His horse stomped her foot and shook her head so the tack rang against her neck. Ban patted her, murmured soothing nothings, and unlooped the reins. He brushed floating moon moths out of his way as he hobbled the horse, and while some eyes on his back prickled his awareness, he lifted off the saddle and blanket to rub her down quickly and let her loose to graze.
Turning, Ban spied two young women peering at him from the nearest cottage window, and an older man kneeling in a patch of long peas, studying him, too.
The road through the village was thick with mud, and a pack of hounds ran out, barking and braying, with a boy calling frantically behind. Ban put his hand on his sword and stomped at them, splattering mud. He did his best to smile at the boy, and let the nearest hounds sniff and lap at his gloved fingers, shove their long noses in his crotch, nearly knock him over. They smelled filthy and wet and terrible. But he liked rough, loud dogs.
The moths did not, and wafted high into the air.
The boy stared at Ban, or rather at Ban’s sword, eyes brown like walnut shells and skin swarthy, marking him one of the clan from far south in Ispania, and so related distantly to Ban and his mother. Ban wondered if the boy was a bastard, too, and if his only hope was to join service as a retainer. He said, “After I speak with Brona, I’ll show you to use the sword if you like,” and the boy grinned gap-toothed and nearly tumbled over one of the dogs.
There were people everywhere. Ban strode faster, before there were more interruptions, before he lost his nerve.
The herbary where his mother lived and worked was built of wood and mud bricks, with fresh thatch from which some small tufts of pink flowers grew, despite the late season. The door was closed, but the square, squat windows were open, and Ban heard his mother’s voice singing in the side garden.
It shook him to his boots, for she sounded so much the same he nearly forgot his own age.
“Mama,” he said, not loud enough to be heard; more for himself, a reminder, a grounding. And when he spoke, some relief blossomed in his chest. With a growing smile, he strode around the corner and found her shooing some chickens out of her sweet pea vines.
At his step, Brona spun, black hair loose, skirts twisting at her bare calves. She held two small dark plums, waxy and ripe. They’d been his favorite as a boy.
“Welcome home,” his mother said, offering the fruit.
Ban took one, but the moment his finger brushed hers, he dropped the plum, frozen.
She was as imposingly lovely as he remembered.
Brona wore her waves of black hair loose and only a thin sleeveless shift hanging off one tan shoulder as if she’d just been awakened, though it was very late in the morning. Her skirts clenched at a waist caught like a bridge between heavy breasts and heavy hips. Red flushed her cheeks and her mouth; her eyes were dark and wet as the mossy forest outside. Horn and amber beads hugged her wrists and bare ankles. The tops of her feet were mud-speckled, and her toes vanished into the grass. She was exactly as Ban remembered, unbound and free, made of the very earth; the memory was a visceral wave of delight followed by the hot awareness that he could see her now the way his father must have. When he left he’d only been a boy and had only a son’s eyes. Now he was a soldier, and understood the hunger of men.
“Ban,” Brona breathed in a thick sigh.
“Mama,” he said, just as full.
She closed the distance, and her hands found his rough cheeks. Brona slid thumbs along his jaw, toyed with the thick, uneven strands of his hair, tugged at the leather jacket he wore. She put her palms to his chest, and there were tears washing her eyes. “What a man you look.”
Swallowing, Ban touched his mother’s waist, wanting to pull her close and hug her until he forgot everything of the past month, or the past ten years, everything but whatever herby soap she put in her hair and the always-sharp smell of her, as if the dry flowers hanging from her ceiling and the herbs she grew and harvested, boiled, waxed, crushed, and turned to tinctures had permeated her skin and blood. Pretend she had kept him, chosen him. But instead he said, “I don’t only look like a man.”
Her laugh was wry. “As irritable as ever. Ah, I’ve heard so much, so many things of my son, the Fox.”
Pride swelled, but Brona swiftly quashed it by adding, “Also, I’ve heard how long you’ve been on the island without attending to your mother.”
“I—I’m here now.”
“Not to stay.”
It wasn’t a question, and she did not sound sorrowful over it.
“Hartfare is not a place for me,” he muttered, wondering if his mother regretted her choices, or if they were worth the specific freedoms that came with her craft. She was respected, but only in the dark, and never by men concerned with stars, those who made their laws. Brona had never married, yet never seemed sorry or lonely—Ban could dredge up no memories of her angry, no matter how hard he tried, and she’d only been sad the day Errigal took him away. Sad, but not fighting to keep him.
“Is there any place for you, my Ban?”
He only could stare at her, feeling at the edge of some new understanding. It was too big to allow in without feeling all the corners and inspecting the angles. But at the center was his mother, once a girl like Elia, making choices. And having them made for her by the world. Ban thought he might need to sit down, and he tried to mask his perception with another frown.
Brona’s eyes crinkled, and she kissed his lips. “Ever serious, ever dour, just as irritable. You get that from none of us! Perhaps some old man on your father’s side. Ah, I missed your sour face, but I would like to see a smile before you go again. Come inside.”
His mother took him by the hand and led him into her home.
Lit only by calm sunlight, the cottage was full of sweet smells. Ban’s vision adjusted quickly, but before he could relax, he saw a man sitting half up out of the bed in the far corner.
The Oak Earl, undressed and rumpled here in his mother’s house.
Ban felt his entire being jolt again. He gripped Brona’s hand too hard, and she bent her mouth in disapproval. “Ban,” she chided.
“What are you doing here?” he said, low and dangerous, to the Oak Earl. Kayo was handsome and famous, strong and by reputation a good man. But here he was, spoiling this place with his casual familiarity, and he was supposed to be banished alongside Elia, fled to Aremoria.
Keeping his eyes on Ban, Kayo slowly pushed aside the blankets and stood. As he bent to g
Brona made a snort of incredulity and pulled away from her son. “You, my boy, are gone too long and are too grown to pretend you have any place judging me.”
“Not…” Ban’s mouth was dry. He swallowed, painfully aware it was babyish hurt clogging his throat. “Not judging, Mama,” he rasped.
“Judging,” she said firmly, stressing it with a firm pat on his cheek. “Call it protecting if that makes it easier for you. Either way: don’t.”
He folded his arms over his chest, hiding the clench of his fists, and slid another glare at the Oak Earl.
Kayo ran hands over his puffed curls, forming them back from his face. “Thirsty, Ban?” he said.
Brona padded over to her hearth. “I’d just put water to boil. Sit, son.”
He obeyed woodenly.
Sunlight, cool forest breezes, and three moon moths drifted in through all the cottage’s open windows. That, as much as the hanging flowers and herbs, the crackling fire, the layers of rugs, all worked together to make this a home, warm and welcoming. Gentle floral and bitter smells pinched the air, and the benches set beside Brona’s long table were overlaid with patches of deer and dog and bear fur, softening the seat. Ban leaned his elbows on the rough table his mother used for both eating and working. He remembered being laid out across it once, some women from the village holding down his legs and arms, while Brona sewed up a bone-deep slice on his chin. The scar was still there, and Ban realized he’d touched it only when his mother smiled softly at him, placing a half-eaten loaf of oat bread out for them to share.
Kayo sat across from him, his back to the fire. He reached out and tore a piece of bread. The Oak Earl watched Ban with a suspicion and heavy regard that Ban could not believe he’d earned. There was no way Kayo knew anything of Ban’s plotting, no matter what Rory’d confessed. Ban glared back, and said again, “What are you doing here, Oak Earl?”