Mora approved of her family’s vigilance. They admired Rowan but did not quite trust him.
Autumn on Innis Lear was a harsh transition: flowers died and the wind blew unceasingly. Leaves transformed to red and hot orange in a day; by the end of a week nothing remained but twisting gray branches, bare as bones. The moors ached with fog, the flat karst plains south of Connley Castle groaned as the island itself hunkered down to prepare for ice and snowstorms. The harvest required every able body—including Rowan, including all the nobility of Errigal, and every resident, too, but for the priests and elderly, who held fires strong and cast prophecies or spoke to the sky that they might know the turn of coming storms. As she had no skill with the grass-cutting, Mora went behind the line of blades to bundle and lift the harvest into wagons, or carried great pitchers of beer and honey water, or wrangled babes in the castle while their mothers and fathers and siblings trekked out to the field. She determined she’d rather pull the plows herself than babysit again in the spring.
There had been no word from Celedrix of Aremoria, though a letter from Lionis had arrived at the end of summer, clearly addressed to Banna Mora of the March.
My friend,
I know you are well, and I know you take care of yourself. If I can help you, I will, but I beg you to remember who you are, and what you have been named.
Your friend
Hal Bolinbroke, melodramatic and keen. Mora could have rolled her eyes. Instead, she folded the note tight and tucked it into her pouch, alongside the Blood and the Sea.
Now, just a month before the Longest Night, Banna Mora and Rowan Lear arrived in the Glennadoer lands.
There is a dragon in the north, Sin Errigal had said, and in the months since Mora had heard enough prophecies woven with the dragon, the lion, and the wolf to acknowledge she ought to listen. She came to seek out this northern Learish dragon.
The way had been harsh, for the road passed through the Jawbone Mountains, skirting the Mountain of Teeth itself. The trees here were all stubby and short, tucked into crevasses and clinging to the narrowest streams. Snow coated the peaks and cliffs, but the ocean winds kept the lowlands free of it. Ice was another story, and Mora learned to chip it off everything, gladly wearing the mittens Rowan had provided, and wrapping her legs with bulky wool. They led their horses more often than not, into the press of wind. There was little room for conversation during the journey, except at night when they made camp against boulders or on the narrow banks of the frozen creek that tucked and wove along the road. Fire came easily, thanks to Rowan’s magic, but still they slept near each other, under a bearskin tent so low they crawled inside and couldn’t sit up at all.
Rowan sang constantly, humming to himself or crooning at the woolly cows they passed. More often than not, the wind stole the melody from Mora’s ears.
But the journey had lasted only a week, as Innis Lear was not terribly large. This northern tip cut up past the mountains in the shape of a prow, and Glennadoer Castle nestled in a valley where the only river that poured north out of the mountains split. It was like a castle from the oldest saint stories, a crumbling tower with a wall and barbican, perched atop a mound of earth dragged there by the first settlers. Some claimed the mound was itself the ruin of an even more ancient castle, built by folk a thousand years ago when Innis Lear still clung to Aremoria.
The sight of it filled Mora with trepidation.
What a place to live, to grow, to raise children. Rowan paused along the road. Ice glittered before them, turning the path into millions of fallen stars. There was even ice at the tips of Rowan’s hair.
The prince stared down at his father’s kingdom like an exile, and Mora considered offering a comforting word; but that would have been ridiculous. This was his home.
When they were near enough to see faces on the warriors guarding the barbican from its high wall, the iron gate rose and children poured out. Mora faltered, stunned, but Rowan laughed and let go the reins of his horse to jog forward and greet them. Nearly ten of them, old enough to run but none of them near adulthood, and all covered with cloaks and so much wool it was impossible to tell girl from boy. They crashed into Rowan, some forming a circle and skipping in a raucous dance.
Rowan stripped off his mittens with his teeth, dropping them to the icy road. Then he clapped his hands above his head and snapped in the language of trees: fire blossomed pure white, then followed his hands in an arc as he lowered them. The children screamed and applauded, crying a phrase in the tree tongue. Fire … something.
The prince turned to Mora and held out his bare hand. She put her own mittened hand in his, pushing through the children. Pale and pink-splotched, all of them, blond and freckled, with a few light brunettes clearly related to one another. “This is Banna Mora of the March and Innis Lear, daughter of Errigal and princess of Aremoria,” he said.
“Banna Mora!” they cried, and some bowed, murmuring lady in the language of trees.
“And what do they call you, Rowan?” Mora asked, still holding his hand.
“Fire-bringer,” he said wryly.
She eyed him as they followed the children up the hill to the outer wall and passed through the barbican gate.
Then Owyn Glennadoer appeared, along with the rest of his sprawling family and their retainers, and Mora was introduced to cousins, uncles, and aunts, a plump woman her own age named Irrel who she later realized was the mother of one of those young little brunette girls—who was also the daughter of Owyn Glennadoer. And there were three more bastard half sisters of Rowan here: Catrin, eighteen and bulky as her father; Laise, sixteen and shy; Alys, twelve and wearing boy’s clothing, including a bit of leather armor. The three shared a mother called Guira, who grinned at Mora without any shame.
Mora could not believe Glennadoer flaunted his bastards so freely, when his wife was the sister of the queen of Innis Lear. She did not try to hide her shock, though she kept disapproval off her face when the daughters were near. It was not their fault their father was an animal.
Glennadoer himself announced there would be a feast in her honor and for his son’s return, and gave an order to one of his nephews that three of their best sheep be slaughtered fresh. Mora was separated from Rowan and shown about the castle—from the yard with its barracks and fire pits to the tower itself where in the center a yew tree grew, ancient and black. The great hall was set to the side of the tower, and the residents shared rooms and little privacy, as the oldest traditions required. If she approved, Glennadoer said, she would share his mother’s chambers, for besides his as the earl, Donnan Glennadoer’s room was the largest and warmest. Mora accepted.
Already her pack from the horses had been dropped into the chamber, and Rowan appeared at her side as Glennadoer pushed open the thick door into his mother’s room.
Donnan frowned at the intrusion, wrinkling her entire creased face in consternation. She was bent and wore three wool tunics cinched with an amber-and-iron belt. “Is that you come, Rowan Lear?” she demanded.
“Yes, Grandmother,” he replied softly.
Glennadoer leaned over his mother’s tightly braided steel-gray hair. “And Banna Mora of the March, as I promised.”
Donnan sniffed and faced Mora, staring intently. She was blind.
“Lady Glennadoer,” Mora said. “I am glad to know you.”
“Tell me what she looks like,” the old woman said.
Glennadoer smiled. “Nearly as tall as me, Mother, and beautiful. She has some golden tones from the Third Kingdom in her skin, and broadness of cheeks and mouth. Her hair curls magnificently and is a dark golden-brown, like the moors themselves in late summer.”
“Is she sturdy? Strong?”
“Stronger than our boy,” Glennadoer said with a laugh.
Rowan said nothing, and Mora stared at him a breath too long before glaring at Glennadoer instead. She said, “I am plenty strong, and I thank you for the hospitality, but I think it would be best if I rest myself with the retainers.”
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br /> “Ungrateful,” Donnan said, surprised.
“Spirited,” Glennadoer answered.
Mora picked up her pack and left without another word. She found the barracks easily and told the captain she required a bunk. The man obeyed, giving up his own.
She bathed in freezing water alongside several broad, hairy Glennadoer retainers, and donned the scarlet dress Trin had sent with her, carefully folded so any creases fell where they’d be unseen. She wrapped her legs for warmth and put her boots back on, painted her bottom lip red and lined her eyes in gray, with red dotted at the outer corners. To her golden-brown curls she did nothing but pull them out so that the great mass was as spectacular as a sunrise.
Thus she arrived in the hall for the feast, joining Rowan at the high table. She held her chin arrogantly tilted, accepted food and wine but did not smile. The Earl Glennadoer seemed amused, and boasted of her battlefield prowess to everyone present—and it seemed the entire castle had come, crushing together on benches and sharing trenchers meant for half as many. Beer and honey wine flowed, children rushed about, wrestling with the dogs, and someone was always singing. Mora did not mind, and Rowan ate beside her, not singing with the rest, but once or twice a child approached him, and he made tiny white sparks under the table for their delight.
Catrin Glennadoer, the eldest bastard daughter, came to Mora’s side once and offered more wine. The young woman took after her father more than Rowan did, for she was broad and square, with rough blond hair and a plain face. But she did not wear any shame for her bastardy or hesitate when she spoke to Mora, and so Mora liked her.
“You’re sleeping with the retainers; would you rather stay with my sisters and me?” Catrin offered.
“I am well enough with the soldiers, for that is what I am at my core,” Mora answered.
“I know my core, too,” the bastard said, sharing a firm smile with Mora.
Eventually Rowan was called upon by his father to perform magic, and so he did: thin red banners hung from the rafters, and with a word he lit them aflame. Heat blazed and ashes drifted down. It was rough, messy magic, but the Glennadoers delighted in it. Then Rowan whispered to the wind, and a breeze wafted throughout the hall, lifting caps and hair, startlingly warm. Rowan murmured to himself and sent the words ducking and dancing into specific ears, so the children at the back of the hall cried out the messages he’d sent: a request for a song of the great Glennadoer Bear to entertain their guest.
Three people stood, two men and a woman, climbing onto benches. They began to tell a story in songs tossed between them: the son of that last Glennadoer wizard had been cursed by his father’s loss to roam the northern rocks as a bear. For a hundred years he wandered and slept and ate, bellowing his loneliness to the night sky until the stars took pity on him and sent his sorrow south with the wind, to the dreams of a lady of Bracoch. She left her home with nothing but those dreams and a talent for speaking to the stars. When she crossed the mountains she asked every animal she met, Do you cry out your lament to the stars? Your song stirs my heart and I love you. Each eagle and wolf, each stag and great salmon replied to her, No, but I have heard this same lament. Go north. She reached the farthest edge of Innis Lear, and asked her question to the sea itself. The sea rushed and roared but spoke not at all, for the language of the ocean has long been lost. The lady of Bracoch knelt there, between sky, sea, and stone, and closed her eyes to dream. In her mind she heard the bear’s lament again, and called out. The bear heard her, and ran. But by the time he arrived at the farthest edge of Innis Lear, the lady had frozen to death. In his fury, the bear stamped his great paws against the rocks, and his tears fell onto her icy body. His great pain drew the attention of the rootwaters, who needed no more tears. The bear’s fur trembled, his teeth shattered, his eyes rolled, and his body transformed once more into a great stone, enveloping the lady of Bracoch, too.
That was the end of the song, and Mora turned an eye to Rowan, surprised and irritated. She ought to have known: this was Innis Lear, and all their songs were sad. But he’d requested it for her. Rowan applauded the singers, held up his wine, and drank to their honor. Then he leaned toward Mora and put his mouth near her ear: “The stone remains, at the edge of Innis Lear. A testament to the Glennadoer curse, and to the strength of our dreams.”
She rather suspected the actual moral of that particular song was that outsider ladies were doomed in Glennadoer. Mora drained her wine, turned to Glennadoer himself. “I beg your indulgence, Lord Glennadoer, but I am exhausted, and overwhelmed by the incredible welcome you’ve provided.”
The earl tugged his blond beard and stood. “Let us bid Banna Mora a great many strong dreams tonight! And in the morning, perhaps she’ll join my retainers and myself in some combat demonstrations.”
A roar of approval filled the great hall, and Mora smiled tightly, bowed her head, and left.
Though she moved fast, and the castle corridors were short, Rowan caught her wrist just before she reached the cold yard.
“Mora,” he said, tugging her around. “Why did you leave?”
“Why do you let them treat you below your station here, Rowan Lear?” The vehemence of her words surprised even Mora.
Rowan reared back but did not let her go. A candle in its nook beside them flickered, reflecting the hard gold in his tiger-iron eyes. “My grandmother resents me,” he said. “You noticed.”
“She ought to respect her future king.”
“She wishes my father were the king now.”
Mora frowned, and Rowan shrugged. “Donnan would have had my father marry Solas, not Ryrie.”
“That was a quarter century ago. And none of your fault.”
“But I am a wizard, and marked by the willowy stature of Lear instead of the bear body of Glennadoer, or its roughness. She told my father he should put me out in the winter, because I was too weak to live.”
“Cruel,” Mora said, her fingers curling into fists.
“I did live, though, and she won’t forget.”
“Your father did it? He put you out in the winter?”
Rowan nodded, staring intently at her.
“Maybe Donnan Glennadoer should be put out into the ice and we’ll see if she survives,” Mora spat.
With a little laugh, Rowan pulled her nearer.
“And your sisters,” Mora said, though she nearly forgot why: he was so close.
“Ryrie does not care,” he murmured, still staring at her eyes, her mouth, her eyes again. “She knows the issue of her own body.”
“Rowan,” Mora said.
He put his hand flat across her breast, palm pressing the Blood and the Sea hard into her as if he knew it was there. It set her blood aflame. Pushing, he walked Mora backward against the wall. Then he kissed her.
Banna Mora wrapped her arms around his head, kissing back eagerly, widening her body and mouth, surrounding him. His hands gripped her ribs and one slid low to grab her bottom. He tasted like beer and fire, and his teeth tugged at her lip.
This is power, Mora thought, relishing the kiss of the prince of Innis Lear.
But this was also power: Mora put her hands on his face and removed her mouth from his. She opened her heavy eyes to watch him in the flickering candlelight.
Rowan panted and tilted his head in disapproval, but smiled as if he understood exactly what she proved. He backed away from her, then held out an elegant pale hand.
Licking her bottom lip, where the paint had mostly been smeared away on her cup of honey wine and the tips of her fingers as she’d eaten and then Rowan Lear’s mouth, Mora considered. He was beautiful, and she was beautiful, and she was no hostage. Nor he yet a king.
But the Blood and the Sea pulsed against her chest, and Banna Mora left him in the corridor.
THE ROSES KNOW what flavors are born in the blood of the kings and queens of Innis Lear.
At Dondubhan Castle, this same vine has grown for generations, creeping along the corners of the wide blue granite wall in the Q
ueen’s Garden. Mortar flakes under its seeking grip, and occasionally a gardener coaxes the roses in a new direction in order to shore up the wall again. Queen Astora had adored tangled brambles, and so Queen Solas ordered the roses to be culled back only every seventh year, in honor of her late mother’s preference.
It is neither a likely nor safe place for a boy of eight to hide, but the prince trusts roses all across Innis Lear for the certain cut of their thorns; he’s familiar with worse kinds of pain, and their kisses comfort him. The roses are predictable and natural, and his blood blossoms against his skin in exactly the shade of their petals, marking the similarities between them.
Before today, the boy has only come to this garden with his mother and aunt; before today, he’s never been alone in the fortress with his father.
The roses live and sing their tangled, weird songs below the prince’s window, and they’ve heard him weep in frustration; they’ve heard the yelling; they recently heard, too, from the wind, that sometimes the rough Glennadoer transforms into a bear.
And thus the roses are unsurprised when the thin slip of a pale prince crawls into their corner, bloodied and hurting. He collapses cross-legged, hugging one arm to his chest, and spits blood against the edge of the lawn, just where the roses’ rich black soil begins.
He hates that I do magic and he cannot, the prince whispers to the roses, and they shiver. They reach with their softer parts and brush pink-red petals to his cheek, smearing away blood. He cups the round head of a particularly blush-pink flower, and smiles. Even the roses recognize how tense are his lips with pain.
Broken? they ask.
“No,” the prince says, wincing as he makes a fist at the end of his injured arm, and then in the language of trees adds, A bone bruise. It will hurt a long time.
Lady Hotspur Page 18
