Lady Hotspur

by Tessa Gratton

  “An entire line of them,” Hal agreed. “Which did not work out so well in Aremoria.”

  “There was a bastard king there? I missed that.”

  “Only rumors, which might have been worse.” She sighed and shifted in the saddle. “Morimaros ruled for forty-two years, abdicating when he was sixty-five in favor of his nephew Isarnos. Isarnos was married to Vatta Persy and they had only two children survive to adulthood: Segovax and Vatta the Younger. Segovax first married Senna of Or and had three children with her: another Vatta—my grandmother—Rovassos King, and Gavos. When Senna died Segovax married Estha of Taria Queen and had Corius—Mora’s father—and Matomaros who is still alive, living in the Rusrike with his wife and children, and ruling already a huge city-state. Clear?”

  The wizard nodded. “Your grandmother Vatta was eldest, but did not inherit. Because she was a woman?”

  “That made it easier to overlook her in Rovassos’s favor, but it was more than that. Segovax possibly believed the rumors that he was not Vatta’s true father. She was much darker than him, but that might’ve come from Senna’s family, which had off and on married into Ispania—and did again. My grandfather was Ianos Gaunt, a prince in Ispania. Vatta and Ianos had Celeda, who is both my mother and currently the queen. Our line is as proven as Rovassos’s was,” Hal insisted, “because Vatta was not a bastard.”

  “You trace your lineage back to the first King Morimaros, through his grandson Isarnos, and so does Banna Mora, because her father and your grandfather were brothers.”

  Hal smiled. “Right! And Hotspur can, too, because Morimaros the Great’s sister Ianta married the duke of Perseria, and Hotspur comes from her direct line.”

  The wizard glanced toward the dark center of Innis Lear. “So all three of you with a claim to the Aremore crown.”

  “It’s worse than that,” Hal admitted. “King Morimaros was uncle to my great-grandfather Isarnos. But he was Banna Mora’s direct great-grandfather through Elia Lear. That second son of hers, undoubtedly fathered by Morimaros? Bannos? His son married Sin Errigal, who is Banna Mora’s grandmother.”

  Something akin to wonder pressed a sigh from the wizard’s thin lips.

  “But my mother is the rightful queen of Aremoria, and that matters more than Mora’s claim to it. Hotspur shouldn’t have married Connley Errigal. It makes it look like she’s siding with Mora to challenge my mother. How could she take a path that will lead to my mother’s death? And mine?”

  “Is your mother the rightful queen?” the wizard asked gently.

  The tension in Hal’s body put her horse on edge, and the beast danced awkwardly until Hal soothed her with a firm hand. She glanced at the wizard and said, “Celedrix earned the throne, and her mother Vatta was Segovax’s eldest. It ought to have been Vatta, not Rovassos, ruling in the first place. My mother tried for years to be a good niece, to be content with her earldom and armies, supporting Rovassos. But he accused her of heinous things and banished her for ten years. Then, wizard, he took even her lands and titles from her and from me. He was not a good king.”

  “Do you think he made her an enemy on purpose?”

  “He claimed that she killed his brother Gavos, based on the accusation from his lover, with no evidence at all. So, if not on purpose, he seized the chance to rid himself of a rival.”

  “His undoing.”

  “That and also isolating Vindomata of Mercia. His favors fell to only men, and most of those supposedly his lovers. Vindomata believed he neglected Mercia and Perseria, as well as betraying her good friend Celeda Bolinbroke.”

  “But Vindomata Persy and Celedrix are no longer allies, if your friend Hotspur’s marriage and her being here with Banna Mora is an indication.”

  “There, I know nothing of what caused it. It is said that my mother had Vindomata’s sons murdered during the rebellion, but I cannot believe she would, just to consolidate her power and remove it from Vindomata.”

  The wizard watched her coolly until Hal had to glance away. She said, “Why overthrow a despot only to become one yourself?”

  “Power,” the wizard murmured.

  Hal groaned softly. “What is in that rattling bag?” she asked to distract.

  One of his rough hands fell to the canvas, carefully brushing against the cord that sealed the bag shut. “Restless bones.”

  Shock made her laugh. “What for? Whose?”

  But he would not confess to her any more that day.

  MIST SHROUDED THE rolling hills of Taria the morning they were to arrive at Astora City, and Hal could do nothing with her hair. Its thickness seemed twice the usual volume, and no amount of combing or picking compensated. She’d noticed in her few days on Innis Lear that the wind tangled her hair when she wasn’t looking; soap made it rough, oil made it too heavy. The attendant who’d come along with the dresses and finery Celedrix provided her daughter threw up her hands with a scowl and blamed it on the angry island. “Mine hangs dully here,” the girl said. “But Ter Melia’s is better, maybe she can help.”

  Hal stood at the fire in her brilliant orange-and-white ensemble, perfect from the neck down. She shoveled a breakfast of grainy bread and butter into her mouth, resigning herself to a thick mass of a bun, and perhaps hanging some copper chains around it instead of the delicate hairpieces made to slip into her usually compliant locks. The wizard finished rolling his small tent and fixed it to its place on the supply wagon, then joined Hal. “Your smile has vanished,” he said softly.

  “My hair is a disaster.”

  “The salt wind, and energy dancing between the rootwaters.”

  “Magic made my hair impossible?” Hal was incredulous.

  The wizard laughed low in his throat. It was good to hear. “On Innis Lear, magic can make as much impossible as it can make possible. But I am a wizard. Sit.”

  She obeyed and gritted her teeth at the little bursts of pain as he separated tangled pieces of her hair out and worked. Hal did her best not to think of braiding her and Hotspur’s hair together, idle and naked on her bed.

  With charms pulled from pockets or worms-knew-where, with little threads of wool, the wizard put dozens of small braids into her hair, twisting and looping them around one another. He left the rest unbound and tumbling down her back.

  The attendant came to watch after a few minutes, and the wizard used her hands to hold pieces apart. “This is more elaborate than I can do on my own,” he said.

  “Oh, it is like yours, wizard!” The girl nodded eagerly.

  Hal skewed him a glance: his thick black hair was twisted and braided rather wildly back from his face. Tiny bone-and-shell charms dangled at his shoulders, giving him the impression of untamed magic. Hal smiled. She did not mind having a wizard’s hair.

  “It’s easier to maintain if it’s shorter,” he said. “Most on Innis Lear use elaborate braids to counter the salt wind, or are born with softer hair that likes this rough treatment.”

  “And the magic,” Hal insisted.

  “I thought, when you mentioned your grandfather was Ispanian, that this might suit you.”

  He said it casually, but Hal read the truth in his admission: he had Ispanian blood, too.

  “Will you tell me your name, wizard?” she asked again, for the third or thirtieth time.

  Wind blew between them, flaring the fire and drawing blurry lines in the mist.

  The wizard said, “It is not my right to speak it. Especially on Innis Lear.”

  ASTORA CITY DRAPED itself across an entire deep valley in the west of Innis Lear, surrounded by massive hills. From the southern approach, Hal and her company saw the whole of the city as the low clouds lifted away with the afternoon sun. Built of stone both cream in color and dark gray-blue, Astora reminded Hal of home. Two castles nestled beside one another in the city’s heart—one, only finished a generation ago, rose toward the sky in pale sandstone towers and crenellations. Glass glinted in the high, arching windows. The second was older, built of hardwood and granite, impr
egnable and windowless.

  They paraded through the city, escorted by men belonging to the Earl Bracoch and the duke of Taria’s retainers. At the broad gates of Astora Castle—the new one—the duke of Taria himself waited for Hal. He was young, thirty or so, and tall as a maple but just as skinny. Dark brown hair was braided back from his face and his narrow cheeks were wind-chapped pink. Hal remained seated upon her horse as he greeted her elegantly, welcoming her to his city. Hal smiled and called his name; he invited her inside to meet Queen Solas.

  Hal accepted his hand and dismounted. Her usual military outfit had been replaced by a heavy, deep orange overdress belted with black leather over layers of cloud-white linen skirt and winged sleeves that would make eating a problem if they weren’t tucked in. She wore black boots and black gloves, as well as the Heir’s Score. Its hilt was black-wrapped and the short iron crosspiece was set with a single white pearl like an eye.

  The wizard was a forest shadow at her back.

  The castle’s great hall lifted three stories at least, with grand arches between the stone columns carved with vines and hung with dark pink banners. Benches sprawled off long tables that soon would be filled with courtiers and retainers, but for now the hall was clear for Hal, her wizard, Ter Melia, and five soldiers, the duke of Taria to approach. At the far end waited Queen Solas and her sister, Ryrie, on two high-backed chairs, with three rangy dogs at the queen’s feet. A young woman embroidered, perched upon a stool nearby. Behind her, some queen’s retainers stood guard.

  The queen sat straight, her hands resting on the arms of the chair, and a smooth, plain blue tabard fell from her shoulders over plump breasts, belted at her short waist before blossoming over equally fat hips. Silver rings graced every finger and silver chains dripped across her forehead from round silver pins holding dark brown hair off her temples. White dots curved under her eyes and her bottom lip was bloodred with paint. She was at least as old as the wizard and exuded confidence.

  Beside the queen, skinny Ryrie Lear smiled prettily beneath flushed cheeks, though her dark eyes did not quite focus on Hal’s face.

  “Welcome, Calepia Bolinbroke,” Solas said, “to Innis Lear. You are known in your home as Prince Hal, I believe.”

  “I am, and thank you, it is with deepest excitement I arrive. I’ve always wished to visit your island.” Hal put her best sparkle into her smile.

  Ryrie laughed, as light as tinkling bells. “Well, Hal—Prince Hal—there were many reasons you might have come before.”

  “None so splendid as the marriages of two of my most favorite women in all the world.”

  “Banna Mora did not speak so of you.” This from Solas again, calm and exceedingly plain.

  “I’ll not deny there’s been tension between Mora and myself these past years, but I will deny to my very death that we were not close once, and the best of friends. I’d have died for her.”

  “Before her inheritance was stolen.”

  “Before my mother’s star rose,” Hal countered.

  At that both royal women smiled; Ryrie delightedly, Solas with consideration.

  “And now Banna Mora’s stars and Hotspur’s have come into alignment,” the queen said. “What of yours?”

  Hal shook her head. “You mistake, Your Brightness. Hotspur has no stars: she is all fire, enough to blaze against the sky herself.”

  Solas lifted a dark eyebrow and glanced at her sister. Ryrie shrugged. “We will be careful of where we set this fire, then,” Solas said. She gestured at the young woman who’d been embroidering during all the banter. “Here is Vae Lear. Vae, say hello to your fellow princess.”

  Hal smiled her best dazzling smile to cover her surprise: she’d thought Ryrie Lear had only sons.

  The young woman smiled shyly. She was maybe eighteen, and though her eyes were clearly her mother’s same brown, her square face had to be Glennadoer.

  “A pleasure, princess,” Hal said, feeling strange in her belly: a strangeness of discovery, for now she thought on it, she was absolutely certain Ryrie’s youngest child had been a son. Whatever magic this was, Hal liked it. She bowed and summoned forth her gifts: silk and woven tapestries for the queen’s residence; a box inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver containing very fine, small daggers; whalebone combs and amber beads from the Rusrike; lapis bangles from the Third Kingdom. She showed off, too, the gifts for Banna Mora and Rowan Lear (a priceless ruby necklace said to have belonged to one of the first Aremore queens and a complicated astrolabe Hal had practiced working for days) and passed on Queen Celeda’s blessings for their marriage and forthcoming heir.

  When the final gift had been displayed, Solas said, “Come forward, wizard,” though until that moment none had acknowledged his presence.

  The wizard obeyed. Solas stood, and the impeccably behaved hounds at her feet lifted their heads.

  The queen eyed him. For the first time this afternoon, an air of curiosity lent youth to her features. “Have we met, stranger? You are more than passing familiar to me.”

  “It is unlikely, Queen,” he said, his voice a brush of autumn wheat and wind.

  “But you are a wizard.”

  “I am. The magic of Innis Lear is strong.” He said it as if offering her a compliment, and Hal supposed it was such. The wizard continued, “But I hear a discordance in the voice of the wind.”

  “There is always something discordant here,” the queen said. Then she spoke briefly in the whispering language of trees, and the wizard replied. A dainty smile hid in the corner of his mouth.

  Hal stared. What was happening?

  The wizard whispered again, and the dogs whined to each other. Solas touched one on its scruffy dun head, then snapped an order in Learish that they behave. The queen’s gaze lowered to the wizard’s feet.

  Hal realized only then that the wizard had brought his bag of bones with him and stood with it slumped against his boot, as if to protect it.

  “It is some old magic I need to take care of while I’m here,” the wizard said. “The wind knows.”

  Ryrie Lear began to laugh.

  Hal felt an energy in her blood that was half excitement, half trepidation, and she knew somehow her wizard brought the end of someone else’s treacherous destiny to Innis Lear.

  THE WIZARD HAD not expected to sleep that first night he spent upon the isle of Lear in over a hundred years.

  Despite the cold, he’d settled himself at the edge of the prince’s camp, unrolled his thick wool blanket, and reclined there, listening to the accent of the wind. Stars twinkled overhead, with no accusations nor anger, but rather blithely hung in the blackness, peering elsewhere perhaps, more concerned with other folk than him.

  But the wind—the wind recalled his name, recalled the texture of his hair and the relentless curve of his frown.

  Earlier, when he’d lit upon the island from the royal barge, the wind had blasted at him, confused, eager; pulling, pushing. It said his name and he whispered, Please, in the language of trees. Then, the wind had lulled, exploring his lashes and the crooks of his elbows, slithering into his tunic to dance along his stomach, curl about his waist and down sleeves to his rough, dark hands. It had slipped like fingers along his scalp and the wizard had shivered, because he’d missed these demanding trees and snappish wind. He missed them like a faded dream.

  The prince acted like she missed it, too, though she’d never been here to know. Her smile, the pink exhilaration in her cheeks, the brave way she laughed even when haunted by the shadow of death, all of it taught the wizard again how to walk these treacherous paths of Innis Lear: with relish.

  (Hadn’t he always been drawn to lion princes?)

  The wind had braided around his wrists, slipped into his pockets, and otherwise reclaimed him. Pulled him north of the cliffs, toward Scagtiernamm.

  Even as he lay down that night, it brushed across his mouth and the bridge of his nose, it ruffled fallen leaves and the dry winter grasses. Blowing east now, and still north, calling him to t
he Refuge of Thorns.

  But the wizard did sleep. When he closed his eyes, his bones sank into the island, his thoughts drifted. Perhaps he’d not slept so well in a century.

  It was a cry that woke him.

  His eyes snapped open and he listened.

  The Aremore prince’s camp was silent; even the fires were banked. The prince and her retainers and attendants slept, breaths combined into a soft, compelling rhythm.

  And the wind—the wind spat out that cry again, questioning and harsh.

  I know you! Who are you?I know you!

  The wizard listened.

  Other voices murmured and moaned through the wind, spirits seething in the moonlight, and there was his name again, screamed by one spirit. He knew the voice: it rattled through his heart, and the wizard felt something hot and familiar inside him.

  Immediacy.

  She sounded like one of them. So clear, so singular, the way they were singular; individuals born with a seed of their own magic, not pieced apart from an island. When he’d lived here, when he’d lived, there had been none of them on Innis Lear.

  The wizard rolled up his bed, stowed it in one of the wagons, and walked quickly through the silver night toward Scagtiernamm.

  Yes, yes! hissed the wind. Open.

  He was used to moving on a whim, by the urging of a fickle memory or flash of insight; that was how they communicated with him when he walked among trees instead of dancing—slumbering—beneath them. Riddles, singsong thoughts, silver light in one direction and nothing but reality in the other. The wizard’s bargain gave him a freedom from personal motivation; he followed ephemeral scents and pinpoints of destiny until he discovered and completed whatever task it was they’d set him.

  This did not feel so. He traveled at the prince’s side, with their riddle in his heart, but this calling was opportunity more than plan.

  Not from them, from Innis Lear itself.

  Innis Lear wanted something from him.

  He wondered, briefly, if that meant he ought to run the other way.

  But the wizard was the tool into which he’d been forged, and such calls, such mysterious pathways, were sculpted for him to follow. He had not quite figured out what sorts of things and creatures and people his masters cared for, and which they did not, thus he’d given up trying. It was good for him, and peaceful, to be an instrument. It was penance. He remembered that. He cared about that.