“I do not see you,” Lear snarled.
She closed her eyes.
Kayo said, hard and firm, “See better, Lear.”
Then the Oak Earl turned and swiftly hugged Elia again. He cupped her head and said, “Stand firm, starling. You are right.”
Again, Elia Lear remained silent.
Before going, Kayo said to Gaela and Regan, “May you both act as though everything you’ve said today were true, if you have any respect for your mother’s heart.”
The entire court watched him stride away from the throne. At the rear he paused, turned, and flung a final word at the king: “Dalat would be ashamed of you today, Lear.”
With a flourish, he departed, and his going burst open the threads of tension that had held the Zenith Court together: it erupted into noise and fury.
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