Читать книгу The Queens of Innis Lear - Tessa Gratton, Tessa Gratton - Страница 23

MORIMAROS, THE KING of Aremoria, was annoyed.

He’d been directed outside to a nearly empty garden, along with his personal escort of five polished soldiers, to await a second audience with King Lear. Mars had assumed that meant an immediate audience, an intimate discussion of his matrimonial goals, but instead he’d been waiting long enough for the shadow of the stone table at the center of the yard to shift a hand-span. The walls of the courtyard reached high, lime-washed and painted with gray trees, star shapes, and graceful flying swans, the art faded now and in need of retouching. Pine boughs and sweet-smelling lavender littered the earthen ground. Deep wooden boxes in the four corners grew with emerald moss and creeping rose vines that bloomed bloodred and creamy orange.

Though it was altogether a lovely atmosphere, something tugged at Mars’s awareness, as if invisible cracks had formed in the very air. As if the roses wanted his attention.

Mars was not practiced at idleness. It led him to imagine fantasies.

He wondered if his Fox had arrived yet.

I have a game for you to play, Mars had said, the afternoon he’d received his invitation to this Zenith Court. Did you know her, Elia Lear? His Fox had lied when he answered, Barely, sir, with something of shuttered grief in the tremble of his words.

The Fox had served Mars passionately and well for years, discovering secrets no other spy even thought to look for, slipping into fortresses and enemy camps as if he could spin himself invisible or as quick as the wind with which he spoke. Yet that always hidden thread of angst was too easy for Mars to pluck and set against Innis Lear. Until now, Mars had held back from doing so. Things built so easily tended to be just as easily broken.

But it was time. Mars was here for one thing: Innis Lear itself, and he stood at the center of several paths to claim it. The Fox was one. The princess was another.

Waiting in this empty, albeit lovely, courtyard was not.

The king’s eyes returned to the central stone table.

It was only a man’s length across, and circular, cut of the same or similar hard black rock that this entire castle was made of. Mars was reminded of the stone circles that clung to this island, or the ancient dolmen to be found in the less civilized parts of Aremoria. Remnants of the oldest cults of earth and root.

That was it.

Mars, though he’d been still and standing beside one of the walls this entire time, strode suddenly to the table and crouched. He put one hand to the rough edge and peered beneath it.

The wide foot of the table was like the stump of a mushroom, built of small black rocks held together with mortar. He smelled damp moss, and despite the shadows that must perpetually cling to this underside, he saw glinting water, trickles that had seeped through the mortar. The tabletop had been set upon the foot, but not plastered in place. Like a heavy, precarious lid.

This had been a well once.

Sucking in a breath, the king of Aremoria realized he was not only surprised, but shocked in the way of a man confronting some desperate heresy.

Clutching the edge of the table, Mars stood carefully and looked around the rose courtyard again. The vines themselves, at every corner, and the lack of ceiling, should have been enough of a hint: this courtyard had been a chapel.

In Aremoria, long ago, the people had worshipped the earth, made their temples in the river caves and around natural springs. As the country grew, they built churches and cathedrals of earth, wood, and stone, always with the central well that dove deep into the heart of the world. Passages to life and death. When the worship of stars spread, Aremoria came entirely out of caves and knocked the roofs off their churches, marrying wells and starlight.

Mars remembered it being similar on Innis Lear. Their star towers rose high, but at Dondubhan where he’d once been a guest, eleven years ago, the black lake Tarinnish had been called the Well of Lear. He knew from his Fox that the White Forest was pocked with springs and wells, and the Fox’s own witchcraft came from the rootwaters and worms.

But this well, in the heart of the Summer Seat of Innis Lear, had been capped off.

It shook him, though Mars could only guess at why. He had no religion himself, nor trust in prophecy and magic.

And yet.

Yesterday, Lear himself had greeted Mars outside the Summer Seat, waiting across the land bridge, seeming modest, clad in only a finely made robe, his hair unbound, and without the impressive regalia of armored retainers and cavalry that Mars himself had brought. Then, Mars thought Lear had wished to create a welcome that put little pressure on Mars to be formal, and Mars had hoped it meant the king of Innis Lear and his youngest looked kindly on Mars’s intentions, to receive him so casually, as if already they were family. Then dinner had come, and Ullo of Burgun arrived, too, and Mars had gritted his teeth, holding his expression blank the entire time. Lear had behaved just as informally, giving no clear preference to either king.

Though Mars understood politically why Lear entertained Ullo of Burgun as another suitor to his daughter, it rankled nonetheless to be set on an equal footing with such a buffoon. Either it was a purposeful affront to the obviously greater alliance with Aremoria, or Lear was no statesman. Mars had taken every opportunity to remind Ullo of the folly of going against him. Ullo’s response had been to flirt his way through every conversation, making Mars almost hope Elia Lear never arrived at all, to be subjected to the attentions of this featherbrained flatterer-king. Lear himself either did not mind Ullo’s flavor, or did not notice. Then Lear had commented to Mars in such a way that made it sound as if they’d never before met, when they had, though briefly and now over a decade prior.

Last night it had merely irritated Mars, but now, it unsettled him.

Was the king of Innis Lear capricious, or losing his mind to his age? Something was out of balance on the island, Mars could feel it, and more than any conversation he’d overheard or participated in, this diminished holy well was proof. There’d been reports that the king of Innis Lear had shut down the wells, but in Aremoria they’d moved their folk away from holy wells and cave worship a generation ago. To the betterment of the country, and to its strength.

The difference, Mars thought, was Lear had not offered anything to replace rootwater and faith in the hearts and minds of his people. No wonder there was imbalance and unease threaded through everything. When Mars had returned home after his long-ago visit, curious and fascinated by the tightly knit faith of the Learish people, his father had, with little fanfare, dispelled his son’s awe:

That place is haunted, Morimaros, and you’d do well not to admire whatever magic granted it such power. Here in Aremoria we’ve given the people something better than ghosts and stars and trees to believe in: they have us. And if you’re ever to retake that island and rule it, as is your birthright, you need to recognize credulity when you see it, and accept that superstition is a tool, not a guarantee. Magic is untrustworthy; only loyalty matters to kings.

A soft breeze kissed Mars’s cheek, turning his attention to the open arched gate of the rose courtyard, just as Ullo of Burgun walked through. Though a warm afternoon, the king wore heavy fur to compliment his thick head of hair and full beard, both no doubt intended to make him appear more mature. Mars suddenly wished he’d managed to confront Ullo directly on the battlefield last month, and had captured him against a ransom, which he could then have denied, keeping Ullo locked in a fine room in the Lionis Palace and far away from Innis Lear.

Burgun chatted with the King’s Fool, whose name Mars never had caught. The Fool wore ridiculous stripes and a toy sword in a sheath on his back; his hair was dyed unnatural red and he had paint on his lower lip and at the corners of his eyes. He clapped his hands and bowed extravagantly toward Mars. “Your bright Majesty, we’ve come to entertain you until the king arrives.”

Mars nodded, unwilling to address the man simply as Fool, and then said, “Ullo,” to the king of Burgun. If this invitation to Innis Lear had not come when it did, Burgun would be annexed to Aremoria by now, and in a different sort of political mess.

“Morimaros,” Ullo replied, wearing a vapid smile. Behind him came ten men in the maroon regalia of Burgun, all trimmed with fur or elaborate golden embroidery. They wore long knives, but no mail or armor or swords. It wasn’t from politeness, Mars was certain, but the belief that finery was more impressive than military accouterment would’ve been.

The Fool made directly for the only seat in the yard that was not a bench, and thrust himself into it with the urgency of a child. He draped across the arms, and said, “Wine not far behind, good fellows, would you like a song?”

Before Ullo could speak, Mars said, “I’d like the history of the table here.”

Ullo laughed, but the Fool’s smile was tinged with mystery. He said, “Only a table, great king, and a grave.”

“A grave?” Ullo said, recoiling.

To keep from rolling his eyes, Mars refused to make any expression at all. The imbecile still had not determined that the Fool spoke only in riddles. “For whom?” Mars asked. He folded his arms across his chest, knowing it broadened his shoulders, and glad to be taller than Ullo of Burgun.

“Or what?” asked the Fool.

Mars nodded. He understood: this was the effect of the ascendancy of stars. A grave for rootwater.

“So serious,” Ullo declared, patting his hand along the black stone table. He wore rings on all but one finger, weighing down his pale hand. “This is a celebration! We’re here to celebrate … one of us.”

Mars did not accept the volley. It was a weak charge, which would not even reach his defenses.

The Fool began to sing, and Mars considered departing. Surely it was not worth another meeting with the king of Innis Lear if Ullo was to be here as well. Perhaps courting her at all was a mistake. There were other ways to retake the island, other ways to secure better sea trade. But his father had insisted one of Lear’s daughters should be the next queen of Aremoria. It might’ve been the first or second daughter, and then with nothing more than a marriage, Mars could have reunited the island to Aremoria. But now that he was at last prepared to wed, the only unmarried daughter was a star priest, and likely too steeped in her father’s way.

He remembered Princess Elia only as a quiet girl who clutched her father’s hand as if nothing else kept her tethered to this world. In eleven years could she have changed so much? Her replies to his letters had been simple and brief, speculating upon the upcoming seasons and suggesting several small prophecies for his use. Ban had described to him a young girl of vivid personality, of curiosity and an earthly beauty. Such personality had not been present in her correspondence, though when he glanced over the letters again during the ocean crossing, he’d found some hints of humor he had overlooked before. But that might only have been wishful thinking. After all, he’d been forced to idleness on the ship, too, with nothing but the gray sea and unclear paths ahead of him. Too many possibilities, not enough information.

Mars reminded himself to be patient. The worst Ullo could do was irritate him, and young Elia Lear would be here at the Summer Seat soon. One of his men had been tasked since yesterday with alerting him immediately when her entourage arrived. It was Elia he needed to win over, not her father or this Fool, nor anyone else on Innis Lear.

He remained in the Rose Courtyard, taking position with his men. With one ear he listened to Burgun and the Fool chatter and flirt, to their rather inappropriate jokes—leave it to Ullo to understand nuance only if it was sexual in nature—and songs. The rest of Mars’s mind turned toward the future, and the variety of possibilities he foresaw, depending on what occurred at tomorrow’s Zenith Court.

He’d been promised an answer to his courtship, and all believed the king would finally name his eldest, Gaela, as his official heir, perhaps even step down immediately. But anything could happen, and Mars would do best to have thought through any number of outcomes and actions, so that when the moment arrived, he’d have a plan, and multiple backup plans.

So the Aremore king remained, a spider carefully poised, spinning several days of the future out again and again, asking himself silent questions and answering them, busy with webs of strategy.

Then Lear entered, with his youngest daughter at his side, her chin tucked down, a small, curious smile on her lovely face, an old leather book in her arms, and stars in her hair.

Mars forgot every single thread of his thoughts in an instant.