BANNA MORA
Liresfane, early summer
MORA DISMOUNTED FOR the first time in order to face Celeda Bolinbroke, queen of a stolen throne.
She trudged over rough, beaten grass and mud, around fallen soldiers, ignoring the roar of blood in her veins (or was it the roar of a storm?). Her left arm ached from a bleeding wound where her shield had been torn away; blood had dripped down into her glove until she’d stripped it off, and now her fingers were a red-pink mess.
But she could take a throne with only a sword.
The Third Kingdom prince did not approach her once Celeda put out a hand to stop him, and the warriors protecting their queen parted for her to walk down the slope to meet Mora.
“This was the most inevitable thing,” Celedrix said. A copper circlet gleamed around the crown of her helmet and she wore her armor strong, looking much the same as she had the day she took Lionis Palace and Mora was forced to her knees.
They both of them wore a ring on their finger: the Blood and the Sea and its flawed counterpart.
Mora said nothing, but put her body into readiness to attack, sword angled before her.
A murmuring and cries behind her tickled her awareness, and Celeda pressed thin lips together, staring over Mora’s shoulder.
Then the light changed.
When Mora was a little girl on Innis Lear, a cousin of princes but not yet one herself, there’d been a zenith eclipse. At the height of the sun’s path, the moon had slipped before it, slowly covering the glorious light. Mora had thought the moment of completion would be like the night: no sunlight, but darkness for stars and prophecy. Instead, the light changed, became blue and silver with a dreamlike quality, wavering between twilight and watery shadow. She’d seen tendrils of power reaching off the moon, and thought to herself, This is the color of communion.
On the battlefield at Liresfane, her lips parted and she breathed in that same wavering light.
Rowan. He’d done it.
Mora’s heart clenched. She stared at Celedrix, and the queen stared up at the sky and the cool lesion of stars. Celeda’s shield and sword had lowered. She was vulnerable. Mora could dart forward and cut her down in an instant, even injured. Take the win. Easy and complete.
It was happening. Wherever Hotspur was, now was the moment.
Now offered everything Mora wanted. What Innis Lear wanted. She was the hand of Lear. Servant of the hemlock crown.
Then—Mora heard the song.
She heard her husband’s voice, shattered into a choir.
Mora lowered her sword. She stared up at the wounded sky and remembered when he’d taken her away from her anger in the March, injured and grieving, and sang to her until she found herself again.
She would be alone, if she struck Celedrix down, if she let Rowan die to secure Aremoria for Innis Lear.
What was a queen who obeyed blindly? Mora had yelled at Rowan for believing the poison and rebirth made him the slave of Innis Lear. She had refused to accept the same, despite the island revival of her poisoned blood.
Because it did not make her a servant, it made her a queen.
And queens could make demands. A queen should be partner to her land, not its slave.
Innis Lear wanted the star roads open, wanted Aremoria back, but Banna Mora wanted her husband more than either.
The stars and roots were going to have to negotiate.
The hemlock queen of Innis Lear threw down her own sword and spun away. Wind raced across the valley, a tide of power that knocked men and women over, tossed hair and splattered blood, set horses bolting, but washed around Banna Mora as if she were a deep-rooted tree. She ran for her horse and clambered clumsily onto it, swinging it around and urging it on, back toward the ruins, hurry, hurry, faster!
His voice spun around her like a lullaby, and the wind added harmonies, weaving together light and longing.
Mora panted with the effort of remaining seated, leaning over the saddle as the horse charged nervously across the valley. Her left arm ached and her eyes drew again upward through the weird light. That line of stars cut west to east, bursting over the pinnacle of the hill with its hood of ruins. “Rowan,” she said to herself, and again and again.
The light was fading around her. Too late, she was too late. The horse climbed the tor, head hanging, and Mora slipped—half falling—off, and pushed it gently away. She kept walking. Her breath became sobs and she cradled her own arm to her steel-shelled breast.
First she smelled rootwaters; then she smelled stone and perfume.
The starlight burst alive again, as wild and shocking as an arrow to the chest.
Then it vanished, replaced by ordinary daytime color.
Wildflowers covered the hill, clinging to every rock of the tower ruins, to the crumbling well at its center, and spread across the ground as thickly as if no human had walked here in years. Mora kicked at them, crouching, crawling on her knees and single good hand, hunting for her husband’s body. She found only the shell of his armor, mail and a gambeson, a sword belt and boots. The rest of him was not here.
“Rowan,” she cried, and then remembered to say in the language of trees, Hello?
Nothing.
A gust of pretty breeze rippled the flowers like a rainbow lake.
She sat abruptly, nursing the heartache. Her arm, if she didn’t get it seen to, might get infected and kill her. It throbbed between tingling pain and numb relief.
Hello!
Mora startled, but it was not Rowan’s voice. It was wind and trees, and a thousand newborn flowers.
Is my husband here? she asked.
In answer, the wind teased the tiny wisps of hair at her temples, kissed her earlobe, gently exploring her, saying hello. It wasn’t his voice. It was a voice of wind, whispering just like Innis Lear.
He’d succeeded. Opened the star roads. Made them whole. Reunited Innis Lear and Aremoria in magic.
Mora laughed softly, angry and admiring. The greatest king indeed.
It felt like failure, even to have everything at her fingertips.
What would ruling Aremoria matter if she ruled Aremoria alone?
Her chest ached. How had she thought this would be all right? How could she have imagined carrying this lonely weight to any throne?
There was only one way to be whole now.
Cut it away. Not a shallow renunciation, not like when she’d left Aremoria the first time, an overthrown prince with little hope. No: an entire amputation. Her heart injury had become infected, and removing it was the only way forward.
Lifting her right hand, Mora used her teeth to tug at the Blood and the Sea. It slipped free easily with the fresh blood still coating her knuckles. She plucked it from between her lips and cradled it in her palm.
Immediately she felt lighter without its burden.
HOTSPUR
Liresfane, early summer
HOTSPUR FELT AREMORIA awaken as her husband’s heart was planted.
Magic flooded her body, pouring up from the earth, from the roots beneath her feet. She saw stars—the ordinary sort, from a knock on the head, from a flash of light, from too much pressure. The wind gusted, and it did not merely say rain or shine to her, it laughed.
The laughter caught Hotspur’s spirit, and she laughed, too.
This was joy. Connley’s joy in pure magic, in wind and roots and prophecy, was now Aremoria’s joy, too!
She stepped once, carefully, twice more certain, to where Hal knelt, the prince’s hands gouging into the pinkish-black bank of the creek where Connley’s blood mingled with the churning water. “Hal,” she whispered.
The prince did not move.
“Hal.” Hotspur bent and grabbed Hal’s shoulder, pulling at her.
“Hotspur, I’m so sorry,” Hal whispered.
The wind blew, chiding, laughing still, and Hotspur smiled. She remembered once telling Hal she could never be mistress to Aremoria—and now she was its wife! Hotspur laughed, a bubbling, surprising laugh, a
nd Hal stared.
“Get up,” Hotspur said, grinning eagerly. “Get up, get up!”
Hal did, scrambling off-balance a little, and gripped Hotspur’s wrists. They held on to each other, and then Hotspur kissed Hal.
She flung herself joyously at her prince, laughing and kissing, and feeling very real.
Hal caught her, embracing her, for that was always what Hal did, Hotspur realized: caught her when she leapt. Even if the prince did not understand why Hotspur had jumped at all.
“I love you,” Hotspur whisper-hissed, still laughing, saying the words in Aremore, but wanting them to sound like wind and the language of trees. “And better than that—”
“What could possibly be better than that!” yelled Hal, eyes wide.
Hotspur flung out her arms and spun, encompassing the whole world. “We’re both alive!”
Though Hotspur spun, turning too fast, Hal only watched, slouched and still, and after a moment she whispered, “We’re both alive.”
THEY RETURNED TO the battlefield hand in hand, silent.
Hotspur stepped carefully: flowers had blossomed everywhere. Between fallen bodies, up through streaks of blood and churned, muddy earth. Pink, white, and brilliant sun yellow.
Though there’d been no retreat called, nor horn of surrender, fighting had ended. Soldiers leaned together, studying the sky, helping each other limp toward one side or the other—most toward Celedrix’s Aremore flags. Healers began to appear, surprised to find blood already staunched, to find survivors thought too injured to move climbing to their feet. In awe, everyone moved slower than usual, despite the occasional urgency. Too many strange sights had ended this battle, and strange sounds. Thunderclaps without a storm, the sudden gush of stars at midday. Needy wind, singing wind, and this sudden surge of wildflowers.
Hotspur should have been weary, her injuries aching. Instead she felt as though she’d slept twenty-four hours, eaten well, raced to win; every piece of her thrummed with exhilaration.
Because the magic of Aremoria was awake. She was awake. And part of it, too. These flowers were him, she knew, sweet little kisses of color upon the battlefield. It made her smile, deep in a feeling she’d never known before: perfect sorrow, which somehow molded happiness even riper.
She tightened her hand around Hal’s, and the prince glanced over.
Surprise held Hal’s brown eyes wide, her cheeks speckled with pink flush. Her lips were too white, but she was so beautiful.
Hotspur felt tears heat her eyes, and she smiled wider—tasting blood.
They climbed the slope to Celedrix’s pavilion, hands tight together. Soldiers and knights parted for them, and Hotspur noticed tiny flitting shadows at their feet: knobby, slender, gnarled, and fat creatures there and gone again, made of flowers and mushrooms and wind.
Hotspur focused on the little things, believed in them, and lifted her eyes again to take in the rest of the world.
Beside Prince Hal strode an earth saint. It was mist and translucent mossy cloth and creepy rough-red eyes, like the pits of a cherry. Its cloak brushed the ground, and real flowers shivered. Then another appeared, behind them, and another to the opposite side: an honor guard of earth saints.
This was what it meant to be a wizard in a living, sparkling Aremoria. Hotspur reached out, and one of the earth saints skimmed its hands across hers. The hairs on the back of her wrist flushed silver, blossomed with tiny golden flowers that dripped their petals, then returned to delicate hairs again. Hotspur thought of her power, whispered, Hello, and with a pulse the earth saint solidified into a young bearded soldier with blue eyes and a grim, pleasant mouth.
Then he was gone again, only mist and imagination, but several soldiers had seen him and lifted their eyes in reverence.
Hotspur’s attention was caught by another glint of light.
There sat a crown upon Hal’s head. Black horn and tree bark made, tipped with drops of blood and crusted with ice-white salt.
Hotspur thought the name of the royal Aremore ring.
“Mother,” Hal said, releasing Hotspur’s hand to stride forward.
Celedrix stood, hand on the arm of Charm of Kurake Queen, in the shade of vibrant orange canvas. Vatta Bolinbroke was there, and Commander Abovax, the Westmore duke and a lady of Alsax, and others Hotspur knew.
“Prince Hal,” the queen of Aremoria said. “You’ve not come alone.”
“None of us are alone, Your Majesty, never again in Aremoria. Where is Banna Mora?”
A murmur rose, but Celeda said, “She departed the field when the sky split open, and has not returned.”
“There!” called a soldier. “A Learish flag approaches.”
The prince joined her mother, beckoning Hotspur with a look. It took a pull of courage, but Hotspur went. As she joined them, Hal touched Charm’s arm, and Charm nodded solemnly. Hotspur decided to think he was handsome.
They awaited the Learish envoy together. It was Mared Lear atop a slender mare fresh and untouched by blood or mud, though bits speckled its hooves from traversing the finished battlefield. Behind Mared walked and rode some fifty retainers in Learish dark blue, weaponless and calm, but dire. They were more careful than the Aremore army not to trample the new-bloomed flowers.
The prince dismounted and approached alone. He bowed and held out a fist. “I bring a message from Banna Mora of Innis Lear.”
Celedrix said, “So long as it is no meddling prophecy, you are welcome.”
Mared actually smiled, crooked and tired. “No prophecy, Majesty.”
The queen nodded permission to her daughter, and Prince Hal met Mared. Hotspur blinked and focused, and she could no longer see the earth saints or their tiny creatures, nor even the magical crown. It was easier that way.
Mared opened his fist to reveal the Blood and the Sea.
Hal paused to let everyone witness, then she covered it with her own hand, clasping Mared’s as a friend. “Peace,” she said to him in a ringing voice. “And unity between Innis Lear and Aremoria.”
“Peace,” Mared said. “Banna Mora asks two days to withdraw our army, and for cooperation over the dead and dying. She offers me as hostage.”
“Granted, the withdrawal, but we will keep no hostages.” Hal stepped slightly nearer, but did not lower her voice. “I would see her, before she goes, if Mora is willing.”
“She might be,” Mared said. “We are grieving the loss of—of our prince.”
Hal said, “There is so much loss. I will grieve with Mora. And for her brother.”
“Connley?” Mared’s face slackened, and he looked desperately to Hotspur.
Tears filled her eyes for the first time. There was too much to explain. She settled on, “I was there, and I will tell you everything.”
Hal looked at her sister Vatta, and the young woman came up to take Mared’s arm, leading him back from Hal.
The prince did not put on the Blood and the Sea but held it high over her head. “I am the Lion of Aremoria!”
Hotspur nudged the earth with her boot, and the wind itself took Hal’s voice and spread her words to the ears of all who could see her. Hotspur shifted into her best commander’s stance, listening like a Lady Knight, and listening, too, with her skin and eyes and tongue, to the breath of Aremoria, the will and beating heart of Aremoria.
The land itself was riveted to Hal.
“It is fitting,” the prince said, her voice reverberating along strands of wind, “for this battle to end here, at Liresfane, where a thousand years ago a king betrayed a wizard and began the enmity between Innis Lear and Aremoria. I am the daughter of kings, of a line of kings who have belonged to and served Aremoria, and I will be your queen someday—long from now in my hopes, but soon in the sense of trees or stones or stars. I know magic, and prophecies, and I know such things are nothing compared to the power of the people of Aremoria, the people of Innis Lear. We give meaning to crowns and prophecies, to stories and war and days when the sky itself rips open, and in healing that woun
d we heal what was sundered between our two lands.
“Innis Lear has a queen, and Aremoria has a queen, but we are joined not only by the stars, by everything that makes us laugh and hope and cry and ache. We are joined by love. The love I have for Banna Mora, the love she has for me, for her sister Lady Hotspur. My love.” Hal’s vivid gaze moved briefly to Hotspur, then away again. “And that is how we will move forward. With love and forgiveness. There will be no hostages. No recriminations, no blame. We will come together; I will bring us all together for one goal: a future that is defined by mercy and love. That is how we will grow, that is how we will prosper. Through loss and conflict, through death and birth and everything in between, this is the new destiny for Aremoria …” Hal faltered, mouth open, as if the thing she attempted to say was too large to contain in words.
Hotspur held up her fist and cried with all her heart,
“So long as you love, you live!”
Love, and live, whispered the winds of Aremoria.
“Love, and live,” said Celedrix herself, and then Charm Kurake. Everyone said it, along with the dancing wind.
A tiny star-shaped daisy grew up the inside of Prince Hal’s boot. She met Hotspur’s eyes, a smile splitting her face, and Hotspur felt the shifting of the world as it changed.
STAR-SEER
Dondubhan, early summer
ERA HAD NOT eaten or slept in two days, pushing her horse too hard, but with wind at their back. Exhausted, they arrived at the fortress of Dondubhan as the sun set. They clattered across the bridge and beneath the teeth of the gate, through the curtain wall and into the yard. Era rolled off, falling to her knees, and ignored the retainers rushing to her, their questions and worries about what message of danger she dragged at her heels.
She got to her feet, shook helping hands from her elbow. Her vision blurred, shadows walking at her side, the wind visible threads of light, and in the violet bowl of sky the Child Star gleamed to life; there beside it in the east the Star of Second Birds appeared. Era imagined the other stars still hiding, still veiled behind streaks of evening light, and the vast spread of stars rippled in her weary thoughts, as though it were the Tarinnish overhead and every star the tip of a winking wave.
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