ragged edges of her hair.
Connley caught a curl and held on. It put his hand a breath away from her cheek, his body near to hers. Never had he thought of kissing someone shorter than himself before. It might be awkward. Quietly, he said, “It doesn’t. But I’m taking you where I can explain, and to enter, it is better to … be welcomed with rootwaters.”
“All right.” Isarna took his hand from her hair and lowered it, but did not release him. “Let’s go.”
Connley led her into the ruins of the old black keep.
It had once been a fortress with twelve-foot-thick walls and arrow-slit windows, four levels of impregnable stone. Isarna’s expression clearly showed her better approval of this defensive posture than she’d had for the decorative, newer Connley Castle. Connley touched the small of her back as he led her under the remains of the gatehouse and into the long, dark tunnel that cut through the wall.
Inside, the air smelled of earthy water and crisp woodsmoke, of fallen leaves and roses. The keep had been gutted, the wood rotted away long ago, and so it was only the shell of what it once had been, and roofless. Holes appeared at every level where support beams had once been placed, and the hooded alcoves that would have been hearths held deep shadows.
In the center grew a massive oak tree.
“It was planted for the lord’s throne tree,” Connley said. “Like your yew at Annyck. They used to be grown in all our castles—in ancient Aremoria, before Lear was cleaved free. As a living heart, and to feed rootwater prophecy. If the tree blossomed and thrived, so did the heart of the castle.”
“Pretty story,” Isarna murmured. She stared at the out-of-season roses: they bloomed even now, small faced and white as snow, along the north wall. Hidden among their thick vines was a low, bluish stone slab as long as one of her arms. Matching slabs were fitted low against the other three walls. Recently, the lower walls had been scraped clean and limewashed, then painted with dark blue constellations; the entire cycle of the year was represented around the eastern, southern, and western walls. Era, Connley, Rowan, along with Rowan’s brother and sister, Mared and Vae Lear, had painted most of it themselves three summers ago.
Isarna walked to the eastern altar. Connley did not follow, though he knew what she studied. Scoured into the rock was daywise root in the language of trees. A shallow bowl held the remnants of wine, and stained evidence of past offerings painted dark lines around the rim.
“What is this place?”
He turned his hands palms outward, as if in welcome. “A chapel, of sorts. The oak, as I said, has been here for centuries, but Regan Lear—Elia the Dreamer’s sister—brought the altars here. She was a witch, and she placed the stones where natural lines of magic converge, to meet at the oak. It strengthens the voice of the oak, so that this tree can reach out in turn to rootwaters across the island. They must be rededicated regularly, for the wind is fickle and would drag away fixed magic.”
Isarna set her fists on her hips. “Why are we here?” she asked, a little too loudly.
“I wanted to show you this place. I feel peaceful here, and an ache of beauty …” He twisted his mouth uncertainly. “Do you … know what that feeling is?”
“Yes,” she said, clearly annoyed.
Connley stepped nearer to her, and whispered in the language of trees, Oak mother, this is Isarna, my wife.
The wind lifted, dancing and fluttering about him. A lark on one of the low branches cocked its tiny brown head and stared down at Connley, and he smiled. Little brother, will you come say hello? He held out a hand and tilted his face toward the crown of the oak. His lips pursed and he whistled lightly, then said, Come say hello, little brother.
The lark hopped down, spread its speckled-brown wings, and swooped down to land on Connley’s outstretched hand.
It was a trick to impress Isarna, and it worked. She touched her mouth in surprise. The bird hopped to Connley’s index finger and perched there, chirping at him, its chest fluttering fast. Will you sing for my pretty mate, little brother?
The lark spread its wings, flapping them gently for balance, and let out a long, merry trill—usually these birds sang such songs in flight, searching for their own mates.
Connley smiled the tenderest smile and lifted his eyes to Isarna’s