The shape of the name remained, sharp enough to break a daughter’s heart.
Getting to her feet and stuffing the parchment back into her bag of charts, Elia reluctantly turned south, picking her way down to the road. She’d much rather have remained and done her work, but knowing a new letter waited would distract her and she’d lose count, lose the patterns threaded across the sky even as she dutifully wrote them down. Never mind the letters from those other kings, Burgun and Aremoria, courting her for their politics and war. Such things did not concern her: Elia would never wed, she’d long ago determined. Both her sisters had contentious marriages: Gaela because her husband was a beast, though one Gaela had chosen for herself, and Regan because her lord’s family was a generations-old enemy of the house of Lear, a threat Regan would gladly lose herself inside.
No, Elia would marry only the stars, live her life as a solitary priest, and care for her ailing father, never in danger from too much earthly love.
This latest deluded salutation from Lear was even more proof of that danger. When their mother had died, their father lost his heart, and with it everything that kept his mind at ease and actions in balance. Her sisters had turned ever more inward, away from both Lear and Elia. The island, too, seemed to have withdrawn, offering less abundant harvests and giving more weight to the cold, cutting wind. All in mourning for the lost, much-loved queen.
Dalat, my dear.
The star signs these past nights had offered Elia no comfort, no guidance, though Elia had charted every corner of the sky. Can I save my Lear? she had asked again and again.
No answer had emerged, though she wrote down and dismissed a dozen smaller prophecies: the storm is coming; a lion will not eat your heart; you will give birth to the children of saints; the rose of choice will bloom with ice and rage. They meant nothing. There was no star called the Rose of Choice, only a Rose of Decay and a Rose of Light. Lions had never lived on Innis Lear. Earth saints had long ago left the world. And there were always, always storms at the end of summer.
The only way to piece out the true answer was to ask the trees, listen to the voices in the wind, or sip of rootwater. This was the wisdom of Innis Lear.
Elia stopped, recalling the feel of her bare toes digging into the rough grass, sliding her fingers over the ground to hunt up crickets or fat iridescent beetles.
She remembered once Ban had taken her hand in his own and then placed a brilliant green beetle onto her finger like an emerald ring. She’d giggled at the tickling insect legs, but not let go, looking up into his eyes: green and brown and shining just like the beetle’s shell. A pearl of the earth for a star of the sky, he’d said in the language of trees.
In truth, she hardly remembered how to whisper words the earth could understand. It had been so long since she’d shut herself off, swearing to never speak their language again.
So long since he’d been gone.
Darkness veiled the dusty white road as Elia finally arrived: the sun was entirely vanished and no moon risen, and the star tower did not light torches that would ruin the night-sight of their priests.
Aefa stood at the shoulder of the messenger’s horse, arguing to be given the letters. But the soldier said, clearly not for the first time, “I will give these only to the priest Danna or the princess herself.”
“And so here I am,” Elia said. She need prove herself in no way other than her presence; there were no other women who looked like her and her sisters, not across all of Innis Lear. Not any longer. Not for half her life.
“Lady.” The messenger bowed. He began to unseat himself, but Elia shook her head.
“No need, sir, if you’d like to ride on. I’ll take my letters, and you’re welcome at the tower for simple food and simpler accommodations, or you have just enough light to return to Dondubhan and sleep in those barracks. Only wait there for my responses in the morning before you depart.”
“I thank you, princess,” he said, taking the letters from the saddle box.
She reached up to accept and asked his name, a habit from her youth in the castles. He told her and thanked her, and she and Aefa backed out of his way as he turned his horse and nudged it quicker on the road to the barracks.
Elia wandered toward the star tower with her letters, studying the three seals. The leather bag carrying her charts and frame, candle-mirrors and charcoal sticks, pressed heavily on her shoulder, and she finally slumped it off, settling herself down on the slope of moor beside it.
“Did you spy your star?” Aefa asked, herself gangly and pretty, like a fresh hunting hound, with plain white skin tending toward rose under heightened emotion and chestnut hair bound up in curling ribbons. Unlike Elia’s gray wool dress, the uniform of a star priest, Aefa wore bright yellow and an overdress in the dark blue of Lear’s household.
“Yes,” Elia murmured, still staring at the letters.
A long moment passed. She could not choose one to open.
“Elia! Let me have them.” She held out her hand, and Elia gave over the letters from Burgun and Aremoria.
Clearing her throat, Aefa tore through the Burgun seal, unfolded the letter, and then sneezed. “There’s—there’s perfume on it, oh stars.”
Elia rolled her eyes, as Aefa clearly wished her to, and then the Fool’s daughter held the letter to the last of the twilight and began to read.
“My dear, I hope, Princess of Lear— Elia, he is so forward! And trying not to be by acknowledging it, so you must in some way give permission or not! —I confess I have had report from an agent of mine as to your gentle, elegant beauty— What is elegant beauty, do you think? A deer, or a reaching willow tree? Really, I wonder that he does not provide some poetic comparison. Burgun has no imagination—your gentle, elegant beauty, and I cannot wait many more months to witness it myself. I have recently been defeated in battle, but thoughts of you hold my body and my honor upright though all else should weigh upon my heart— His body upright, indeed; I know what part of his body he means, and it’s very indelicate of him!”
“Aefa!” The princess laughed, smothering it with her hands.
Aefa quirked her mouth and wrinkled her nose, skimming the letter silently. “Burgun is all flattery, and then, despite telling you he’s been trumped on the battlefield, he still finds ways to suggest he is handsome and virile, and perhaps a wifely partner would complete his heart enough to … well to make him a better soldier. Affectionately, passionately yours, Ullo of Burgun. Worms of earth, I don’t like him. So on to the king of Aremoria. I wonder if Ullo knows the general who defeated him also pays court to you.”
Elia drew her knees near to her chest and tilted her head to listen better. The letter from Lear pressed between her two hands, trapped.
“Lady Elia, writes Morimaros, which I approve of much better. Simple. An elegantly beautiful salutation, if I may say so. Lady Elia, In my last letter I made it known I was nearing the end of my campaign against the claim of Burgun— This king refuses to even give Burgun the title kingdom! What a pretty slight. Certainly this king knows who his rival is—against the claim of Burgun and can report now on the eve of what I believe to be our final confrontation that I will win, and am sure this shift in political lines will too shift the direction of your thoughts. In Aremoria’s favor, I expect, but if not, let me add we have a nearly unprecedented harvest this year, in the south of barley and— Elia! My stars! There is now a list of Aremore crops! He says nothing of his hopes for you, nothing about himself! Do we even know what sort of books he enjoys or philosophies he holds? At least Burgun treats you like a woman, not a writing exercise.”
“Are you swinging toward favoring Burgun, then?” Elia asked lightly.
Turning her back to the silver light still clinging to the mountains in the west, Aefa shot her princess a narrow look and