Rowan laughed gently. “Is she?” He put his forehead to Mora’s and slid his hands down to her belly again, pushing back a little where the child had, as if to play some game with it.
“Banna Mora!” came the call.
Mora and Rowan shifted apart to glance together back toward the gaping gate of Dondubhan. A retainer jogged toward them, gauntleted hand raised. “They come!” the man called.
Mora returned to the gate and resumed her pose of waiting. Rowan put his shoulder to hers, and because he remained quiet instead of insisting yet again she sit, Mora did not argue when she was offered warm, very watered wine to sip.
Hotspur led the party of horse and wagons as it slowly crested the road around the Star Field and approached Dondubhan. She was easily recognizable with her brilliant red hair catching the firelight in dark, bloody flashes. Much shorter and messier than it had been.
Mora was unprepared for the wave of affection that rose up in her rather like a sea monster.
Far enough back to be just more than polite, Hotspur called halt to her train and dismounted, slamming rather wearily onto the road. She tossed her reins to another retainer and did not wait for Connley before striding toward Banna Mora.
It put a smile on Mora’s tense mouth.
Hotspur’s exhausted expression opened up into a smile of her own, and she held out a hand. “Mora,” the knight said in a rush, informal and eager.
Mora gripped it, then pulled Hotspur close as the younger woman threw both arms around Mora’s shoulders.
“Worms,” Hotspur whispered in Mora’s ear, stretched onto her tiptoes. “Your stomach!”
Mora groaned softly. “It is in the way of many things.”
“I am so glad to see you—I’ve been furious for months and months at your treatment by Celedrix’s bad custom. And here you’re married and pregnant, and—I can’t remember the last time I saw you without armor.”
Kissing Hotspur’s temple, Mora said, “I am growing new armor, here on Innis Lear.”
Hotspur’s arms tightened convulsively, then she let go and stepped back. “I can imagine. Take me inside, let me see my people settled, and— Do you need sleep? I think pregnant women need their rest.”
Mora smiled, soothed by her friend’s frenetic worry. Her knees felt swollen and her back had ached forever, but she would not let Hotspur alone yet. “I will rest when you do. Food is ready and will be in my private dining room. But first, here is my husband, Rowan Lear.”
Rowan bowed his head, studying Hotspur with a masked expression. Mora knew him well enough by now to recognize the intensity of his scrutiny; he saw something that displeased him. “Welcome to Dondubhan, Hotspur of Perseria,” he said in a tone like a star priest invoking destiny.
“Prince,” Hotspur said thoughtfully.
That was all, and they were ushering the large party inside. Mared Lear appeared, clapping a hug about his brother before falling to his knees to dramatically flirt with his unborn niece or nephew through the wall of Mora’s flesh. She sighed and pushed him off, eyeing her husband until Rowan dragged his brother away to help with settling the retainers and servants.
It was quite the whirlwind, and Mora took full advantage of not only being the ranking mistress of the castle, but the pregnant one. Soon she was seated in her own suite of rooms, back to the fire and feet lifted onto a stool, pillows propping her lower back, and spiced warm wine in her hand.
Rowan came in with Connley and Hotspur; attendants departed, having deposited trenchers of food for the newly arrived. Mora sipped her wine and smiled as Hotspur made directly for a bowl and chunk of bread, upon which she piled meat, cheese, and a hearty beef broth. All of it mixed together and she no doubt would eat it with her fingers, like a regular soldier.
Connley came to Mora, eyes on her belly. Wonder and tentative curiosity plagued his hazel eyes, giving them a fervor she was unused to. “Connley,” she said.
“Sister,” he murmured, and knelt beside her; he took her free hand and kissed the knuckle. “I hope you will let me teach your child the language of trees.”
“If her father does not claim that for his own,” Mora said, oddly touched. It had to be the softening effect of pregnancy. She squeezed his hand. “Sit, eat. There is much you have to tell me since slipping off the island in the middle of the night, with no farewell at all!”
Hotspur, mouth full, sat hard in the chair beside Mora’s. Connley joined Rowan, and the prince gently nudged Connley to the food, then poured wine into three cups. One he brought to Hotspur, eyeing her coolly, the others he reserved for himself and Conn. Mora sipped her own, waiting until Hotspur was ready to speak. Connley and Rowan sat at the table, sharing a bench.
“What happened to your hair?” Mora asked.
“It was Connley’s ghost,” Hotspur said bitterly, before drinking deep of her wine. “That bitch thinks she owns him, but I claimed otherwise.”
Disbelief coursed through Mora and she shook her head. She knew of no ghost, only the old wind spirit Connley dedicated himself to, the Lady of Ashes. Glancing at her brother, she realized he did not have those black streaks of ashes down either cheek.
Connley held his bowl of bread, hands loose around the clay rim. He did not seem likely to eat, tightening his lips as if to hold back nausea. “She put Isarna’s hair in spirit-knots, and I had to cut her free.”
“Lady Hotspur is a grown woman, no child to be tormented.” Rowan was on his feet. He moved to loom over Connley.
The younger man’s lashes flickered as he refused to look up at his prince.
Hotspur tore a piece of cheese with her teeth and glared at Rowan. Mora recognized the look: Hotspur was not as relaxed as her lounging position would suggest. No, Hotspur was in the midst of battle. She said, “This is your island, Rowan Lear. Your aunt’s. Shame that I had to do my own magic to rid myself of this ghost, to bind her away from my husband. I’m surprised you allowed it to get so far.”
Rowan turned smoothly. He drew himself up, tall and lean in midnight robes, and though true disquiet had laced his voice when he spoke to Connley, now he held cool command. He said, “There are spirits everywhere. We teach our children to listen and resist them, lessons that have been lost to Aremoria for too long.”
Hotspur put her boots flat on the floor, leaning back into the chair. “I learned fast.”
“Did you?”
“She claimed me,” Connley said softly, but his words were clear in the edgy quiet of the room. “Isarna claimed me over Ashling, before witnesses and Innis Lear itself. She has a sword of Errigal steel that she used, and a spell, and her spit and blood.”
Rowan studied Connley for a long moment. “I would like to hear the details of this magic your Aremore wife invented.”
“You would, Rowan. She’s an instinct for magic like none I’ve—”
Mora sighed heavily, annoyed by this trailing conversation. “Will you all stop pretending a ghost has attacked anyone, or that Hotspur is a wizard?”
“The Ashling is a malformed earth saint,” Rowan said. “Broken because there are no earth saints on Innis Lear any longer, just as there is no great will of magic in Aremoria. Neither has been whole since the wizard Lear tore us apart.”
Connley nudged his bowl of food away and rubbed stiff fingers into his eyes.
Mora glanced narrowly from her husband to Hotspur. She held in her mind that she had met a dragon, and so ought not dismiss their statements outright. “A broken earth saint,” she said slowly.
“I believe she died badly,” Rowan said. “But with enough magic in her blood, and with the affection of the island. If it were possible, here, to be fully reborn as earth saints are reborn, she would have been. But it is not possible; therefore the Ashling is less than an earth saint, but more than a mere ghost or Learish spirit. And definitely mad.”
“And you allowed her to claim my brother?” Mora demanded, clinging to her cup of wine with both hands, else she throw it at him.
“I h
ad problems of my own when I was young.” Rowan moved behind Connley, gripping the younger man’s shoulders.
“And I wanted her comfort,” Connley said. He lifted a hand to brush fingers to Rowan’s pale knuckles.
“Connley is stronger than you give him credit for.” Rowan straightened to level his tiger-iron eyes at Mora.
Hotspur huffed in resignation and pique. “Is it me? Why did she become so violent now? Only because he married, or because he was in Aremoria, or because of me? Was she like this when you were lovers?”
Rowan’s entire being seemed to draw still.
It took Banna Mora a moment to understand.
When she did, jealousy bit fast into her diaphragm. Hard on its heels came irritation that she’d not been expressly told, followed by chagrin that she’d not noticed the language between her husband and brother’s bodies in all this time.
She remembered the night in the White Forest, when she’d found them alone together inside that ruined old cathedral, and moments since when they had shared a glance or easy communication. Mora had assumed such things to be lifelong friendship, Learish habits; many things other than that they’d been lovers. How galling that it took Hotspur mere moments to suss it out.
Unless Connley had done his wife the honor of telling her.
“You seduced my brother?” she said, accusing.
Rowan raised both eyebrows and put on his most arrogant mask. “Perhaps he seduced me,” was his answer, but sheer pride made a lie of such humility.
Mora snorted.
“Have you provided me with a thorough examination of all your former lovers?” Rowan asked.
“He is my brother.” This time she did throw her cup at him.
An arc of pale red wine splashed the floor and the cup hit Rowan directly in the chest. He did not flinch, but caught it as it fell. He held her gaze for a moment, frowning gently as if concerned for her—not her anger, but her physical state. “Be kind to yourself, Mora,” he said, then looked at Hotspur, who remained firmly seated in her chair, watching with embarrassed horror. “Yes, the Ashling Lady tried to kill me when she first suspected I might rival her for Connley’s heart. But I am the prince of Innis Lear, and I know her language, her tricks, and my power is greater than hers.”
“She never liked you, though,” Conn said softly.
“A widely held sentiment,” Mora snarled.
Rowan said, “Perhaps I might be left alone with my wife.”
Hotspur shot up, laughing humorlessly. She put her hand to her heart and bowed to Mora, then reached for Connley. “Come on, I want to check on my people. We’ll figure the rest out in the morning, Banna Mora.”
Stiffly, Mora nodded. Then she tried to smile at her little brother. “I am glad we are all family now.”
When they were alone, Rowan stood at Mora’s knees and bent to lift her up out of the chair. He guided her exhausted self to their bedchamber, and she allowed him to undress her. “Shall I call for a warm bath?” he asked, low in his throat as he moved behind her. His hands rubbed along her neck and shoulders, then he walked his fingers hard down her spine to settle, kneading, in the small of her back.
“Yes,” she whispered. Rowan slid his hand around her hips and cupped her naked belly.
“Why are you truly angry, my dragon?”
“I do not like to be caught out not knowing things about you,” she said, letting him take some of her weight. “I want to know every shadow and crevice, every light and angle and teary, hot corner of your heart.”
He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Forgive me. I would invite you into all those shadows and corners, too. My habit is to keep secrets, when I do not know if I can control the telling.”
“We are going to rule together, we are making children together, will fight in a war together, and we must have trust between us. I will not be your wife if I cannot trust you. I will only be your commander.”
Again, her husband was silent.
Mora leaned onto him, eyes drifting shut. The chamber was fire-warm, and the bath would feel good, relax her, and help her sleep.
“Do you love me, Banna Mora Errigal?” Rowan whispered.
“I do.”
His arms around her tightened. “Then before you rest, there is one final thing I must confess to you.”
Her bones seemed to fuse together at the longing in his voice, as if he would beg her to take back the offer. Mora suddenly felt afraid. “What is it?” she asked, voice thin and whispering.
“I know how I am going to die.”
ROWAN
Dondubhan, late autumn
THE POISON PRINCE of Innis Lear kept many secrets.
It was a habit of years, having thrived perhaps by the blessing of his birth star, Saint Terestria. Every important relationship in his life had been built upon one (or more than one).
Except for his relationship with the island: Rowan hid nothing from Innis Lear.
To his mother, he lied about his father. To his father, about the nature of magic and why the Glennadoers could so rarely wield it. He had kept tiny secrets on behalf of his siblings, as if he were their priest and protector of little rebellions.
The stars revealed secrets to him, great cosmic wonders he trusted but did not clearly comprehend. The winds whispered constantly in his ear about this retainer or that steward, who had fallen in love with whom, who hid illness, who was cheating at taxes or edged the line of their property slightly north every year. Sometimes he acted upon the intelligence, but sometimes he gathered it only, hoarding it for a winter of need.
To his queen Rowan did not lie, but he kept secret from her how young he’d been when first he’d taken up the hemlock crown.
The prince knew the true name of the Lady of Ashes, and that was the reason the spirit never had tormented him as she had the lovers and friends of all her favorite children. He had kept her name from Connley, both from habit and a suspicion that knowing who she had been would hurt his friend. Rowan had discovered the name in the book of dreams: Elia Lear wrote how her sister called to her some nights, and the queen could not tell if it was real or a dream, if she fell victim to that same madness her father had known or if the island and wind teased her. That sister was known to history to have died childless and under wild, mysterious circumstances. It made sense to Rowan that she would haunt the island’s children, furious and possessive, half earth saint and half desperate mess.
He thought there were secrets Banna Mora did not wish to know. She’d been relieved when Rowan told her not to trust earth saints and that probably her part in the prophecy he’d given Celeda Bolinbroke was over because she’d been born burning. Yet when Mora heard the hemlock prophecy from his mother, she gnawed on it like a tender bone. This last secret of his would bother her, too, but perhaps if he revealed everything at once, she would see the pattern and understand not only the necessity of following the path the stars and Innis Lear laid out for him, but join him in dedication to it.
“I know how I’m going to die,” he confessed, arms circling her pregnant belly, cupping their child as it curled inside her. Their daughter. He pressed his temple to Mora’s braids.
But she pushed him away, twisting her neck to glare at him. “Wormshit, Rowan.”
A peace had settled over him with the confession, though, and her ire could not penetrate it. “This is not the strangest thing you’ve believed of me.”
With a grimace of discomfort, Mora reached past him for the robe hanging beside their bed. Mora’s naked body stretched gloriously in the firelight, gently shaded in tan and golden brown, from knees to hair, nipples and lips and calloused palms. He could not help skimming his fingers along the curve of her bottom.
She glared and enclosed herself in the thick blue robe, lips pursed as she wrapped it tightly over her belly, with one hand holding it clenched together between her breasts. Clearly, she would give him no access to her so long as she remained dissatisfied with his words.
Rowan sat on a narr
ow chair tucked against the stone wall of the chamber. Mora stood over him, sculpting her face into neutrality; he’d not see her aches and pains or rabid skepticism until she chose. That was fine, for he knew it was there by the way the corners of her eyes pinched and the balance with which she planted her bare feet against the rug. He knew everything about how she carried herself, had studied and worshipped her equally the past year and more.
He said, “I’ve known for years, but for so long the path to the end seemed fractured and impossible. The nearer I get, the more precise the future becomes.”
“Tell me.”
“I die in Aremoria.” He wove his fingers together, cupping them in his lap. “Elia the Dreamer saw it, and wrote it down, and delivered the vision to me when I was a child. Not sleeping, but dead at the crown of her ancient church.”
“So it’s another prophecy.” Mora remained dubious.
He shrugged, leaning back in his chair, and held his wife’s eyes. Long ago he’d stopped fearing his death. And now that Mora was pregnant, the final threads of sorrow had released their hold on him. However much he wished to live, this was a glorious part he’d played (and would continue to play) in the history of Innis Lear.
Banna Mora sighed irritably. “Then you will not go to Aremoria ever again.”
Rowan laughed, delighted.
“I am serious.” Mora put her bare foot upon his knee and shoved. “You will not give in to death unless it is by my hand.”
He caught her foot and squeezed it, held on just long enough to threaten her with imbalance. She snarled and he let go, standing again. “What will be will be,” he said, kissing her. Her belly pressed into his.
Mora tore away. “That is not true, or what is the point of prophecy? You fool, you ask the future in order to shift it, avoid or embrace it depending on if it aligns with your needs. That is the only reason to live a life or run a kingdom pandering to the stars! To change the future, not take whatever is offered.”
“Oh? You’re an expert now, my hemlock queen?” Rowan was vastly amused, and the hook in his heart blazed like lightning because Banna Mora was furious that he would die.
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