Hal sat on the rushes with the children and Vae Lear, surrounded by iron, telling them stories of wicked ghosts and lost children. Vae shared her own story, and then Glennadoer terrified all with a tale of an ice monster that stalked the northern tip of Innis Lear, hissing instead of howling, just like the gentle noise of icy rain or slushy cold waves.
Chilled, Hotspur hugged herself and smiled. She felt too good for this to vanish with the end of the season.
She looked to Solas, leaning against her throne as she spoke easily with Taria and Rory Errigal. A laugh lifted the queen’s smile, and Hotspur could not decide if she admired the woman’s bravery, or despised her passivity. Then again, what could she possibly do? Even locking herself away could not keep her heart beating, if her heart decided to stop.
Hal caught Hotspur in the morning, running up behind as Hotspur crunched through a thin layer of snow toward the barracks. The prince’s noise was too much to ignore, so Hotspur turned in time to see Hal’s wild grin just before Hal grabbed her elbow. “Let’s get to the stables and hunt today, Hotspur, just us. Ride like we used to.”
Hotspur wordlessly—enthusiastically—agreed.
They conscripted horses, and Hal ordered that they be left alone, no retainers following. “Innis Lear will whisper in the ear of the Witch of the White Forest if something happens to his wife, surely?” she offered wryly, and how could the retainers at the barbican gate argue?
Snow dusted the high road and its stone walls, but the marshes to either side remained warm enough not to have frozen over. Morning sunlight glittered on the damp earth, putting a glow to the hoary grass. Heat from them and their horses turned to mist in the cold air. The sky was a blistering white-blue, and at the end of the high road they turned west, putting the sun behind them to save their sight. The dirt road curved around the Tarinnish, and arrowed southwest toward the sea and the road to Taria. Hal, winking at Hotspur, sent her horse jogging off the path and onto the rough moors. Hotspur could not be outdone and shot after, urging her horse faster until it overtook Hal’s and the prince laughed in protest: the race was on.
Hotspur’s breath ached from the cold air and wind burned her cheeks, brought tears to her eyes. But the horse stretched its legs, running full. Hotspur guided it with a gentle hand, trusting the horse to know its steps. Behind her, Hal yelled with joy; the brisk wind rushed at them, stealing their voices. Tiny leaves danced along the threads of wind, slapping at Hotspur, tearing at her horse’s mane. Run! it cried. Laughing, Hotspur bent over the horse’s neck and let her blood roar. Wings of hope and happiness flared open behind her, and the smooth speed of her horse gave the moment to perfect magic.
A line of trees rose ahead, and Hotspur sat back to slow her horse; Hal met her, and together they cantered down a slope of winter-silver grass and low evergreen gorse.
The horses paused naturally where the snowy moor rolled into black trees.
“We likely came too loud and fast to find good prey,” Hal said.
“Shall we on foot?” Hotspur suggested.
Hal slid her a look and shook her head. Her cheeks were pink and black hair fell in wispy tendrils around her face, having fallen out of the wool cap tied over it. “Let’s just ride, forget a hunt.”
Glad, Hotspur agreed. She pulled the heavy scarf she’d had tied around her own hair back up over her scatter of curls to shield her burning ears from the cold. Unlike Hal, in her orange leather coat, Hotspur wore a thick cloak and under it layers of wool sweater. Both had mittens protecting their fingers, and if they weren’t to shoot the arrows tied to their saddles, they wouldn’t have to worry about frostbite.
Under the slight shelter of trees the wind slowed, and sound was muffled by snowy shadows. The trees weren’t so near as to force them to ride single file, so they went abreast and their knees sometimes knocked; these horses liked each other, too. Bare branches clacked together, and Hotspur tilted her head to look at them and the shine of sky beyond. The forest floor crackled beneath the hooves of their horses, and Hal sang a little Aremore winter song.
“Gather all and welcome snow
welcome fire and swallow wine
swallow cakes and give a song
give a smile, dance a jig
dance for winter, gather all!”
“It’s so stupid.” Hotspur laughed.
“I loved it as a child, because it seems like a joke. I could sing it by the time I was four years old.”
“I prefer ‘Ballad of the Winter King.’”
Hal rolled her eyes so hard it knocked back her head. “Of course you do. Bloodthirsty!”
“Not truly!” Hotspur wrinkled her nose. “It’s about family.”
“And how family gets you killed in very creative ways.” Hal continued to eye Hotspur with amusement.
If there’d been more than a glancing of snow on the ground, Hotspur would’ve launched off her horse to start a fight. Or something warmer.
A moment later, Hal said, “I had to get out of there. The fortress. I don’t know how to look at Solas Lear. Our prophecy is easier than hers.”
“Even for the lion?”
“I’ve already been broken, Hotspur. I’m going to be all right.”
Hotspur sighed a little violently. She thought to herself, When the saints are singing and the restless are reclaimed, the dragon will burn, the lion will break, and the wolf will choose the end.
They rode in silence again until Hal said, “My wizard told me another riddle. An earth saint riddle given to him.” With a pause to create momentum, Hal continued in a hushed tone, “When the star roads blaze, bring the lion’s heart home. I don’t know if it means I’ll die, so my heart needs to be taken home, or that in the taking of it I’ll be killed.”
Hotspur stared. “How long have you known?”
“Since the equinox. I don’t know what the star roads are, though. But the more I turn it around in my mind, the more I think you’re my heart, Hotspur. Maybe you’re the one coming home.”
“I wouldn’t mind being home.”
“With me,” Hal said firmly. “At my side.”
Only the creaking of snow-heavy branches and the huff of their horses’ breath broke the stillness. Hotspur was lost in her swirling feelings. It was too late to go home at Hal’s side, nor did she think she could face Hal on a battlefield. Even if Hal hadn’t proven she could win, how could Hotspur step onto a field in which she’d have to fight Hal in truth? To death or complete defeat?
“How did this happen to us?” Hal asked.
Hotspur glanced over, but Hal stared ahead, black lashes fluttering.
“I could tell the story of it,” Hotspur whispered, seeing every choice that had brought them here in a perfect road scrolling open behind them.
“What was the choice that made it inevitable? When you married Connley, or when I kissed you at Tenne-Tiras? When you left me to flee to Mercia?”
Hotspur ignored the flood of anger and guilt that Hal’s final note engendered. She said, “Not when I married Connley! He is a good match. I like him.”
“But to marry him was to take action against my mother. You knew that. I know you did. Aligning yourself with Banna Mora, and Vindomata must support it. He’s not a convenient husband, he’s just a weapon.”
“It is a good match, Hal, and if Celedrix weren’t so intent on making Mora her enemy it would only be a marriage to strengthen the ties between Aremoria and Innis Lear. It is not my fault your mother fears Mora.”
“No, it isn’t, but it is not only my mother’s regret causing this, it’s Vindomata stirring shit. You knew what it would mean to both my mother and your aunt and—” Hal sighed raggedly. “You still married him.”
“I would have talked all of this through with you if you’d been there, if you’d been where you should. At the palace. With your mother. By my side. Being a prince.”
“And you’d have considered other options?”
Hotspur pulled her horse to an abrupt halt. It blew air and
shook its head to loosen her grip on the reins. “What other options, Hal?”
“Not open rebellion!” Hal threw up her hands as she cried it; her voice echoed high and sharp.
“Your mother did this! Not only by refusing to ransom Mora home, but by treating me, and Vindomata, like enemies, or—or children! Did she tell you about Burgun?”
“I heard that you had him and wouldn’t give him to my mother.”
“He was mine, and everything Celedrix did seethed with disrespect. I ought to have the authority to make my own determinations on hostages, Hal, and I ought to be trusted to get good ransoms and turn Celedrix’s rightful part over to her. I’m no child. I need no nurse, and Vindomata especially doesn’t. The queen’s fear makes her weak—because she betrayed, she assumes betrayal! We never would have if she’d trusted us!”
“Maybe you would not, but can you honestly say the same of Vindomata? I know Mother’s made mistakes, but she’s your queen. She won it, and your family backed her. Vindomata is drenched in being a kingmaker, and she cannot give it up.”
“Her children died putting your mother on the throne.” Hotspur pointed at Hal’s face.
“If she deposes Celedrix, then what was that sacrifice for?” Hal grabbed Hotspur’s hand. “Let’s not fight, I—I don’t want to, it isn’t why I asked. I only want to know if you would trust me on the throne. You loved me once, and you could again.”
“You think I stopped loving you? You idiot!” Hotspur tore free of Hal’s grip and nudged her horse on.
Her insides trembled. She shut her eyes tightly and cursed herself. She was the idiot.
Behind her came the sound of Hal’s horse trotting to catch up. “We shouldn’t fight,” the prince called softly. “And there should never be war between us.”
“Will your mother surrender?” Hotspur asked.
Hal shook her head no.
“I cannot betray or abandon my mother, my aunt.”
“You could convince them to stop. Support me instead of Banna Mora, and support Celeda. Support what is right, not Mora’s quest for vengeance.”
“It is justice, though,” Hotspur insisted softly. Convincing herself. “Mora would be a strong queen, too, Hal. It was hers before it was yours.”
Hal dropped the reins and held her hands out with the palms up. “Tell me one final thing, Hotspur. What do you want to happen? If you could will it so?”
The intensity of Hal’s brown eyes, the pink at her high cheeks and the tip of her nose, her pale lips, and that flutter of rich black hair at her temple—they begged Hotspur to reach out, to touch her and smile. How could she say what she wanted: for them all to live, for Celedrix to be stronger and better, for Vindomata to forgive and find love again, Mora to come home to Aremoria with her husband and child in arms, not encased in vicious armor. And for Hal to be honest and rise up to meet Aremoria where it deserved to be met.
She wanted Hal to be queen.
If she said it, everything would fall apart.
“Hal.” Hotspur touched her mittened hand to Hal’s, then leaned in to grip the prince’s wrist. “Let’s just be friends. For now, while we can. And later, when we look across a battlefield at each other, remember this. This winter forest and that race across the moor.”
Wind slithered among the black, barren trees, hissing and gentle.
A tear blinked like a tiny drop of ice at Hal’s lashes. “All right, Hotspur.”
“Friends.” Hotspur said it hard, with all the passion she could muster, and she heard a response from the wind.
One for Innis Lear, one for Aremoria.
Even the island put them opposed. She added, “It will matter, Hal, that we’re friends, when we think of the same thing, at the same moment on the battlefield. Innis Lear says so.”
It brought a bare smile to Hal’s lips. “I never thought I’d see the day Hotspur Persy spoke openly of her magic.”
Hotspur shivered. She felt the power of this place in her bones, and she knew she would take it with her when she returned home.
INNIS LEAR LIKES the Longest Night.
The sun falls beneath the line of black sea, a flare of light, arrowing in every direction. When it is gone, the stars rule.
Tonight there is not even a steady moon to calm the spirits.
Folk put candles in every window and fly red flags; they drop long scarves just as bloody-scarlet and thick brown along the ramparts and tie ribbons to trees: See, hungry ones, blood already has been shed here, no need for you to pause!
Parents tuck apples carved into ferocious masks into their children’s beds, then huddle together with friends or family and wine, to cast private prophecies and tell jokes against the night. They will not sleep, for to sleep on the Longest Night invites dreams of dark futures: the stars, of course, cannot see into dreams. Older children crawl out of beds and into those of their friends and siblings, and they, too, make stories of their futures and tease each other over falling in love and discovering sex.
In great halls and town squares bonfires flare as people weave constellations from holly and thorn vines and long bearded wheat, to throw their hopes into the fire. Those hopes burn and become sparks, and join the stars in the sky. Rowan Lear weaves a prophecy out of hemlock, for himself and his wife, for Innis Lear, and whispers in the language of trees for the fire to pause and part, so that he can reach a hand into its heart and cast his deadly wish. He kisses his aunt hello and farewell, just in case.
Nearby, Banna Mora winces at the ache in her joints as she lifts a bowl of stewed cabbage made just for her because it was all that sounded appetizing in the world. She reclines in her bedchamber, Trin of Errigal tending to her needs and willing to miss the bonfire spectacle. Rowan has promised to come to her after, and Mora is too pregnant to be a diplomat tonight: she knows better than to believe hungry earth saints wander the island, and she knows her future. She knows what Innis Lear wants from her, and the destiny she shares with her husband. Though a hemlock queen may die tonight, it will not be Rowan: his death will come later, in Aremoria. After the child is born.
Practical Trin doesn’t mind her lady’s temper. This dark night is meant for dark moods, and later, when the prince comes to spend the last hours here with his wife, Trin will join her lover Aelis and start the dawn with kissing and sex: that is the proper way to make a future with magic.
In the cold corridor that leads from the hall to the king’s tower, the Earl Glennadoer leans against the stone wall, large hands on his eldest daughter’s shoulders. “This is your destiny,” he says to her. “Are you ready?”
There is a light in Catrin’s eyes as she stares up at her father. Fear, anticipation, and bravery are sentiments to cause such a shine, and it might be any of them she’s feeling, or all. She squeezes the hilt of her sword and nods. He’ll show her how to transform tonight, how to summon the bear that exists in her blood. She is afraid, but oh so eager to experience it, and she trusts her father.
The queen of Innis Lear holds her sister’s delicate, pink-stained fingers as they walk to the central fire in the great hall of Dondubhan. They’ve made a crown of rose vines with the white-petaled, everblooming blossoms that cling to the wall of the queen’s garden. It is a tradition from their mother, who died when Solas was thirteen and Ryrie eleven. Bound in a circle, hooking thorns a danger to any hand that grasps it, the crown holds within it bright red strings of yarn, twisted across in a web, strung with crystals and glass beads in the constellations of the Swan and the Summer Hound, overlapping into a unified pattern. Together the sisters toss the crown of blood and stars into the fire. Ryrie laughs and slips her arm around Solas’s waist. They hug each other tightly, eyes locked on the flames, on the sizzle of rose thorns and flaring lines as the web catches. Between them are no regrets.
In the upper yard of the fortress, Connley Errigal and Era Star-Seer crouch amid half a dozen Errigal cousins, tossing holy bones across a Longest Night blanket. Deep midnight blue, it was woven into a tapestry of ton
ight’s sky, as seen from right here, this very spot at the midpoint between dusk and dawn. Tonight it is not needed, for the lack of moon allows the stars to blaze—to glare—watching with prophetic judgment. But this blanket remains folded at the bottom of an oak trunk in the queen’s chamber every other night of the year, and so they use it. Six torches surround them, and a jug of honey wine is shared, spiced with clove. Connley laughs, immersed entirely in his role, and nudges Era over a joke she makes at Rory the Youngest’s expense. Both wear half masks covering all but their mouths: black and studded with shards of seashells in star patterns. These two play the heavens; somewhere is a band of youths and retainers in masks made of fur and leather, acting the earth saints. That group gallops throughout the fortress, howling with laughter and sharing wine around, carrying baskets of nuts and sugared fruit. Take a piece, answer a question truthfully, or join their rageful hunt.
Hovering near the prophecy-makers are Hotspur and Prince Hal, sharing glances and a cup of clove mead. The hard-packed earth spins beneath their feet and they both breathe easily, alert and altered, one or the other occasionally glancing up at the swath of stars. Hal points at the Lion of War, her birth star, and sings a little song about Morimaros the Great. Tonight, Hotspur loves her, and Hal can believe nothing will pry them apart ever again.
Unlike the night Connley and Era threw prophecy for Prince Hal, tonight they do not falter, they do not hesitate. Every word from their lips is certain, and low with power. The fall of bones speaks to them like music, prophecies spiraling together for some, dropping into nothing for others because there remain pockets of impossible darkness in some futures beyond this Longest Night.
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