“I know!” Hal declared, spreading her arms. Her hair was half pinned up in gentle twists, the rest braided into a knot at her nape. Tiny glass beads decorated the black strands. “I’ve been working with a few women to design it, because I’m so tired of changing when I have to go from dinner to the field.”
Hotspur allowed a fond smile, but before she could speak, Hal yawned. The prince walked backward to collapse in the chair by the cold hearth. “I’ll have you one made,” she said, voice still muffled as she put her wrist in front of her mouth and yawned again.
“You’re still sleeping badly.” Hotspur wanted to kneel at Hal’s side, press her cheek to Hal’s thigh, and stroke the long line of her shin until the prince fell asleep. Roll her into bed, embrace her from behind, and murmur silly songs to chase nightmares away. It gnawed at her that Hal still dreamed of Rovassos’s last moments, still dreamed of sudden violence and the deaths of her loved ones. And Hotspur was about to make it worse.
“Oh well.” Hal grimaced. “I drank warm milk and honey and it didn’t help. I’ll—I’ll think of something.” Then the prince leaned forward and a flirting light brightened her eyes. “I always sleep soundly after you exhaust me, Hotspur.”
Hotspur kept her lips pressed shut.
Her silence painted a frown on Hal’s pink lips. “What are you wearing, Hotspur? Where are you going?”
Hotspur curled her hands into fists, then flattened her palms to her thighs. “Vindomata sent it. She wants me in Mercia permanently, to command the Perserian army. My mother will never ride again.”
“Hotspur, you can’t leave.” Hal said it softly but pushed her tone into an order.
“She’s named me her heir. Vindomata did, because her sons are dead.”
Hal leaned back in the chair, frown heavy with regret.
Hotspur felt it, too, but more than regret: a pain akin to despair. She would not countenance the rumors that Celedrix had found ways to ensure Vindus and Devrus of Mercia died, but dead they were, and her aunt needed an heir. And so Hotspur had to go. This love affair had always been doomed.
“You don’t have to leave me to be Vindomata’s heir.”
“Hal, I have to marry, and get heirs for my entire family line. Persy and Mercia both, now,” Hotspur whispered. “You’re engaged. It’s over. It’s time. I loved—all of this.”
“No.” Hal shot to her feet. “No, Hotspur, you’re mine! They can find someone other— You are mine.”
“I can’t be.” Hotspur backed away.
Bright autumn sunlight spilled through the windows, cutting between them. Into their dull silence filtered the noise of a lively palace: movement and loud conversations, the echo of hooves from the huge courtyard below. Birdsong. Hotspur thought it wasn’t fair for the day to be so beautiful. But beyond Lionis the land exploded with brilliant, rainbow death: leaves all the colors of fire and war, the glint of scythes, the rustle and rattle of harvest, and the cold evening winds that whispered in tiny voices that winter approached, the long nights, the crystal-cold stars.
The Lion Prince said, “You can’t leave, just like that, with no warning! It’s working. Our love story. The wolf and the lion.”
“I don’t want a story, Hal. I want truth.”
Hal winced. “We have both. Because one makes the other. Our truth is becoming what we need it to be to survive here, together, to fit in this palace as ourselves and succeed!”
“Perseria and Mercia need me now.”
“I need you. You’re making excuses to leave.”
“I don’t make excuses!” Hotspur cried, hands in fists again, hard enough to whiten her knuckles.
“Listen to me. We’ll find Vindomata another heir, and your mother can even come here—my mother would have her, and you can both be here, where her every need will be met. All of Aremoria’s resources will be at our disposal to find a steward for Persy, and it will still be yours, anyway. There must be other cousins for Vindomata’s Mercia! Yes.” Hal let out a sharp laugh. “Lisus Car! He’s Mercian, and very much in need of handsome reward for his valor. He and Vindomata are cousins, and friends.”
Hotspur shook her head. The nerves in her stomach kept spiking like icicles. “Finding an heir is not as good as making one. Just ask Banna Mora. If she’d been Rovassos’s child, your mother would’ve had a harder time unseating her. I have to bear a child, just as you do. To strengthen Mercia. To strengthen Aremoria. Nothing else will work, now.”
“Because you want to go.”
“Worms, Hal, don’t be mean.”
Hal lifted her black brows, tossing the accusation right back at Hotspur.
“I can’t stay,” Hotspur insisted.
“You don’t want to stay—that’s the only real reason. I am making everything else work.”
“It’s too unbalanced—you making everything work. What about me? What am I?”
The prince nodded. “My best advisor—my partner—my fucking wife, Hotspur. In everything but title. I need you, and you can still shape Perseria to your will—through me, if that’s what you want. Guide me and help me with strategy and politics. Make Aremoria strong that way. Help me make an agenda, help me with whatever we like—we still have to find a way to take care of Mora.”
“I thought you’d forgotten about her.” Hotspur let herself be mean, too, then. “Six months and Mora is still on Innis Lear. It’s inexcusable.”
Hal sighed. “What do you want me to do? Invade Innis Lear?”
“Hound your mother until she agrees! Convince her. You’ve convinced half the world already that you’re a good prince, that you and I are lovers out of some tale of earth saints and destiny.”
“Because we are. Because I—I am, I can be a good prince.” Hal’s brow knitted with confusion.
“I know it. And I can be a good daughter. A good knight. I have to serve my oaths to Aremoria, to my family, just like you do.”
“I don’t see why you can’t serve here at my side. I thought that was what you wanted!”
Hotspur stalked to the tall glass doors and shoved out onto the balcony. She did want that. Here with Hal she had been so happy, known her place—not in a confining way, but confidently. Hotspur was meant to be in love with Hal Bolinbroke.
Putting her fists on the stone railing, she stared down at the broad People’s Courtyard. Her own heart was not her priority, and it shouldn’t be Hal’s, either.
Behind her, Hal sighed softly. She was very near, so much so Hotspur knew if she leaned back Hal would find Hotspur’s neck with her mouth. Kiss her there, breathing long and hot, then put her teeth to the muscle and command again that Hotspur must remain. Convince her their love would be enough.
“I love you,” Hotspur said.
“Then stay.”
“Hal, I don’t want to be here when your husband arrives. I don’t think I could bear it.”
“What?” The word was more of a gasp. “I don’t have a husband, and I don’t want one. If you—I need you to be here, to keep reminding people I don’t need anyone else.”
“You do need a husband, though.”
“I don’t! I need you. My wolf. My consort. I can make it work.”
“It will ruin you.”
“What?” Hal laughed as she said it, and Hotspur shivered as the echo of merriment trembled down her spine.
“It’s what ruined Rovassos.”
Now Hal’s hands did find Hotspur’s neck; her fingers were cool. “No, I’m better than him at doing this on purpose, and I will convince the entire world that it’s good. That we are good. I already have, almost. You said so yourself.”
“It’s not enough, Hal. I don’t mean us, together, will ruin you. I mean that Rovassos had no heir, and so appointed Mora. His line was not secure; it was too easy to break. Your line will not be secure, if you are with me.”
“This again. Hotspur, all that is required for my line to be secure is a child of my womb—not having a husband. In the Third Kingdom, the Mother of All Mothers dec
lares her children to be her own, regardless of whether they have a named father. I will find a way to ally still with this prince from that place. An alliance can be made without marriage, if it suits both parties.”
“You would have me as your consort; you think you can do that.” Hotspur’s voice went dull. It was too big a change. It was impossible.
Hal grimaced. “And sacrifice the sanctity of my body to some worthy man to get me with child. Our child. Yes. Yes, I can do that. If it means I can have you, too.”
Hotspur shook her head slowly. What if she herself wanted a child, too? A child of her own flesh? Had Hal even considered that? “It’s so much,” she whispered. What if she wanted a family without this constant need to prove her desires were worthy? A family that would be safe? A family she didn’t have to fight for the right to love?
Hal continued, “Morimaros the Great had no heir! He left Aremoria strong, with his bastards all on Innis Lear!”
Fury blazed from Hotspur’s groin up through her heart and into her eyes, blinding her with red-silver lightning. She whirled and shoved Hal away. “You are not Morimaros!” she screamed.
Hal stumbled, eyes wide, but maintained her balance while Hotspur panted in rage. How she hated this constant comparison. She wanted Hal to make her own greatness, not long after the shadow of an old dead king.
The prince drew herself up, chin raised slightly and full of dignity even as her dark eyes shimmered with tears.
Hotspur choked on a sob at having hurt Hal enough to make her cry. But because she was the Wolf, she attacked harder. “Morimaros the Great was also Morimaros the Second. Aremoria had been secure, had been stable, for decades. He could afford to take something for himself, to make some bastards, but look, Hal, only three generations later and we’ve had open war over the throne. Because of those bastards.”
Hal said, “The line was secure, and people would have accepted Mora as they didn’t accept Rovassos—she was strong. The rebellion had nothing to do with succession! It was about the ruler! And our ruler—my mother—is a good queen. The people welcomed her home; they are relieved by her ambitions, Hotspur. She is building something great, and I must build greatness with her. Not merely through babies, but through my own ambitions! My own vision for what Aremoria can be—a place where I can love anyone, make anyone my consort, not just a husband. What other point is there to being a queen than to make the world what we need it to be?”
“You want to be a queen for—for me?”
“No, for us. For all of us. For love. For Aremoria. You should be doing that work with me. You’re the one who is afraid to love me.”
“I am,” Hotspur admitted, and tears were hot on her cheeks, too. “I’m afraid—because I’m not Elia Lear. I cannot be equal to you, Hal. Don’t you see? It worked for them because they were both already legends! Both already had crowns! They already each had their own authority, but I’m not powerful like that. I don’t have a position from which to stand, to meet you where all that matters is that we love each other. No place exists where the heart is all that matters.”
“Not all that matters—but what matters most. Love should matter most. I will make a place where that is true, Hotspur. I swear it to you.”
“I’m so tired already.” Hotspur wiped her cheeks. “Performing with you is exhausting. I want to argue, but you make it public so our reconciliation can be as well. You kiss me before my men not because you want to kiss me, but because you want them to gossip and cheer. But I don’t want our relationship to be another war we have to win. I just want to be with you. To be ourselves. Can you make that happen? Can you imagine a time when we would not be fighting for merely our right to exist as we are?”
Hal drew herself up. “Yes, I can imagine it. Believe in that, in me, Hotspur: that I can see it.”
Hotspur did believe it. She did believe Hal could imagine that future. But seeing it wasn’t enough.
“You don’t have the power to change this, Hal. Stories aren’t enough. They don’t feed my tenants or keep out Burgun or give my mother grandchildren.”
“Hotspur.” Hal said it voicelessly, as if all the air in the room had vanished, as if the name were only a shadow on her tongue. “Hotspur. Do you remember the prophecy?”
She frowned hard. “What for?”
“It haunts us, even if you don’t think about it. It dogs our steps, colors our futures. We have to deal with it.”
“Is this why you won’t bring Mora back?” Horror hushed her words, and Hotspur stared.
“No—it’s not about the dragon, it’s about us. The lion and the wolf. Choose me, my end. Don’t leave. Don’t let me break. That’s what you’re doing if you go.”
“I can’t keep you whole! You can’t ask a person to be your everything, it’s not fair.”
Hal grabbed Hotspur’s arms. “What if I love you so well it changes the entire landscape of the world?”
Hotspur shut her eyes and said, blindly, “A love story does not trump a stable line of succession any better than love can stop a sword in its killing arc.”
In the darkness she could hear Hal’s breathing, ruffled and low. The kiss, when it lit upon her lips, was delicate as summer rain. Tenderly, Hal kissed her, and Hotspur touched her prince’s teary cheeks. The ache of love became a seeping wound, dragging Hotspur down and down until her body was numb with it, and she pushed away.
Eyes still shut, she whispered, “I do love you. I wish for us to be friends. You prince, me Persy, friends, and our—our children friends.” Hotspur looked finally at Hal’s wretched face. Looked at her lover, her best friend. The prince, exhausted from nightmares, weary and uncertain from learning the new language of politics, carrying the weight of a nation’s expectations. And Hal wanted Hotspur to crystalize that terror? To make it permanent and sharper? She loved Hal, she believed in Hal’s love, but she also believed to continue down this path would destroy her prince. And Hotspur, too.
“You have to become Aremoria, Hal. That’s what I believe in, that you can do it.”
“With you at my side, I can. Believing in me. Choosing us.”
“I cannot be mistress to Aremoria. It would consume me. Change me. Destroy us.”
The prince’s face crumpled and she sank to the marble floor, those split skirts skewing around her like jagged red petals. She said, “How can you be the only person in Aremoria whom I cannot convince?”
Hotspur breathed raggedly. She wanted more than anything in the world to kneel before Hal and kiss her again, take her lover’s face in hand and worship her mouth, her tongue and teeth, to give herself to Hal, no matter what it would make of herself. Maybe Hal was right; maybe they could do everything, could be everything.
But if they couldn’t, and tried, and failed, Aremoria itself would pay the price.
Aremoria mattered more than anything, and the strength of its commanders.
Staring up at Hotspur, Hal’s hands clenched in her own skirts, pulling at them, as if she could rend the dress and tear apart this terrible conversation.
Hotspur said, “I will love you forever.”
Prince Hal bent over her lap, shoulders trembling, and Hotspur fled.
BANNA MORA
Northern Innis Lear, late autumn
ONCE, INNIS LEAR had been raw; an island remade by magic, by fury and determination. In those days, before a king rose to draw the disparate lords and sometime-tyrants together under a single crown, each ruling family sacrificed a child to the rootwaters. A child from every generation, offered up with faith and fear and hope. Most often it was an unwanted child, an easy loss in the way such things go. The island took these children and swallowed them whole, devouring or transforming them.
In the high north of Innis Lear, where mountains broke harsh and tall against the sky, where little grew but for brush and hard old trees, the Glennadoers lived and ruled. Wizards all, who built their bones with the strength of stone, who drank rootwater wine and taught their children to slaughter sheep before t
hey could walk, the Glennadoers grew more powerful each passing year. One year, a woman—descended, it was said, from that first wizard who cleaved Innis Lear from the mainland—decided to give her firstborn son to the island for sacrifice.
The island appreciated her choice, recognized it for the honor it was, and when it swallowed this boy, Innis Lear spat him out again half man, half island.
He had a name, but it is no longer spoken.
This wizard rose with more power than the world could bear. His cry could be heard at every corner of the land, and none could resist the charm of his smile. When he was furious, the island trembled; when in love, the island breathed to the rhythm of his heart.
Afraid, every other lord of the island united against his power, but he could not be beaten with arms or might; his magic was too woven within the fabric of Innis Lear.
And so they attacked his heart.
Choosing their most gentle, their most unguarded young man, the lords of the island sent him northward. They knew the young man would be irresistible to the wizard.
True to his nature, the wizard fell instantly in love with the young man. When the moment was right, the lords turned the young man’s heart against itself, then captured the wizard unawares, and buried him in salt sand where the ocean never paused its churning.
The curse upon the house of Glennadoer was so virile, so livid with power, it struck magic from the family’s veins. No wizard had been born to the line since, though the bones and flesh of the Glennadoers retained enough memory of magic to make them feel like the wild predators of Innis Lear: they were bears, they were wolves, they were great eagles and owls and hungry snakes.
Banna Mora was learning to like them.
Though she could not decide which sort of beast Rowan Lear was: perhaps because of his mother’s bloodline and name, or perhaps because he was the first new wizard descended from Glennadoers in four hundred years.
Or perhaps he was every kind of beast, a shape-shifter in the truest sense.
For six months Banna Mora had lived near Rowan’s side and known him during her convalescence at Queen’s Keep, and through the brisk, trembling autumn at Connley Castle where she’d been born. There, surrounded by Errigals, her own family—and so very many cats—she had been the one most welcome, and Rowan was merely the queen’s nephew: a someday-ruler, a man to be cautious of only for the power he one day would hold over the Errigal dukedom.
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