Through Scagtiernamm he passed, glancing toward a field of battle blown over by tall brown grass, unmolested now by the anger and betrayal that echoed in his memory. He remembered too much, all at once, and he continued quickly over broad moorland, toward the edge of the White Forest. Again he felt a stab of hot urgency: he did not want to go inside those ancient woods.
The moonlight glazed everything with cold, sugary light. The wizard stumbled down a sheer slope, leaning back to catch himself with one hand. Rocks cut up through the grass, and eroding soil tumbled and scattered around him. The sounds he made were all the noise in the world. Even the wind went still.
Then
what are you doing here
cried that voice, that old, beloved voice
I know you—help me! She’s weakened me, I am fading! Help!
The wizard darted toward her, into a grove of ash trees.
Seven elegant ashes surrounded him, three large and rippling with thick, corded gray bark. Three huddled into one massive tree, branches twisted together as if by a mighty hand. They created a hollow, a pointed arc of shadows. It stank like fresh rot.
He knelt there, and suddenly wind slammed into him.
Pain cracked though his skull as his left eyebrow hit the curving edge of the hollow. The skin split and blood—hot and urgent, too—dropped onto his eyelid.
Dazed, he blinked.
Hold, he commanded, and then smeared a finger through his own blood to mark the tree with one of the oldest words.
Mine.
All went still.
Some thin, brown-tipped leaves fell from the mostly bare branches above, and the wizard blinked again:
“I will not miss you,” the witch says, lifting a small jeweled knife, “but you must remember us to your children.”
and
save her please, please!
and
queen
and
love
and
Regan
young sapling ashes with bright golden leaves reach for the witch. They lift themselves from the very earth to walk on rippling, snakelike roots. “Yes,” she says, and leans into them, like lovers. Tears and blood streak her cheeks.
and
closing her off from everything but their cool, dark center. They want her, and refuse to give her up.
She is gone, leaving only—
leaving
The wizard gasped and let go of the hollow.
Beneath him the island rippled. Wind tugged at his hair.
He knew why he’d been brought here. She was half of both worlds, belonging in neither—so was he, but his making was with purpose, his was a bargain. Hers was a curse. This spirit tore at energies without balance, stole from the island to keep herself aware. (The island did not like that at all.) Recently, something had pinned her down, and she dragged at this grove, rotting the roots from the inside.
Leaning into the ash tree again, he held his eyes wide open and crawled into the hollow, fingers digging into the damp earth. The air decayed; the wizard uncovered crawling green beetles under layers and layers of dry-dead-rotting leaf-fall. Shadows pulled over his face like spiderwebs, and the wizard sighed carefully, letting his breath be light: strands of pale gold burned before him, intricate life-threads, island magic, a lattice of heart-fire embracing the shadows and there—there! A gleam of starlight.
In the heart of the ash trees he found her bones.
HOTSPUR
Dondubhan, early winter
CONNLEY WAS TEACHING Hotspur magic. If they couldn’t be passionately in love, couldn’t find true happiness in each other’s arms, and if neither had chosen the other but instead given in to the machinations of their families, at least they were finding a mutual purpose in the relationship.
Hotspur liked Connley, still, despite his soft nature and the weird lessons. They began with the language of trees, and listening. She had no interest in holy bones or prophecy, which did not bother him. He took her for long walks across the frozen moors and along the banks of the Tarinnish, telling her silly things like Sit here and be this rock or Hum like that wind for as long as you can make your breath last. Hotspur obeyed, earnestly as she did all things, and though the instructions never stopped sounding strange, she quickly understood that was a problem of words themselves, not their meanings. Magic on Innis Lear was very much a habit to grow into, not a subject to study.
“A wizard’s instinct,” Connley insisted, when she grew frustrated at how slowly she learned to speak the language of trees, “still needs to practice.”
So practice she did.
Often, as the days grew shorter, Hotspur noticed her husband fall suddenly still: he was listening for his ghost. He would shake himself free and avoid her gaze after. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“No, Connley, I’m sorry,” she replied, knowing it was her fault he’d lost this lifelong spirit, even though it had been dangerous.
Connley did not tell her it was all right, because he would not lie to her.
It was a good foundation, truthfulness, and friendship was better than a desperate love affair.
While Hotspur had considered Banna Mora a friend for years, here Mora was the queen-to-be, and she was held apart by the mystical nature of Innis Lear, as well as by her own performance. They shared meals, the four of them, and Mora played the role of sister, wife, friend, but none of them fit naturally upon her shoulders to Hotspur’s eye: she was a queen first. And there was something under Mora’s skin, a fire, maybe, or a strangeness waiting to burst free. She did cling to Rowan’s hand sometimes, and other times disdain him, preferring Hotspur’s side. With Connley, Mora made the proper motions, but never relaxed.
“This is good, Hotspur,” Mora said often, with a grimace of pain or with her eyes closed as some lightheadedness of pregnancy passed. “Having you here, knowing we will move forward together in the spring. I am glad you walk this path with me.”
Hotspur replied, “Always,” though in truth she was not certain anyone walked with Banna Mora.
But they were family now, and that mattered more than any awkwardness or feverish uncertainty, more than prophecy.
“Do you think about it?” she asked Mora, one evening when they were alone. “The prophecy?”
“I do.”
“Does it make any more sense now than before?”
“Hardly. I think I already burn, and Hal is certainly broken.”
“I broke her,” Hotspur said, listening to the cold winter wind.
“No, she was delicate to begin with, and she broke herself. And so, once the saints are singing,” Mora said, tone traced in irony, “and the restless are reclaimed, you must choose the end.”
“Ugh,” the Wolf of Aremoria complained.
“Or—” Mora glanced thoughtfully away but slid Hotspur a smile. “Perhaps you have already chosen, by choosing me and my brother and my cause. The end is ours. Aremoria and Innis Lear will be united. Even the earth saints will be glad for that.”
As if to prove a point, Era Star-Seer burst into the solar just then and declared, “I knew it would happen before the Longest Night,” then thrust an unopened letter at Banna Mora.
Hotspur tensed as Mora cracked the wax and read the news from Queen Solas.
Hal Bolinbroke had come to Innis Lear.
SEEING HAL AGAIN was a revelation.
She glowed in the torchlight that turned the upper yard of Dondubhan into a bowl of flickering gold. Hal strode a few steps behind Solas of Innis Lear, and Hotspur could look at nothing else. Her fists clenched against her thighs.
Hal smiled with bright red-painted lips, her upturned nose pink from cold, and that same pink traveled over her high cheeks. Light sparkled in her vivid brown eyes and her hair was absolutely wild, but pulled away from her face with braids and threads of colored yarn. A coat snapped around her knees, and the tunic below it was dark red as blood, harnessed at her waist with copper and gold. She wore gold at her ears, too, and on her ha
nds, and the Aremore-orange coat was studded with steel that caught the firelight and winked like stars spilling down her back. Over one shoulder she wore the Heir’s Score, its strap cutting diagonally down her chest, a black slash of gore against bold color.
The revelation was this: Hotspur could imagine Hal as a queen.
She did not seem in the least broken.
Though Hotspur had never met Solas, and tried to focus, even when Connley took her hand to put it into the queen’s, the best Hotspur could do was bow and murmur thanks.
All her attention was for Hal Bolinbroke. The arrow of her heart forever pointed there.
And when it was Hal’s turn, the Prince of Riot claimed her stage and owned it.
Her arms spread wide as she gave a speech supposedly on Celedrix Aremoria’s behalf, but Hotspur knew—and surely so, too, did Banna Mora—that this was Hal’s doing: a story about distant cousins and the ever-present, ever-necessary bonds between the lush land of Aremoria and its riven sister-island Lear. Why, the greatest king of Aremoria had given so much of his spirit and destiny to Innis Lear, compromise and love binding his throne and fate with that of Elia the Dreamer, and was that not the bond that gave Banna Mora to all of them?
It was a simple trick, reminding everyone of Mora’s ancestry—and Solas Lear’s, as well—but at the same time putting claim to Morimaros the Great’s actual throne. Mora’s name and story straddled the wide channel between Aremoria and Innis Lear: of both, but owning neither. And Hal ended her speech with Celedrix’s exhortation to celebrate the union of their lands again through Banna Mora’s marriage to Rowan Lear, and yet again through their very own Wolf of Aremoria’s marriage into Mora’s family. As if to weave all our fates together again, as they have not been joined in a hundred years!
Hotspur wrapped her hand tighter around Connley’s, shielding herself with husband against Hal’s brilliance. She’d never told Connley she was in love with a prince, too. She’d promised herself she no longer was.
Solas Lear applauded and gave approval, insisting Prince Hal sit beside her and Banna Mora for the celebratory feast, held out here in the yard where the cold sky was beaten back with countless torches and a bonfire at each corner. They were fed hot meat and mulled honey wine, entertained with dancers and poems and songs.
It was all of them at the high table—the queen and Rowan centered, with Hal, Ryrie, and Owyn Glennadoer to Solas’s right, then Banna Mora, Connley, and Hotspur herself to Rowan’s left.
(Glennadoer and his sprawling family had arrived three days prior. The giant bear of a man had clapped his hand around Hotspur’s, swallowing it entirely, then said, “I expected you to be bigger!” with a delighted roar. Hotspur had not laughed. “I’ve defeated larger men than you,” she’d lied, with perfectly balanced bravado.)
To Hotspur and Mora’s absolute delight, Ter Melia accompanied Hal, and Hotspur felt unashamed to leap forward and hug the tall woman with the enthusiasm she couldn’t—wouldn’t—share with Hal. Banna Mora restrained herself, but smiled widely and said over her shoulder to Rowan Lear that Ter Melia was a good name they should consider.
Hotspur glanced at Hal, who wore a bright mask of amusement, hiding any deeper hurt she might feel at not having been greeted like this other former Lady Knight.
Gifts were presented to Hotspur for her wedding, and she did her best to return thanks. It made for a long evening. Even Rowan Lear was out of sorts, and it seemed everything to do with the man that accompanied Hal, familiar to Hotspur though she couldn’t place him. The man was small and shadowed, with a witch’s hair, but had vanished when Hal began her speeches.
Connley wasn’t in a much better mood, and Hotspur wouldn’t ask if he guessed it was over Hal that Hotspur had cried—in Connley’s arms the only time they’d had sex, no less.
It put Hotspur in a temper, too, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted to speak with Hal alone to commiserate, or to just drown the prince in the icy waters of the Tarinnish.
None of this emotional mess was further helped by Era Errigal, the Star-Seer, stepping forward with fifty men and women wearing gray and white, to perform for Hotspur and Connley their marriage prophecy.
The people danced in constellation patterns; it was lovely and lively, and Hotspur wished to join them rather than admire them, waiting for the prophecy to emerge. She’d rather get down there and insert herself into the lines and spirals. “Can we not dance with them?” she said to Connley, taking his hand. Her husband glanced at her, surprised, and his haunted look vanished.
“Your magical intuition has not yet led you wrong,” he said.
Though Hotspur made a terrible face, he stood and drew her around the end of the table, and together they burst into the dance. Everyone faltered, but Connley ignored the slowing pace and questioning glances, focused instead on Hotspur. For her part, she gripped his hands and spun, turning them into familiar skips and whirling lines, and soon the star-dancers wove around them, thrilled and laughing and stomping a rhythm echoed by the gathered crowd with clapping and staccato cries.
Hotspur gave over to it, never letting go of Connley’s hands—or neck or waist, anything she could touch—and a new dance began, with drums and fiddles. She danced until her bones were limp, her face flushed hot, and even when she paused her heart continued to turn.
She hugged her husband, and he lifted her off her feet, laughing, face buried in her neck. Then he pushed her gently away, twirling her to face the queen and high table. Only Hal Bolinbroke and Solas Lear remained seated: the rest seemed to have joined the untamed dance.
“That,” Hotspur cried, throwing out her other hand, “is my star prophecy!”
WHEN HOTSPUR NO longer could stand, she took Connley’s hand again and said brief farewells to everyone except Hal, whom Hotspur was ignoring. Fingers laced, path weaving slightly, they made their way toward the tower in which they could find their bed. Hotspur fully intended to have her way with Connley immediately, even if she had to coerce him with wine and a hand on his cock or even pretending to be Rowan Lear. They both could use the distraction, the reminder that they were each other’s now, no matter what—who—else they wanted. Hotspur needed the armor of such a distraction.
But a boy jagged with approaching manhood caught up to them and said, “Lady Hotspur, Banna Mora requires you attend her in her chambers before retiring.”
Hotspur kissed Connley deeply enough to surprise him. “Warm the bed for me,” she said, nudging him on. Surely the taste of her husband on her lips would act like sutures binding tight her heart.
Banna Mora’s chamber was empty when Hotspur arrived, but for Catrin and Laise Glennadoer, the duke’s eldest daughters—both of whom were bastards, and Hotspur didn’t judge them for it, though certainly she didn’t understand Ryrie Lear’s tolerance. The eldest, Catrin, was square and plain, but calm in a way that made her easy to be around and with strong hands. She was a few years junior to Hotspur, and her little sister Laise was perhaps sixteen, small and shy and prettier, though just as square.
Laise bowed at Hotspur and offered wine. Hotspur waved it away and went to the pitcher of water. She poured some into her hand and splashed her face with it. “Do you know what Mora wants?”
It was Catrin who said, “I was summoned without explanation.”
“I tagged along because …” Laise shrugged and ducked her head.
Hotspur slumped into the chair by the fire and closed her eyes. The room tilted only a little; it was the same room where she’d met with Mora and both their husbands that first night, and she hoped tonight would be a little less incendiary.
“Hotspur.”
She jolted out of a doze and clenched the arms of the chair, slowly opening her eyes.
Hal stood in the doorway, flushed and holding the neck of a wine bottle in hand. Behind her, Banna Mora frowned.
“Go inside, Hal,” Mora commanded.
The prince entered, eyes wide and stuck on Hotspur. “I’ve been desperate to ask what
happened to your hair?”
Hotspur sank even farther down into her chair, feeling like a recalcitrant child.
Hal stopped several feet in, glancing around as if for aid, while Banna Mora walked slowly around her and came to the table where she leaned, stretching her back and hips slowly. Her belly touched the edge of the table.
“Here, my lady,” said Laise Glennadoer, touching the other chair beside the fire.
“Catrin,” Mora said instead, head bowed but voice firm.
“Yes.”
“Here is Prince Hal Bolinbroke of Aremoria. Hal, this is my husband’s half sister, and what you may not know is her skill at swordwork. Her mind, too, is sharp, I’ve examined her myself. You should take her as an aide while you are on Innis Lear.”
Hotspur sucked a quiet breath through her teeth and glanced swiftly enough at Catrin to catch the surprise on her face be replaced quickly by eagerness. But even Hotspur recognized the neat political trick of this offer: by forcing Hal to accept a bastard now, Mora made the bastardy of her own family line a moot point for future arguments of inheritance.
“Of course,” Hal said, sounding at ease. “Welcome, Catrin.”
Mora nodded. “Catrin, report to Prince Hal tomorrow, and now go. Take Laise with you.”
The two young women departed quickly, closing the door behind them.
A creeping sensation began in Hotspur’s gut that she wasn’t going to enjoy the next hour. Mora went to the other chair at the hearth and collapsed into it. “Pour that out among us,” she said to Hal.
The fire and hanging tapestries created a soft, warm cocoon for them, and Hal stood absolutely still. She stared at Banna Mora; rather, at Banna Mora’s right hand.
“Where did you get that?” Hal asked hoarsely, and Hotspur looked closer.
A ring of garnet and pearls, just like the Blood and the Sea, encircled Mora’s forefinger. Hotspur had glanced at it before, but not realized the significance.
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