Hotspur hefted her sword and saluted Celedrix. She caught Banna Mora’s eye, and the lady of the March did the same. Swallowing a dusty mouthful of spit, Hotspur rolled her shoulders to loosen the tension a bit, and bent her knees. The judge called the match and Hotspur attacked.
It was a good fight, but in the end Banna Mora made sure to lose. Both of them were sweating, their grunts low, neither speaking, and Hotspur did not know which of them would have been fairly victorious. Mora was strong and precise; she herself was fast and determined. Shieldless, their swords served as both offense and defense, along with hips and elbows. But when Mora turned her wrist and nearly disarmed Hotspur, Hotspur was so focused on breaking away she didn’t see Mora plant a foot where Hotspur would trip her. Mora went down, crying out as she landed on her own arm and her sword flew several paces off.
Stunned, Hotspur nearly said aloud that Mora had done it on purpose. She panted, her shadow covering Mora’s face. The once-prince shook her head, breathing through clenched teeth. “Hotspur,” she hissed. “Don’t. This is better.”
“How,” Hotspur demanded, holding her hand out to haul Mora up.
“I cannot fight Celeda in the next round. Better to lose to you.”
Hotspur understood but shoved Mora away. She despised prevarication.
The crowd was cheering again, and Prince Hal held their attention before the royal pavilion, proclaiming a story she’d heard about the Wolf of Aremoria.
Hotspur lost her fourth-round battle against Lord Aesmaros, the younger brother of the duke of Westmore, who had sixty pounds of muscle and eight years of practice on her. Hotspur thought if they’d been astride, she might still have beaten him. Aesmaros went on to fight the queen in the final round.
Celedrix won.
Raising her sword to the sky, Celeda said, “I am Aremoria, by birth and might, and I claim you as my people. My life and service is yours.”
Hal stood, flinging out her arms, and cried, “Long live Celedrix!”
The crowd screamed it back, widemouthed and smiling, throwing hats in the air and waving. The sun shone, bathing everything in warm golden light.
From her position at the edge of the royal pavilion, Hotspur had a perfect view of the moment the party of Learish men revealed themselves: in unison, nine men in the dress of common foot soldiers stepped into the ring of the tourney field, flinging hoods off their heads to display wild Learish braids and star-sign paint dotted over their cheeks and foreheads.
Two stood directly across from the pavilion, one young and dark haired, the other older, bearded, and in an orange gambeson. Hotspur could not believe the Learish men had disguised themselves in Aremore colors!
The young one cried, “Welcome, Queen! Recognized by your rights of birth and might! I am Mared Lear, son of Ryrie Lear, the sister of Solas, and I speak for Queen Solas of Innis Lear. She sends me to you with a gift for your annunciation.”
Celeda turned on her heel, head high, and gestured for her knights to lower their arms. Hotspur stepped to the rail, staring at the leader of the islanders. He was barely older than her, pale and narrow faced, but with lively dark eyes and braided brown hair. He smiled a smile that clearly belonged on his merry mouth. Beside him, the bearded man in orange gazed solemnly at Hotspur, and even from this distance she could see the blue of his eyes was as vivid as shards of the summer sky.
“Thank you for the greeting,” Celeda said. “I am amused by the timing, though appreciative of your sense of drama.”
The young man shrugged one shoulder, still grinning. “I serve my queen in every detail. Will you hear our gift?”
“We will.”
Mared nodded, closed his eyes as if recalling the exact wording of his message, and then called out:
“On the rising full moon that blessed the ascension of a new Aremore queen, Rowan Lear, the Poison Prince of Innis Lear, cast a star chart and read this prophecy for the reign of Celedrix. We share it in cheerful celebration:
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.”
A hush swept across the tournament in the wake of his strange words, followed by a long, even gust of wind.
When the wind died, Prince Hal had moved to Hotspur’s side. Celedrix spoke to Mared Lear, thanking him and his queenly aunt for such a stirring welcome to the throne. She invited him to be her guests at the evening’s banquet.
But Hotspur heard none of that, because Hal leaned closer, her lips near enough to Hotspur’s ear that the words brushed against her skin like a caress.
“Wolf of Aremoria,” the prince murmured. “The end of what?”
PRINCE HAL
Tenne-Tiras, midsummer
CELEDRIX SENT HER daughter out of Lionis.
The retinue—consisting of Prince Hal, Banna Mora of the March, Lady Hotspur Perseria, and half a dozen retainers and aides—traveled south along the Whiteglass River to the holdings at Tenne-Tiras, in order for Mora to offer the titles personally into Hal’s hand. Tenne-Tiras was traditionally the keep of the heir to the throne, and so while it had been Mora’s for nearly a decade, it now belonged to Hal.
Less than a day’s ride from the city, Tenne-Tiras took its name from the small castle that guarded the bend of the river spilling into this valley. It had been a lookout post for the lords of Lionis in more brutal times and was settled against a rocky slope above the village, with a few outbuildings for horses and retainers. The villagers took pride in their association with princes, especially when such princes had reputations like that of Banna Mora, who had been a serious and considerate prince. Prince Hal the villagers were less sure of, as Lady Hal Bolinbroke had been a troublemaker when she’d visited before, at Mora’s side. She’d led more than one slightly drunken quest into the forest hunting for the fairy tree, or blowing her horn in the middle of the night, waking the village as she and her friends charged down deer trails like she rode at the head of an earth saint’s wild hunt. Once Hal had successfully brought down a poor cow on their night ride, and compensated the farmer with twice its price; once she seduced the daughter of the local reeve, for which there was, naturally, no compensation. It was difficult to imagine Hal with the authority of a prince would be less riotous.
She was trying, though.
For weeks Hal had struggled at her mother’s side, attended meetings and cajoled cityfolk who knew her but not the once-banished Celedrix; Hal did not drink overmuch, nor did she swear unless vivid language was truly called for; she wore what she was told and did not leave the palace to search for Lady Ianta as she desperately wished to.
Hal had sent for Ianta three times, worried about the old knight, especially after Celedrix refused to ratify a new order of Lady Knights. The group had been commissioned under Rovassos and trained to be loyal to Banna Mora, and so apparently were too dangerous when Hal could neither take them in hand herself nor even find their founder. Hotspur insisted Hal didn’t need Lady Knights, if she was allowed to make knights who were also ladies—perhaps it was better to have them integrated into her retainers and palace guard, rather than separated out. But Hal couldn’t help linking her inability to rally Ianta with her difficulties at the rest. If she couldn’t convince an old friend and mentor, how could she convince nobles openly suspicious of her mother?
The queen insisted Hal was not being sent away in punishment. “Think of this as a respite, daughter,” Celeda had said. “You were thrust into this with no preparation whatsoever—a letter from your mother you’d not seen in ten years, and two weeks later you’d been through battle and suddenly found yourself a prince. This is a moment for you to breathe, and to shore up your friendship with Banna Mora, as well as remove her from immediate danger. There are some still loyal to Rovassos who would use her, and so she must either disappear—or be imprisoned—or dead.”
Hal pictured a sword arcing across her vision, slamming hard into Mora’s neck.
Celeda took the pause as hesitation, so added, “I don’t like to entertain superstitions from Innis Lear, but with that strange prophecy still swimming through the capital, better to get the three of you out.”
Though by no means a certainty that the lion and dragon referenced in the Learish prophecy were Hal and Mora respectively, the people who’d been present had collectively agreed upon it, and spread the story wide. Hal’s standard was the Bolinbroke lion-and-bluebells, after all, and when Mora had been prince, her uniquely designed house standard had been a rampant dragon, guarding the golden sheaf of the March. They were linked, former prince and current prince, and between them, the Wolf of Aremoria.
It was a relief, Hal could admit, to ride away from Lionis.
Summer closed in around them as they veered away from the river and into the old oak forest toward Tenne-Tiras. Hal’s bones seemed to relax, and she hoped she might sleep soundly tonight for the first time since her mother’s coronation.
It was nightmares that plagued her: dreams of death, of murder and betrayal. This is how kings die. Hal always had been rather distracted by death, both in her dreams and waking, but since the rebellion, her visions of violence and self-harm had become more intense and more frequent.
Now, Banna Mora and Lady Hotspur rode at her flanks, and a small but competent stream of newly appointed personal retainers following behind. Hotspur had brought her first aide Sennos, the plain young soldier Hal had seen take her armor at the Battle of Strong Water, and Mora had a woman called Grenna, who’d been her attendant for five years. Ter Melia, formerly of the Lady Knights, served in the palace guard as Hal’s captain: she was a tall and slender woman with muddy brown hair, easily pinked skin, and a taut mouth, but brilliant green eyes that caught a person in an instant, so vivid Hal used to tease her about being a child of a sorceress. Ter Melia endured Hal’s teasing laconically, and under this new regime seemed undisturbed so long as she could serve in the same capacity for which she had trained all her life.
Hal broke the silence. “There’s supposedly a witch tree around here somewhere, huge and gnarled, probably where an earth saint died, and the tree grew out of her ribs, and her heart still beats. If we’re quiet, and listen, the gentle buh-dum, buh-dum will lead us to her.”
“All I hear is the thud of horses’ hooves,” Hotspur said, cocking her head as if to listen.
Mora slid them both a glance, not disapproving, but amused, perhaps. It was often difficult to tell with Mora these days. She said, “Weren’t you born among the roots of a witch tree, Hotspur? I’ve heard that said of you.”
Hotspur grimaced. “Not a witch tree, but there is an old yew growing in the center of the conduit court at Annyck, and that is where my mother went into labor.”
“I would like to visit that tree,” Hal said, imagining it: they used to be called throne trees, and were planted by the old lords that had ruled this land to root their names, blood, and futures to the seat of their power. Not many such trees survived, and it did not surprise her the Persys maintained theirs.
It pressed at her teeth to say something about the Wolf of Aremoria, about the legends already surrounding Hotspur—but by some silent agreement, none of them had yet discussed the prophecy amongst themselves.
“This winter,” Hotspur said, “you would be welcome at Annyck—if you can be away from your mother for so long.”
Hal licked her bottom lip before she could stop herself. It baited a warm pulse in her heart for Hotspur to so easily invite her home.
In the village of Tenne-Tiras, the new Prince Hal was not quite greeted with enthusiasm, but purple Bolinbroke ribbons had been laced around lantern posts and local white lilies tied in bunches to hang from doorways. Children waved, laughing, and some few adults, too, though perhaps they had come to see Banna Mora alive.
Hal smiled at everyone, and because of who she was, those smiles came easy and true. She even called out to the leather-smith by name, promising a commission for new boots, and the wife of the innkeeper, asking after her son who’d been at the Battle of Strong Water and recovered still from a broken arm.
It was well done, she hoped. Banna Mora, when she’d been the heir, had held herself at a formal distance from some folk. Hal couldn’t do that if she wanted to—especially not in a place like this where she’d thrown up in the muddy lane after dancing too drunk at the inn.
At Tenne-Tiras itself, there was an awkward moment when an ostler abortively started first for Mora, despite Hal’s brilliant orange tabard embroidered with a stark white crown, and the Heir’s Score belted at her hip. The man hurriedly corrected his mistake as Hal called out, “Ah, it is so good to see these wretched old walls again. Lady Hotspur, did you know Tenne-Tiras held this valley from a pirate incursion up the river, of all things, some eighty years ago? Our hosts here had brave grandparents, and as with all strong Aremore bloodlines, their courage breeds true.”
“I should like to hear that story,” Hotspur said loudly. “Perhaps with supper the bailiff will tell it.”
They dismounted, Hal last, and though it was Hal’s tradition to care for her own horse, Mora had convinced her they should get the formalities handled immediately: the two of them went with the bailiff, the village reeve, and the keep’s cook for witnesses up into the lord’s office while Hotspur remained to oversee their party’s settling in.
The keep’s entitling charter had been written a hundred years previous, etched into a tile of hardwood. To pass it between Mora and Hal required nothing in actuality, no ritual or even word, for the charter clearly stated the keep’s master would be the same as the heir to the Blood and the Sea for as long as that ring was sovereign over Aremoria. But Hal walked to the tile where it leaned over the plain hearth and pressed her hand flat to it. Her forefinger was encircled by a Bolinbroke ring pressed with entwined bluebells, her middle finger by a thin gold ring her father had given her before he died. Only the sword at her hip marked her as heir, and the shared acknowledgment of those in the room.
Mora sighed shortly, addressing the bailiff, “I would like wine, if you please, Imaros.”
“The lady of knights has plenty of wine in the hall, if you would join her.”
“The who?” Hal asked, turning away from the hearth. She met Mora’s startled gaze.
Imaros, the bailiff, stretched his mouth into a long line. The cook answered, “The lady of knights, Prince. She claimed you told her she might have the use of your keep.”
Hal moved too fast for ceremony, with Mora tight at her heels.
They heard the snoring before they charged through the thick arched doorway and into the keep’s long hall. Whitewashed walls lifted the ceiling a mere fifteen feet, where thick rafters striped the hall like ribs. No banner hung beside the hearth or from either wall, and that would have to change. Three tables lined up before a master table, and there, slumped at the head in a massive chair, was Lady Ianta Oldcastle.
Also asleep, curled on a furry rug at the hearth, were three hunting hounds and a young girl called Essa who’d served as Ianta’s aide for at least two years, despite her youth and tiny stature.
Hal stared for a moment, relief and anger and shock all a-war for her first reaction. Mora crossed her arms over her chest, but before she could speak, Hal laughed.
The laugh barked across the hall, and Ianta snorted as she woke, bleary eyed. Essa leapt to her feet and tripped over a dog. She yelped, caught herself, and then fell to her knees when she saw Mora and Hal. To whom she knelt was impossible to say.
“Get up,” Hal said, stepping forward and offering a hand. “Have you been caring for this great beast by yourself all this time?”
“We—we came last month, sir—my prince!” Essa stood, hand in Hal’s, and glanced over her shoulder at Lady Ianta, who currently was hauling herself out of the chair.
Ianta Oldcastle was nearing sixty, as fat as she was tall, and the strongest knight Hal had ever known. Her hair flopped in her flushed pink face, more silver and gray than the sunlight-yellow it had been in her youth. “Hal!” Ianta exclaimed. “My Mora! I knew you would come eventually. I have kept the hall warm for you.”
“Have you,” Mora drawled. Her elbows were a sharp shield as she hugged herself.
“Naturally, what else would I be doing here?”
“Hiding?” Mora suggested.
Hal released Essa and went to Ianta. “Whatever it is, I’m glad you’re here.” She threw her arms around the wide old knight and squeezed.
Ianta slowly put her own arms up and hugged the breath out of Hal. The old woman smelled of sweet wine and bitter smoke and sweat. With a heave, Ianta lifted Hal off the rush-covered floor, crushing her with affection, then set her back down. “Prince Hal, I see,” Ianta said, then nudged Hal away, swatting at her. Ianta then faced Banna Mora.
“I sent for you at your house, and at the Quick Sunrise,” Mora said.
“As did I,” Hal added, surprised Mora had not told her they’d both been looking.
“I needed away from Lionis.”
“So do we now,” said Hal, then called out, “Wine!”
Banna Mora seated herself upon a bench with her back against one of the long tables. She stretched a leg out and studied Ianta. Hal could imagine Mora’s struggle: so recently this had all been hers, and Lady Ianta hers as well—Lady Ianta especially. Rovassos’s beloved friend, the founder of the Lady Knights, Mora’s advisor and ally. Now, gone. Ianta had fled to this place where the Lady Knights had been a sisterhood, but in fleeing, she had abandoned Mora.
It hurt Hal, too. Her place had been as a second, a support structure, not the focus. She’d been allowed to be carefree and charming, with the promise of a future as Bolinbroke at Queen Mora’s back. Now Hal had to be the prince. The one responsible. Hal shuffled her feet, then abruptly plopped down in the massive chair Ianta had been using. She shrugged at the knight as if to say, Sorry, old friend, but it must be relinquished. Then Hal lifted her leg and swung it over the chair’s arm.
With the wine, brought in two jugs by boys from the kitchen, came Lady Hotspur, Sennos, and Ter Melia.
The latter’s mouth dropped open at the sight of Ianta Oldcastle standing like a great moon in only a stained shirt and long vest over a dark blue skirt and soft felt slippers, her hair loosely braided as if it were bedtime. Through Ter Melia’s eyes, Hal recognized the slovenliness to which Ianta had fallen.
But it was Hotspur, of course, who commented. “Who the fuck are you,” she demanded, eyeing Ianta hard, “to appear so, in the prince’s keep?”
Though Hal thought the tone harsh, she loved Hotspur for the unquestioning defense.
A wolf indeed, growling at her prince’s side.
Ianta saw it, too: her eyes gleamed, despite their hungover redness. She tilted up her chin. “The Wolf of Aremoria, is it?”
“I still await your name.”
“Ianta Oldcastle,” she replied.
Hotspur paused, frowning instead of furious. “You are the strongest knight in Aremoria?”
Skepticism tossed the words aside.
“Care to put me to a test?” Ianta asked.
Hal watched, rather eager. But Mora lifted her hand. “Stop, both of you. Hotspur, Ianta is understandably distraught at the events of the late spring. Ianta, Hotspur takes her career as protector of Aremoria as seriously as you ever did. If you two cannot get along and join me for wine, then get out.”
It should’ve been Hal who dispersed the tension, she realized suddenly, and too late. Would she ever learn to casually wield princely power as Mora did?
“Wine,” Hal said, and nodded to the hovering boys. They put down clay cups and Essa poured wine.
Sennos murmured something to Hotspur, then departed. He waved Ter Melia with him, though she was reluctant. She cast a look back at Hal, who nodded once, slowly. They’d be well, and if anything happened regarding the Lady Knights, Ter Melia would be sent for.
Alone, the four women sat together: Hal sprawled upon her thronelike chair, Mora at her left upon the bench, and Hotspur to her right. Ianta stood, as if she could not decide whether to sit at all. When the wine was shared around, Hotspur lifted her cup. “To Prince Hal, resident lord of Tenne-Tiras.”
“Hal,” Mora said, reaching to touch the rim of her cup to Hotspur’s, then turned to Hal and Ianta.
Ianta repeated the salute, and Hal accepted it. She drank the sweet red wine. With it bright on her lips, Hal said, “And may the memory of what we once were to each other knit us into something new.”
“There is nothing new to make,” Ianta said, then threw back the whole cup of wine, drinking every drop.
Hotspur slammed her cup on the table. “What is the point of this, old woman? If that is your attitude, I’ll never trust you. No matter what you once were, nor how strong you used to be. There is no honor in this behavior.”
Hal reached out, not for Hotspur, but Ianta. She curled her fingers around Ianta’s wrist and tugged her to sit. The old knight dragged herself to Mora’s side of the table and sat with a cranky groan.
“I don’t need your trust, girl,” Ianta said. “And honor is for the dead.”
Hotspur snorted into her cup as she drank again, and Hal poured Ianta another.
Hal said, “I have to try, Ianta. I’d rather do it with you.”
“Do what? Try what?”
“To make something new,” Hotspur said, as if it were obvious.
Hal nodded, grateful Hotspur understood. She held the wolf’s fiery gaze a moment too long, counting her heartbeats. Then she turned to Ianta. “As Hotspur says. I have to keep everyone alive now, my mother and Mora and myself. And my sister, for worm’s sake. She’s only sixteen, and I have to keep her out of the line of fire. You don’t have to help me, but I’d like you to.”
“What can I do to help?” Ianta sniffed hard, eyes on her cup of wine. “I’m an old, fat woman, a used-to-be knight with no family living and a reputation for deviance. If you bring me to your side, Hal, it will be recalling the worst things said of Rovassos—the Merry King. And myself, his consort in freakishness and perversion. Hard enough for you to strip away your proclivities without inviting me back to court.”
“I don’t intend to—to strip away my proclivities.” Again, Hal slid a glance at Hotspur, who hid her face in another drink. “And you were just as old and just as fat last year, at the height of your power. So don’t give me those as excuses.”
Ianta pursed her lips. “Then you’ll have to marry, secure the line. That will be the fastest way for you to protect your family and friends. Not through me.”
No one had said this yet to Hal’s face, though surely some had thought it, among the echelons of Lionis Palace. “Morimaros,” she began, seeking any delay, “did not marry.”
Banna Mora laughed once. “Morimaros is more my ancestor than yours, lion.”
“Mora!” cried Hotspur.
Hal, too, was surprised. To say so was nearly a challenge to Celedrix’s rule. To distract, she said, “I think I saw his ghost, at Strong Water Castle.”
“What? What is this?” Ianta asked, suddenly less drooping.
“He was standing with my mother, when Hotspur and I rode into the courtyard. I thought I recognized him, but couldn’t … place him. And he just vanished. Later … later I realized who the man looked like: it was Morimaros the Great.” Hal forced a shrug, gulping her wine.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Hotspur snarled.
But Mora said, “I saw him, too.”
Everyone stared at her. It was one thing for Hal to make up a wild story, but Mora was hardly imaginative.