Grimacing, Hotspur took his hand.
Wind blew in at them, carrying a bittersweet scent off the Tarinnish. It hissed, words jagged and whistling: love—end—life itself—stars and salt and … Hotspur nearly understood.
But Conn blinked slowly and said carefully, as if tasting the flavor of the words before letting them go, “It isn’t the nature of love to end. Love is intrinsic to itself. Like stars, or saltwater. Without stars there is no fate; without salt, no sea. And like fate, love must exist once it is born. Like the sea, love surrounds us. It is active, it creates, pushes us, drags us together or apart. Changes us with its inexorable motion. But because it cannot end, love may change. It can turn dark, it can rot or transform, never losing its power. We should strive never to let our love corrupt itself, or us.”
“Is that a prophecy, witch?” Hotspur whispered, uncertain, making light of the dire pronouncement.
He blinked again, and shuddered.
Silence stretched between them as Connley’s lashes fluttered in confusion, and finally he said, “It is what Innis Lear wants us to know.”
CHARM
Lionis, early winter
WINTER IN LIONIS reminded Charm of home, despite the frigid air and snow that bit cold against his cheeks. He’d had to give up his familiar wardrobe and dress himself in the restricting wool trousers of men here, hard boots, layers of linen, wool tunic, and even massive coats with fur when night fell or the wind cut from a steely gray sky.
He tried to explain to Vatta Bolinbroke why this season reminded him of the Third Kingdom as they walked through the elaborately fashioned royal gardens. “It is the barrenness, the unforgiving lines,” he said. The younger woman huddled close to him, one arm tucked against his side, resting on his arm. Her elaborate cloak included a soft hood that pinned into her hair, keeping it tight over her ears and covering her neck, but allowed heavy brown curls to spill out, framing her flushed cheeks. As she listened, she smiled and her big brown eyes never left his face. Luckily, they walked with excruciating slowness, and he could hold her aloft if she tripped upon the snowy path.
“But surely the sounds and smells are so different,” she offered, “distinguishing Aremoria from the Third Kingdom.”
“Yes, but when I arrived here it all was so lush, so full of green, and now the winter has deadened it all. That, perhaps, is what makes me miss home more than true similarity.” Charm wondered whether, if Prince Hal were here, this conversation would flourish instead of fall flat before an altar of specificity. He liked Vatta, for she was wise and serious beyond her years, and friendly. She held herself with all the reserve of Celedrix, though had none of Tigir’s enthusiasm or Hal’s imagination. By description, perhaps, she would appear more regal, more suited to inherit the throne than her elder sister, but in Charm’s opinion, she was most ideally fit for advisor and supporter. A queen needed imagination and a hint of daring. Vatta could not risk even a modicum of fancy to allow that anything of Aremore winter might accurately reflect the deserts of his home.
Imagine if Vatta had been her mother, banished to the Third Kingdom: never could she have conceived of returning home a conquering hero, to take an errant throne and remake it in her own image. That glory was all to Celedrix, and though Charm knew Hal only a little bit, he saw ambition in her, and a grave, swelling need to remake people, remake cities and countries, to suit her command.
But if Hal Bolinbroke died on Innis Lear, Charm might find himself facing Vatta as her husband. Or worse, someone not of Celeda’s mother-line, for much of Celedrix’s future rule relied upon Hal’s ability to prove worthy of the Aremore throne.
Vatta paused beside a thick evergreen hedge shaped into cones taller than Charm’s head. The cones stabbed up against the solid blue sky, brushed with tiny droplets of glinting ice. The dark green framed Vatta well, suiting her coloring, yet Charm suspected she was unaware. She said, “The Longest Night is in two weeks, and our family holds vigil in the star cathedral from dusk until dawn. No guards or guests, only family. If you have not already been asked, I invite you to join us.”
“Am I family already?” he asked softly, to cover how touched he was by her offer.
The princess tilted her chin down and looked up at him with slight censure. A look she’d learned from her mother.
Charm chuckled. “I mean no insult, only wish to clarify whether you are making an exception for me as a guest, or an exception that I am not legally bound to your family.”
“I know how my mother feels about you, and Tigir—you have been Tigir’s family longer than I have.” The lightness of her voice belied the seriousness of her gaze. “And the queen has called you her son before witnesses, which, you know, is as good as legally binding in Aremoria.”
“You mean both, then,” Charm said.
“You’ll still have to marry Hal.”
“You make it sound like a chore.”
Again Vatta did not respond with words, only a glance of reprimand. It would be a chore, for anyone, she seemed to suggest.
Charm sighed, heaving his shoulders to project it heartily. He knew these things, and yet, he wanted to marry Prince Hal, despite her riot, despite her disturbing lack of mother-desire. In his spirit, he sensed they would make this land a power to be reckoned with, if only she could agree to share it. She had so much to share: ambition, imagination, kindness, desperate longing, humor.
He should be with her on Innis Lear now.
He’d waylaid her last month, before she’d departed, in the corridor outside her rooms. “Hal,” he said, stepping into her path.
“Oh, Charm! Yes?” Hal smiled in the way he’d come to recognize meant she was in a hurry, distracted, but not pretending to be glad to see him. (Hal’s worst feature, Charm thought, was that she was entirely unpracticed in simple subterfuge, and would need to improve before she took the throne. The grandest of lies caught easily upon her lips, while tiny deceit eluded her.) This was an effortless smile that brightened her warm brown eyes. “Come in.”
Charm did, speaking the moment the door closed them into her rooms, before she could bring up recent gossip or tell a delightful story about one of their now-mutual acquaintances. As much as he enjoyed such banter and familiarity, he had a goal: “I want to go with you to Innis Lear.”
Prince Hal had hesitated, and backed up to put enough space between them that she didn’t need to tilt her chin so dramatically. “Why?”
“I am your betrothed, and I will lend strength to your cause. At your side I will be a reminder of Celedrix’s own power and authority, and the future potential for Aremoria. I am power. Take me.” Though personally eager, Charm had believed it to be the right move, as a prince and commander. “It is the strong move to make.”
Her rich eyes held his gaze, all their usual levity evaporated.
Charm added, “Myth, Hal, and adventure, too. Innis Lear is famous even in the Third Kingdom. It had a queen of the Taria mother-line once.”
“Dalat of Taria Queen. She mothered Elia the Dreamer.”
Charm nodded.
“Oh well. Of course you know, and also … But Charm …” Hal bit her lip and turned away.
“I know the woman you loved is married, and on Innis Lear,” he said, moving near to her again.
Hal flung her head up like a spooked horse. “What?”
He pursed his lips, not bothering to explain that everyone knew, everyone gossiped. “Take me, and it will be an additional weapon against whispers, against the idea that you go for her instead of for Aremoria.”
“I would like to take my future husband, to prove I am not hurt by hers—” Hal’s smile twisted self-deprecatingly, and she shrugged. “But she’d see through me. And it would be worse if you were hurt or killed.”
He snorted.
“I may be,” she said.
“Why?”
“If they are already set on war, what better way to begin it than to strike hard? It would set the country in disarray and hurt my mother like al
most nothing else. Despite my being on the outs with her.”
“They’re your friends,” Charm said, though he was not so naive as to believe that always mattered. “If you think it is a risk, you should not go, either.”
“I have to. I have to try.” Hal put her hand on his chest. “What good is a prince if not for such things?”
“But we cannot lose you.”
“You’ll have Vatta,” she drawled. “Which might be a better—”
“No.” Charm covered her hand with his. “You must be confident, Hal Bolinbroke. You are the prince I intend to marry. You will return, and see it done.”
She pulled free of him so they were not touching when she said, “I will. I must. And I am sorry to hurt you by being so unenthusiastic, Charm. But our marriage will never give me happiness.”
“I don’t need you to love me,” he said, though his internal organs clenched. Charm had faced an army that outnumbered his patrol six to one; he could face this without wavering. “I need you to accept me as your partner, give me a consort’s crown, and bear my children. One or two. Our marriage is the business of kingdoms, not hearts.”
Hal tugged at her braids, in danger of dragging them lopsided. “What a tragic thing to say.”
“Would you rather I loved you unrequited? Would you rather I pine for you, long for you?” With each question, Charm stepped nearer to Hal and lowered his voice. “Would you rather I imagine the taste of your sweat, the feel of your breath on my skin until I am thinking of God? I can give you poetry, Hal, I can give you passion.”
Her breath quickened, and her gaze dropped to his mouth. “I would rather you were a woman.”
“We can have another woman in our marriage bed,” Charm drawled. “If that is what it takes. I will not suffer in such a scenario.”
The prince caught her breath in a whisper of laughter. “You are too much.”
“I am going to make myself a king. Your king.”
“I don’t know how to make room for that in my heart.”
Charm had paused, just to look at her. She was so unsure of her power, and he could hardly imagine what she would be like if she’d grown up at home, a future Mother of All Mothers, taught to know she could shape the whole world to her will. Incandescent. He needed that from her, to carve space for his own ambitions here. He said, “You will, because it’s what Aremoria needs. Your heart can only expand.”
“Maybe—maybe you are right, but first I am leaving. And you cannot go with me. It is too much to risk. And I need to do this, Charm. Or I’ll never be queen of Aremoria.” She touched him again, clearly forcing herself to do it. Her hand settled on his forearm, and Charm held still. “I’ll be back, triumphant, and in trouble again before you can miss me.”
But Charm did miss her.
Now in the garden, he said to Vatta, “I would be honored to hold the vigil with … our family.”
The princess smiled and squeezed his arm. They walked on, around a gentle curve. The path crunched beneath their boots: crushed seashells and snow, the edges dusted gray with grime in the two days since the snowfall. Though less than a finger’s-length had fallen, it melted slowly in the cold sunlight. The yard between hedges had been raked to hide the gardeners’ footprints. Low boxes of evergreen plants lined the way, and some small trees had been brought in, also dark green, covered in bloodred or gray-blue berries. Charm liked the trees shaped like cones, their needles green-blue and bold. Like the waves of the inner sea. Many were topped by small copper suns, and glass ornaments had been dotted among the hedges, white and orange and crystal clear.
He heard the clink of armor and footsteps just before two royal guards emerged from beneath an arched trellis wrapped by thick, barren vines.
The queen walked behind the guards, alone, and carrying an elegant wooden staff painted white. Cloaked in vivid dark red, Celedrix was a splash of blood against the white gardens. Her pale face was unpainted. She smiled with strained lips. “Vatta, Charm,” she said, and waved her guards on.
Vatta bowed shallowly, and Charm nodded, loosening his arm so Vatta could more easily go to her mother. The princess kissed Celedrix’s cheek, raising onto her toes. Celedrix said, “Allow me a walk with Prince Charm, my sweet.”
They were given privacy, one of the guards trailing Vatta as she departed and the other moving far enough ahead of Charm and Celedrix so as not to overhear any plain conversation. Charm offered his hand to the queen, and she took it, transferring her staff to her other. He was surprised at the weight she leaned onto him, and realized she’d been using the staff as an aid, not merely a winter accessory. It brought a frown to his face, and Celedrix caught it.
She laughed once. “You seem to be looking at a weak old dog, Charm,” she chided.
Grimacing, Charm apologized and schooled his expression, though a worm of fear burrowed deeper into his heart: she was not even fifty years old, and ought to have decades more strength to her bones. She would have, in the City of All Mothers. To distract himself, he said, “Vatta invited me to your Longest Night vigil. I accepted, though if it is inappropriate I will decline.”
“No, I will be pleased to have you.” She squeezed his wrist with her red-gloved hand. “At my side, where you belong.”
“Must I prepare in any way?”
“No, it is not very spiritual in my reign, I fear. Contemplative and traditional. We will have hot watered wine with orange peels and cinnamon, candied fruit, some pastries, and roasted pig. And our own company.”
“I am sorry Hal will miss it.”
“As am I. It is the only thing she’s never missed of her own accord,” Celedrix said with a soft trace of bitter flavor.
Charm said nothing.
They walked on, Celedrix taking deep, relaxed breaths. She was fine, Charm told himself, simply tired, or an old wound affected her in this bone-chill. “How are you getting on with the barons and lords?” the queen asked him.
“Well.” This was an easy subject. “Friendly with all of them I’ve had the chance to supper with this month. Only Perseria eludes me, but the earl does not come to Lionis anymore in the winter—everyone says so.”
Celedrix nodded. “The cold bothers her hip mightily, and she remains in the warmth of her home.”
“It was an injury from your rebellion?”
“Yes. She suffered the worst of my allies.”
“Perhaps not,” Charm carefully inserted. “Vindomata of Mercia lost her children.”
The queen winced. “So she did.”
“When I shared wine with her, she indicated that had her sons lived, I would not be here.”
“Vindus, her eldest, would have made a fine prince, and eventual king. And won an alliance for Bolinbroke, for me, that would have kept us safe.” Celedrix shook her head. “But it was never a promise I made—I always wanted you, Charm, you know that.”
“Vindomata is behind the stirrings of trouble Hal went to Innis Lear to prevent.” It was only a guess, but he did not speak guesses aloud unless they were backed by much evidence.
“Yes. She stopped talking to me. I should have forced the issue immediately, and now it is too late. What trust we had—trust that had survived years apart, and the distance between here and your homeland—was rubbed too thin because we did not talk.”
“That is why you allowed Hal to go? Instead of staying here and marrying? Our marriage would have aligned many allies to you, and not risked Hal as she is on Innis Lear.”
The queen remained quiet for a moment, staring at the rough line of the shell path before them. Just to their left a glass house rose, its wall of windows frosted with cold, and shadowy green-black inside. To their right was a circular yard of fountains, dry for the season. Replacing the water were glass-and-copper lanterns that when lit at night created the shape of a rose visible from the high balconies of the palace. Celedrix said, “You are correct. Marriage might have solved this moment, put off rebellion for now, but it would not have saved my daughter’s future. If she
can regain friendship with Banna Mora, if she can hold Hotspur to her heart, her reign will blossom better than mine. I hope she returns soon, and successful. But I do not know if she has it in her.”
Charm opened his mouth to defend the prince (he would need to admit to himself soon that he was smitten), but Celedrix continued, “Or rather, I know she has it in her, but I do not know if she can strip away the armor she’s built, all the lies of reputation and embracing indolence to let what she is be free. If she cannot do it for Hotspur, she cannot do it for anyone. And Perseria will join with Innis Lear to defeat me. Things are always worse for Aremoria when Innis Lear is our enemy instead of our sister.”
The strain in her voice was not weariness, nor fear, Charm realized, but urgency. He walked quietly beside her, mind churning. Slight glances at her revealed to him nothing but the tightness at the corner of her eye, which had been there since he’d arrived, an underlying sorrow layered beneath her mask of calm sovereignty. Sorrow had not known a place inside her when she had been Moon And Shadow.
In the Mother-tongue he said, “Moon And Shadow, what is wrong?”
The queen blinked, and in the same language, she said, “Many things weigh on me, as the Mother of Aremoria. My daughter may never come home, may never marry the son-of-my-heart.” The last was a Father-term, a word Mothers rarely used, but denoted a wish from a Father that the child to whom he spoke was his own.
Feeling welled in Charm’s throat. He gripped her hand harder and managed, “That is not it. There is something else I see bothering you.” His voice was too tight.
“Ah, Charm, you clear-sighted man. I should have known you would see what no others could.”
Tears gleamed in Celedrix’s eyes, and Charm stopped walking. He faced her, panic spiking in his blood. “Tell me.”
“I’m dying,” she said plainly.
Charm frowned. “What?” His gaze tore down to her feet, then back up: she was not sick nor wounded. Tired, urgent, only.
“Inside me, there is something growing. It hurts me always, though it did not used to. My healer—the only who knows but for you, now—says it is a canker, an internal wound that began small enough I could not notice.”
Lady Hotspur Page 51
