Tessa Gratton - The Queens of 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.

ELIA WAS PLEASED to discover that her father was leading her toward the Rose Courtyard for their meeting; it had always been one of her favorite places at the Summer Seat, even since the well had been closed. She felt safe there, understood. It was a good sign for the introduction about to take place. Elia breathed carefully, practicing a cool expression, practicing being a star.

When she entered, the wind was tense, whispering little cries without words. She held tight against her chest the large tome of star charts she’d carried from her father’s rooms, and glanced up, curious.

Each king had, of course, claimed a side.

To the east Ullo of Burgun waited surrounded by his own retainers in bright maroon and gold, jeweled sheaths for long knives hung from leather belts. They clustered in a friendly group, and though a few eyed the Aremores, most chatted with each other and Ullo. Just as Lear and Elia entered, the king laughed, tossing back a head of thick brown hair so his teeth glinted whitely and well. He clapped a pale hand on the chest of the Burgundian lord beside him. Sweat glistened at the temples of both Ullo and this man, laden as they were with velvet and fur-lined finery. But Ullo was pretty, and his beard seemed soft around his full, smiling mouth.

Across from him, only six Aremores presented, each of them in quilted orange gambesons, with pauldrons fixed to their shield shoulders by a red leather strap diagonal across the chest. The steel pauldrons were round as a moon reflecting sunlight. One Aremore man stood out at the fore, though he held himself exactly as the soldiers did and his costume was the same but for a heavy ring of garnet and pearls on his thumb and a simple crown etched into the surface of his pauldron. This king’s head was shorn nearly bare, and a perfectly trimmed brown beard to match it spread over his hard jaw. He had blue eyes, and their long dark lashes were the only promise of softness from the king of Aremoria. And he had no love for Burgun; that was obvious from the analytic stare he cast toward the more relaxed Ullo.

With a pleased start, Elia recognized the final man in the courtyard, lounging in a chair with his leg tossed up over the arm, wearing a striped coat of several bright colors: Aefa’s father, Lear’s Fool. She smiled and nearly broke Lear’s game by calling out to him. But she remembered that this was a volatile moment, and she needed to maintain poised calm for her father’s sake—and for her own. Her smile stopped at slight.

The moment king and daughter entered, Ullo snapped to attention, and Morimaros of Aremoria bowed his head respectfully.