The Queens of Innis Lear. Tessa Gratton

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       THE FOX

      IF ERRIGAL EXPECTED to have to drag Ban to an audience with the king, he was disappointed. During five long years in the Aremore army, Ban had learned to not put off unpleasant tasks, for they tended to only become more unpleasant with the stall. Besides, Ban had a job to do here, and meeting with the king at his father’s side was one of the first steps.

      And so, though facing Lear was the last thing Ban wanted, he swallowed his rage from the Zenith Court, and tried to be grateful this meeting would take place in the retainers’ hall over a meal.

      Unfortunately, Ban had forgotten how quickly his appetite deserted him under the king’s critical gaze.

      The retainers’ hall of the Summer Seat was long, like the court, but lacking a roof. Built of timber rather than stone, it was more like a stable, Ban thought, with rows of benches and tables and a high seat for the king. Gulls perched on the walls, waiting to scrabble for leftovers, and the king’s collection of hounds slunk under legs and begged with open mouths. Lear’s retainers all wore the king’s midnight blue and carried fine swords, and they drank from goblets etched with the rampant swan of the king or striped in blue. A raucous, messy place of men, at least it was kept clean in between meals and celebrations by the youngest retainers and hopeful sons. Ban had spent plenty of mornings tossing pails of water and slop over the side of the cliff just outside the arched entryway, spreading fresh hay and rushes, and scrubbing the tables of spilled wine and grease. His brother, Rory, had chafed under the drudgery, but Ban appreciated any sort of work with immediate, provable results.

      Tonight, the retainers’ hall was subdued, given the day’s events. It rubbed Ban poorly to enter at his father’s side and witness hushed conversations and side-eyed glances, despite plenty of flowing beer. This was not how the king of Innis Lear’s men should present, as if nervous and cowed! Not under any circumstance. The proud Aremore army would never have fallen prey to a scattering of nerves. Some smiled welcome at Errigal; others offered tight-lipped warnings. But Errigal scoffed and stormed up the side aisle to where the king himself slouched in his tall chair, the Fool lounging beside him in a tattered striped coat with his head against Lear’s knee.

      “My king,” Errigal said expansively.

      “What, sir, do you come to bother me with this night of all nights?” The king rolled his head back to stare up at the sky, too bright yet for stars.

      Lear’s hair remained as wild and ragged as it had been at the Zenith Court, his face still drawn and blotched with drink or anger or tears. A stain of wine spread like a heart-wound down the left side of his tunic.

      Errigal knocked Ban forward. “Here is my son, Lear, come home from a five-year foster with the cousins Alsax in Aremoria. Ban the Fox they call him now, though he was only a bastard, or simply Ban, here.”

      Ban’s shoulders stiffened as he bowed, turning it into a jerky motion. People here had called him Errigal’s Bastard, not just any. Ban stared at the king’s woolen shoes, wondering what he could possibly say that would not get him banished or killed. Play the role, Fox, he reminded himself again. Be courteous, and remember your purpose here. He’d earned his name, exactly as he’d promised himself he would. These people would respect it.

      A groan sighed out of the king before he said, “Yes, I remember you. Ban Errigal. You were born under a dragon’s tail, bright and vibrant but ultimately ineffective.”

      “I have been effective, King,” Ban said, straightening.

      “Perhaps for the limited time you burn brightly.” Lear shrugged. “But it will be a limited time, and you will change nothing.”

      Ban worked his jaw, chewing on every response before he could spit it out.

      “His actions in Aremoria have been exemplary, by all accounts,” Errigal said.

      “Aremoria!” Lear roared, surging to his feet. “Say no more of that place or that king! Stealing my Elia, my most loved star away!”

      The Fool leaned up and sang, “Stolen with the same stealing as the clouds steal the moon!”

      Lear nodded. “Yes, yes.”

      “No, no,” responded the Fool. He was a long, lanky man, in a long, lanky coat of rainbow colors and textures. Silk, linen, velvet, strips of leather even, and lace, rough wool and soft fur, patterned in places, woven in plaid in others: a coat such as his marked him a man outside of station or hierarchy. The Fool was all men and no man at all. He wore the remains of a dress beneath the coat, and so maybe he was all women, too. And none.

      The king frowned mightily.

      Ban said, “I thought you had no daughter Elia, sir.”

      Errigal choked on a furious word, and the king whirled to Ban. “A smart tongue, have you?” Lear demanded.

      “The boy meant nothing by it,” Errigal said.

      Ban met the king’s gaze. “You are wrong, Father. I did mean much.”

      “Always defiant,” Lear said.

      Ban held his tongue.

      “Always ablaze,” Errigal said, forcing a laugh. “Like his mother, he’s got that passion of—”

      “Bah.” The king waved dismissively at the earl, turning his back on Ban.

      A moment of silence was only punctuated by the rustle of retainers listening as hard as they could. Ban felt their eyes on his spine, their focus and newfound attention. He would not bend or quail. This was the start of the work he must do to earn respect here, where they only knew stories of him, and his bastard name. Even if it meant bowing to this king’s obsessions or anticipating his moods.

      Errigal nudged him, and Ban caught the angry spark in his father’s determined look. He was expected to speak again.

      Fine.

      Ban said, “You should call Elia back.”

      The room behind him erupted in curses and gasps, cries for his removal. Ban braced himself. Errigal gripped his elbow. The Fool lifted thoughtful, bushy brows.

      But Lear collapsed back into his high seat. Sorrow, weariness, and a bitter curl of his СКАЧАТЬ