Rowan Lear climbed onto one of the long tables and snapped small white explosions of light overhead for attention. When the crush of folk turned to him, he organized everyone to clear the ramparts of snow and excavate paths to the kitchen, barracks, and chapel. Retainers would dig out the gate and barbican, then engage themselves with regular watch rotations. Everyone else not occupied with childcare or cooking found a place on one of the snow teams. Hal sweet-talked her way to Hotspur’s side, and they spent a hard, companionable morning digging the king’s tower free of nearly a foot of snow. Mared Lear worked on Hal’s other side and it was, Hotspur sourly noted, a saint-made match. The two fell quickly into a game of one-upmanship, the rules of which were irrelevant to Hotspur: only, their filthy banter and strength games made her blush and laugh respectively. By the time they’d completed their task and trudged back over stamped-down snow to the great hall for hot drinks and food, Hotspur could not say which had lost the battle, for both Hal and Mared dripped with melted ice and shivered, their cheeks raging pink.
They were two days snowed into the great hall.
Though it was possible to retreat to individual bedchambers for sleeping or a necessary break from the energy of the crowd, most remained, transforming the hall into a party. Beer was plentiful, and at night wine was warmed at a long fire built down the center of the hall, the smoke drawn up to the ceiling and out a single open window by kindly wind. This required the wizards or witches in attendance to take shifts for directing the magic. Even the quiet Aremore wizard worked his part, though Hotspur was not quite ready.
They played games, some small affairs with tossed rocks or cards, and others organized call-and-response suited to large teams; they sang, and young people showed off new skills, including a handful of children who performed a play for the queen and her guests, featuring legends from island history. Queen Solas recited a long poem that skipped and wove in a complicated rhythm, but the story was simple, telling only of the seasons and cycles of life on Innis Lear. Hal sang a folk song, her clear voice ringing out, and the prince encouraged the audience to join her, twisting it into a layered round with the help of Rowan. The Learish prince’s voice rose higher and stronger even than Hal’s, and Hal’s eyes brightened as she found a countermelody. Hotspur tried to turn away.
The Glennadoers performed as a family, with even creaking old Donnan taking part, a wolfskin pulled over her head so she could act the wicked earth saint chasing children. This devolved when Irrel, the mother of Glennadoer’s younger bastards, took up the wolfskin from her grandmother and began chasing the young ones in earnest, until they screamed or cast wild little curses at her, or hid behind a parent’s legs.
The eldest of those bastard daughters, Catrin, did her best to act as Hal’s first aide, hovering when she could, and had joined Hal’s snow team. Hal didn’t seem to mind it, but with as little to do as there was, Hal often dismissed Catrin. Hotspur noticed the girl went directly to her father more often than not. They were close, which Hotspur envied, and also mistrusted. Had Glennadoer thought to gain something from having his bastard daughter in Hal’s retainment? Then Hotspur chided herself for worrying over Hal at all.
Solas herself slept in the great hall that night, drifting off to the crackling fire and low song produced by the duke of Taria on a narrow flute.
By the second day, tempers grew ragged—or Hotspur’s at least—and she wished she could trade herself to the barracks where at least they might be spending time with practice swords or cleaning leather and armor. Rowan and a small party vanished with the sunrise to ford the snow and head into Wellage to see what help was needed, and bring the information back for his aunt to delegate repairs once the snow melted a bit more. Hotspur stomped around the hall, irritated she’d missed the chance to go with him.
Wouldn’t it be nice if she could expend this energy having sex with her husband?
Curse Hal Bolinbroke.
To calm down, Hotspur found a shadowed corner and drew deep breaths, listening to every stray word and footstep, tasting the woodsmoke air and relishing the first scent of new bread when a platter of it was brought from the kitchen. This was a moment to remember, she reminded herself, just like any experience: the stark feeling of being trapped, the surreal quality of the light; both red with fire and gray from snow.
When Rowan returned, he listed his report aloud to the queen, for all to hear: the town had managed well, having prepared as they should based on the weather prophecies. A handful of animals had been lost to the Tarinnish, worthy sacrifices to the black navel of Innis Lear, and aid was already shared out between neighbors. A babe had been born and named Oeliss, for the earth saint who stalked through snow-white wind, hunting those too wicked to share hearths in bad weather.
The Earl Glennadoer called it a strong name and suggested that the family had its origins in his lands to be so hearty of spirit. Rowan said they were old Connleys and so had learned their strength by a century of misfortune.
“And Glennadoers have had a thousand years of it,” the earl roared.
“Until now, surely,” Rowan chided his father, for he was, after all, to be the next king.
Glennadoer grinned conspiratorially at Banna Mora, pregnant and seated at the queen’s side, and repeated his son’s words. “Until now, surely.”
Hotspur stomped out from behind the stocky wooden pillar where she’d been breathing, but before she could snarl something to relieve her mood, Hal Bolinbroke spoke up.
“Tell me, Glennadoer, what magic you used to take the March last summer. For all Aremoria knows there were no natural means by which our Banna Mora could be defeated.”
Though many of the people in the hall had disregarded the gentle family drama at the high table, now a hush spread, and gasps and shushing. The whole room leaned near to listen to how the earl would respond to such a challenge.
It was Banna Mora, though, who drawled, “What is unnatural about magic, Prince Hal?”
And Hal smiled, spreading her hands. “A welcome correction, Mora,” she said before turning sharply back to Glennadoer. “Apologies, Lord Owyn.” (It was an Aremore way of addressing him, for in Lear he was only Glennadoer, the title imbued with all the respect required.) “I remain curious, though, if it might be demonstrated.”
Glennadoer paused, looked to his son Rowan, then to Solas Lear, and his blocky face stretched into a grin that matched Hal’s. “I’ve a better idea, Bolinbroke. We’ll re-create the battle, with you for the March, and you can see for yourself how easy it is to defeat an Aremore.”
Hotspur’s boots locked to the floor. Her mouth dropped open.
“I love a good battle game,” Hal said.
Tension held everyone in place as Glennadoer and Hal stared at each other.
Solas Lear lifted a hand. “No, it is too close quarters here for re-creating such a grand battle, but—” Here she swept her hand out to encompass the entire hall. “When the snow is melted, we will have a zenith tournament. And it shall be Aremoria might against that of Innis Lear.”
“I claim the command of Innis Lear’s side,” Banna Mora said, “and require a champion to fight for me.”
Beside Hotspur, Catrin Glennadoer sucked in an eager breath. Hotspur, too, felt that zeal. She would fight for Aremoria, of course.
“Done,” Solas said. “Choose, and your champion will face Hal Bolinbroke at the zenith, and each shall have seven champions of their own, in seven fields of warrior skill.”
Yes, yes, thought Hotspur, finally a worthwhile entertainment. Hotspur looked eagerly to Hal, but the prince’s gaze was all for Banna Mora.
And Banna Mora smiled at Hal. She said, “For my champion, I will have Lady Hotspur.”
“What?” Hotspur said, shocked. The Earl Glennadoer laughed.
Hal shrugged a lazy shoulder. “This’ll be fun.”
“Do you accept, Lady Hotspur?” asked Banna Mora, leaning stiffly in her chair, the only relaxed part of her that hand resting at the crest of her p
regnant belly.
“I do.” Hotspur put her hands on her hips, wishing she had something to kick across the hall. What else could she possibly say, and how dare Mora do this?
But she had no time for ire: Hal was coming for her.
The prince smiled grimly and grabbed Hotspur’s arm, cupping her elbow as any prince might escort a friend. “Let’s work out some details, Wolf of Innis Lear,” Hal said, sounding more amused at the appellation than Hotspur was. To Catrin Hal said, “Will you get us some wine and paper and ink?”
Hal expertly charmed those sitting at the end of one long table to abandon it for them and convinced Hotspur to lift a bench and balance it across the table as a barrier for an illusion of privacy. “Welcome to my office,” she said, and straddled the remaining bench.
Heaving a sigh, Hotspur dropped beside her, leaning her back against the edge of the table and stretching her legs out before her. “This would be better if it were a Learish commander in charge. Mora ought to have chosen her husband for her champion.”
“You wanted to be on my team,” Hal murmured.
“On Aremoria’s team!”
“Come on, Hotspur. You used to like facing off against me.”
“Oh, and I still shall,” Hotspur snarled. “Only, they’ll all think it means something. Mora wants to teach you a lesson about what will happen in the spring.” Hal lifted her eyebrows, clearly impressed, and Hotspur leaned in, poked her shoulder. “You surprised I can parse politics, O Prince of Riot?”
Hal nodded, expression softening to a compatriotic amusement. “Let’s make our own lesson, then.”
“Such as?”
“If I win, you will be my friend again.”
The simple, easy way Hal said it sliced through Hotspur’s guts, and she felt like she had to scramble to gather up all her slippery intestines before everyone noticed she was losing them.
In the silence, Catrin arrived with a small bottle of wine, feathers, ink, and a roll of thick paper. She set them down, and Hal said, “Thank you! I won’t need anything else for a while.”
Catrin left, glancing over her large shoulder once before joining a cluster of Taria and Glennadoer youths crouched near the stone wall with a deck of holy cards. They took turns sticking a card down the back of one person’s tunic or dress and making them guess their new destiny with obscure hints.
Hal said, “She forgot cups.”
“That’s never stopped you.”
The prince laughed and drank from the bottle, then tapped the butt against Hotspur’s thigh. She took it and cradled the wine against her stomach, smelling the heady, sour flavor of it. “Even if I were your friend again, I am not on your side,” she said, studying the glint of firelight on the lip of the bottle’s neck.
“It would be a good story, if we play this tournament, and it averts war.”
“This isn’t a story, Hal.”
“I know,” Hal said so intensely Hotspur was startled into glancing over.
The prince’s rich brown eyes pinned Hotspur. Such potency thrummed throughout Hal’s body it dried Hotspur’s tongue. She could only stare, stuck in the lion’s hot gaze.
Around them the great hall of Dondubhan murmured and laughed, moved and argued, and one older woman began to sing a bright winter song.
Hal breathed deeply and slowly, her nostrils flaring, then she let the heat melt into only warmth. “I know,” she repeated. “I know what’s at stake: people. Lives. My people—my friends, and people like my friends. Not only knights and soldiers, Hotspur, not only princes, but merchants and cobblers and serving boys and tavern owners and their children. Farmers. Shepherds. I know, Hotspur. I know them, some of them, and I would not see any of them hurt, or their fields trampled, or their sisters and brothers pressed to fight, or trading suffer. War isn’t only about who lives and dies, who challenges whom. It isn’t about honor. It’s about who starves to death and who’s left caring for those permanently damaged, who rebuilds. Your retainers will fight on your word, die for you, and then you must take care of their families—I know you do, because you’re a good commander, a good friend to them, and I know it hurts you. Sometimes it’s necessary. We must protect Aremoria, defend our home from danger. But I’m not danger! My mother is not. This isn’t necessary, and everything I’ve said is worse many times over when the war comes from inside.”
Though it had been Hal’s impassioned, quiet speech, Hotspur felt her own breath coming faster.
“Mora is the danger, Hotspur. She wants revenge,” Hal continued. “I understand that. She wants what was taken from her. But what is the price? Burning Aremoria to ash?”
Hotspur shook her head. “Mora won’t do that—she loves Aremoria as you do, as I do.”
“Then she should stop warmongering, and do what is best for our country.”
“You both have different ideas for what that means, Hal. I have to serve the prince who is right.”
“I’m right, Hotspur.”
“Mora is right! The queen of Aremoria must be our sun. She must be the tree that roots our people together. If that sun turns black or the tree rots from the inside, it is worth it to burn the poison out.”
An incredulous laugh bubbled from Hal. “You think my mother is poison? I know you don’t love me anymore, but you think I’m a blackening sun?”
Queasy, Hotspur swallowed. She shook her head, no, but said, “Mora does.”
“And Mora is your prince.”
“Mora is my family.” Hotspur stood. Her hands were trembling. “We’ll do this later. You choose the categories for the tournament; I don’t care what games we play. I’ll still win.”
Hal reached out to catch Hotspur’s hand. Her skin was cool, and Hal brushed her thumb softly against Hotspur’s palm, sending a shiver up the arm and straight down her spine to her belly. Need pooled there, warm, and Hotspur stared down at Hal again, longing to—to just hug her. Slowly, Hal stood, putting herself too near Hotspur, so Hotspur had to tilt her head up slightly or else be trapped staring at the prince’s pink lips. That thumb still pressed Hotspur’s palm. And they were surrounded by enemies (not enemies, but family, neighbors, so many varied folk of Innis Lear, but enemies was the word in Hotspur’s wild mind).
“Hotspur,” said her best friend in the entire world, low in the throat and full of that same yearning.
Her seams tugged, about to burst; those stitched-over scars and those she’d been born with, about to be unwoven, undone by a simple word from the mouth of Hal Bolinbroke.
Hotspur snatched her hand away and, with all the control she could muster, escaped the great hall.
HOTSPUR FLUNG HERSELF into her bedchamber and clattered past a chair to the window, unlatched it, and jerked the heavy shutter off the ledge. It thunked hard against the floor, and Hotspur cursed as she propped it in place. She leaned then against the thick windowsill, staring out of the tower over the edge of Wellage and the bleak black waves of the Tarinnish.
Rubbing her palm where last Hal’s thumb had touched, she knocked her temple against the edge of the window, eyes wide. The lights and colors of Innis Lear blurred, mostly gray and white, some dull gold thatching and whitewash, dark water and hurtful blue sky, distant mountains … It was not tears smearing it together, but dry longing that made her vision hazy. Of course.
“Isarna.”
She closed her eyes at her husband’s voice, guilt slashing her like a lion’s claws. Her hands fisted and she bent over the sill, putting her eyes against those fists.
Connley lightly traced her spine through tunic and shirt. His hand came to rest at the small of her back. Supportive, patient.
Slowly, Hotspur raised her head and turned. Without glancing at his face, she hugged him, burying her nose in his neck, arms around his waist. He could be her shield still, a costume with which to wrap herself—to become someone who was not in love with Hal Bolinbroke.
“The air ripples between you and her,” Connley said, embracing her gently, as if she were molten sp
ikes.
Hotspur grunted and shoved him away. “No, it does not.”
“I see it in you,” he insisted.
Wanting to growl, she settled for baring her teeth. “I tell you what there is in me, and it is nothing.”
“Fine,” Connley snapped, surprising her. “Lie to me.”
Hotspur planted her fists on her hips. His eyes were wide and unblinking, the green shards hotter than usual in this winter light. He stared back at her, angry and unmoving.
“I love her,” Hotspur whispered. As if by making it quiet, it would hurt less.
He asked, “Do you regret marrying me?”
“It’s a waste of time to second-guess your choices on the battlefield. Once made, they can only be acted upon, analyzed, but there’s no point to regret.”
“This isn’t war.”
“We’re always at war in this world.”
Connley stepped closer to her. “You don’t need to be at war here, with me.”
She kissed him, but he tilted his mouth away, instead putting their foreheads together. “Not until we both want it.”
Confusion washed through her, followed by a betraying sliver of relief. “I wish I could carve her out of my heart.”
Her husband turned from her, going to the window she’d abandoned. He said, “I used to have Ashling to whisper comfort to me, to promise me undivided devotion. Her love was consuming, and possessive. She did not share—that’s why she tormented you. I know she was terrible, I’ve known for a long while, and it didn’t matter. I still love her. Even now, I miss the tenor of her voice in the wind. I feel unfinished, unraveled. Her love, her voice, knotted my spirit, and now …”
Hotspur was an ass. She’d been the one to take the ghost away from him, and never asked how he felt. She’d been too glad the ghost had vanished. And that her husband pretended to be fine.
Connley continued, “Who would I be if I stopped loving Ashling, who made me? If I stopped loving Rowan, who made me, too? Or anyone I have loved. Haven’t they all made me?”
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