He will matter in the days to come, for the earth saints have sensed an opportunity creeping nearer and nearer, as new kings and new queens rise and fall. This is a long trick they play, to end their fading doom and regain their stolen magic. To take it back from Innis Lear. For that, they need a wizard, or two. One to break open the star roads again, and one to anchor the roots of sleepy Aremore trees into a singular voice.
But there are no wizards in Aremoria. The earth saints will have to make one.
BANNA MORA
Lionis, late autumn
IN ONLY ONE place did Banna Mora of the March feel safe to slide the Blood and the Sea onto her forefinger. It was a small tower room, high in a turret crowning the riverside parapet of Lionis Palace. Cubbies and shelves lined the stone walls, stuffed with rolled pennants and crisp orange Aremore flags. Tapestries were folded inside stacked pine boxes and carved trunks, and the entire room smelled heavily of lavender and rosemary to keep the mice away. Mora liked to climb the ladder and close the trapdoor behind her. Alone, she’d sit on one of the trunks, knees pulled up, surrounded by flags and symbols of Aremoria. There were a series of poles just outside the turret, visible from the Whiteglass River, and every morning a contingent of palace women raised the proper pennants to signal who was in residence.
Today, just below the glorious new crown-and-sun flag of the rebel queen, flew Hal’s purple flag with the lion and bluebell of Bolinbroke. Beneath that, the Westmore eagle snapped in the wind alongside the Blunt crossed-spears, and the striped flag of the Alsax. Lastly, there was Hotspur’s plain Red Castle. There’d been no green of Perseria, nor Mercian arms for weeks. And though the golden sheaf on its field of iron gray should have flown for the March, it was never ordered up. Saints forbid attention be drawn to Mora’s status.
She turned the thick band of the Blood and the Sea around and around her finger, barely able to see the glint of pearl and garnet in the light of the single candle set upon the floor.
This was her birthday, a month past Halfsies Day. She was twenty-three. It had been nearly half a year since she’d been a prince.
Last year for Mora’s birthday, Hal had surprised her with a small feast tucked inside her quarters, and dragged along a few of the Lady Knights. They’d gotten drunk and talked of nothing but gossip and recent theater and the weather and who might win at Rovassos’s tournament in the spring.
But today she was alone, and would be so unless she made herself otherwise. Who should she go to, though? Seeking out Ianta felt seditious, for though the woman had been convinced to return at Hal’s side from Tenne-Tiras, Ianta buried herself among the common folk, telling sack-fueled stories of her glory years. The other Lady Knights had been reassigned far and wide, Mora’s lover was dead, and Hal and Hotspur were single-minded in their affair. All Mora’s living family were across the sea on Innis Lear.
Sometimes still Mora considered returning to that rocky stump, but though it had borne her, it was not her home. Aremoria was, and had been since she was eight years old. Her hopes had blossomed here along with her muscles and will, along with her desires and fears and all her power. This sweet wind, these luscious forests, fertile hills, and sweeping valleys, the clearwater rivers and cycle of seasons one after another after another in regular fashion.
Mora ought to go north to the March and at least be alone on her own land. She ought to return to her room and have her best dress brought out, her hair oiled and braided, paint applied to her eyes and mouth and cheeks; she ought to give the true Blood and the Sea to Celedrix as ultimate proof of her loyalty. Fall onto her knees and swear her heart to the queen, then calmly ask for permission to go.
It would be enough. Banna Mora knew she could find pride in the work of holding the March: armed and in command, lady of her own lands, city, and castle. Eventually she might marry one of the Alsax or the oldest of the Everus sons, for they’d been on Celedrix’s side of the battle, and then Mora’s children would carry bloodlines always loyal. Mora could survive to be a grandmother, a respected commander of her own making.
She turned the Blood and the Sea around her finger again.
She could not live like this: no dragon existed forever in a cage, even if it was an elegant one, even if she could hide herself away as she did now, crouched over the palace as if it belonged to her. It did not belong to her.
Banna Mora was not a dragon.
The ring lived most days tucked into a small gilded box, beneath a false bottom. The box she kept on the hearth in her bedchamber with several similar in plain sight. It was an ember alive in her heart, dangerous to hold in the palm of her hand. Treason to even have it, worse to hide it. So long as she did, Mora kept alive a hope that one day she could wear it openly. But she could see no avenue to such reward, not with Celedrix powerful and surrounded by equally powerful friends.
Occasionally some daring younger son of a Rovassos loyalist would approach Banna Mora, to convince her to take advantage of Celeda’s vulnerable new government. Only yesterday a cousin of Aumerle had cornered her and whispered a rumor he’d heard that Celedrix had murdered Vindus and Devrus of Mercia in order to undercut the power of Vindomata and so that she could marry her own daughter to a prince of the Third Kingdom. This cousin had said, to Mora and others, that Celedrix already had sent messages to her allies in the desert, and by this time next year Prince Hal would have a husband not of Mercia. And how could Vindomata be angry, for her sons both were dead?
Convenient.
Mora disliked to think of an assassin cutting Vindus down as he fought at Hal’s side. It was hard to imagine what had gotten the best of him fairly, despite Mora knowing anyone could take a mortal blow, no matter their skill or strength, when the moment came. Though she’d not been in love with Vin, she’d assumed he would one day be her king. A fair assumption, never needing further analysis, because Mora had never once imagined losing her place. Losing her future. Her identity.
And this present life killed her slowly. The restrictions on her behavior, her voice, her heart—all of it chafed Mora raw. She could not disagree with anything, not act for her own benefit, nor even for a friend without casting a shadow upon them. She could not be herself, she could not be strong.
Banna Mora thrust to her feet, jerking the Blood and the Sea off her finger. No more sitting feeling sorry for herself. She had to act: that was the only way forward.
If the Blood and the Sea were the thing giving her hope, tying her to the past, she had to get rid of it.
She stuffed the ring back into the inner pocket of her gown, just under the collar of the bodice. Hooking her finger in the trapdoor’s latch, she threw it open and blew out the candle.
Cold wind carried the murmur of Lionis Palace to her ears, the constant, rough noise of humanity, and the scent of the river. Mora strode along the ramparts, past a few palace guards taking a break from duty. She lifted her skirt to hurry down the tower stairs, then continued purposefully through the airy corridors of the palace.
Once, these corridors had belonged to her. The marble and pale limestone, the pillars and polished wood panels, the carved windows and balustrades, the peaked arches and sitting rooms, the paintings and statues and gardens. All of it. Hers.
Mora slowed to touch the smooth curve of the wall and breathe in the pine and clove smell of a fresh wreath hanging there. Winter smells, the air of home.
This would be the end. She was choosing it, not Hotspur. Not the Wolf of Aremoria.
The next palace page she saw, Mora asked after Prince Hal. A moment later another page dashed up to her with the news Hal was in her bedchamber. At midafternoon.
Banna Mora set her jaw and did not pause to speak with the few courtiers she knew and liked, nor did she bother to nod at those she mistrusted. Usually she did both, knowing her life depended on maintaining a careful balance of independence and humility. When Rovassos was king, Mora had enjoyed the game, lived for the intricate dance of loyalty. Now it grated on her, offensive and wounding.
The current heir to the throne of Aremoria kept her rooms in an old study, transformed incompletely into a bedchamber and sitting room. Mora knocked to no response. Flattening her hand, she pounded with the heel and called Hal’s name. When again there came no answer, Mora grasped the handle and shoved open the door.
Light poured into the study from the tall balcony windows, illuminating the large room as it had always been, but for new purple hangings and a rather more complete set of wine and liquor bottles on one of the bookshelves. Books were stacked on the sofa, several half open, and a crumb-covered plate waited on the round table to be cleaned, beside a cup fallen on its side, the dregs of dark wine staining its rim.
Mora frowned and closed the door, then went to the small arch and stepped down into the bedchamber itself.
Hal Bolinbroke, Prince of Aremoria, was sprawled facedown and sideways across the bed. Pillows had slumped on the floor, the quilt was mussed beneath her, and one boot still clung to her foot. The hearth was black. Hal’s back swelled slowly, stopped, and deflated, then did it again, more raggedly. Mora stared.
The prince was a mess. Mora understood the responsibility was hard; the meetings, duties, and conflicting agendas were enough to need a drink or a fuck to sleep at night. But Hal had Hotspur. Hal had friends, and had her mother home. She had her charm and skills. The new prince needed to quash this inner turmoil—whatever it was keeping her from standing, from trying harder.
When they were younger, Hal had sometimes become inconsolable for a time. Deep sorrow, morbid thinking, and a yearning for impossible things had coated her spirit, dampening it and putting her in bed sometimes for days. Mora had believed it a childish malady that would be cured by adulthood and responsibilities—and especially by her mother’s safe return. As a child, Hal could afford her moods. As a prince, the heir to a powerful kingdom, she could not.
Just as Mora opened her mouth to wake Hal, the prince groaned. Her body shuddered and she groaned again. Softly, desperately. The pace of her breath tightened and drew shallow.
A nightmare.
“Hal,” Mora said.
Hal whimpered and dragged her fists toward her chest, pulling the quilt with her.
“Hal.”
The prince’s lips parted for another soft cry, and her eyes popped open. Sitting, Hal spun onto her knees, staring around as if unaware of her surroundings.
Mora remained still, hands turned out in peace. “Hal, you’re safe, you’re in your bed.”
“Worms,” Hal gasped. She closed her eyes and drew in several long, deep breaths. “Mora,” she croaked. “What are you— Oh, sun and stars, Mora. I don’t—I don’t know how to do this.”
The prince of Aremoria bent forward, hands atop her head, twisting her fingers in her hair. Those shoulders trembled again, but with a sob.
Mora frowned. She stepped nearer but was uncertain what to say.
Hal wiped her face, then swayed as if dizzy. A strange stillness cut the air of the bedroom, and then Hal dove toward the side of her bed, gripped the mattress, and vomited onto the floor.
Disgusted, Mora crossed her arms over her chest.
“I’m sorry,” Hal whispered, wiping her mouth. She stumbled up, reached for an old shirt thrown over the back of a chair, and wiped her entire face.
Mora went for the pitcher of water. It sloshed half full, and she flung open the trunk beneath the small square window and dragged out another shirt. She dumped the water on it, and brought it all back to Hal.
“Come here,” Mora said, gripping Hal’s arm and pulling her to the foot of the bed, away from the splatter of thin pinkish vomit. Mora touched the wet shirt to her friend’s forehead and the back of her neck. She gave the shirt to Hal and, with a prim sigh, perched on the mattress, then gathered up the mess of Hal’s black braid. Unlacing the tie at the end, Mora carefully loosened the hair and combed it with her fingers. She held it carefully, watching the flush fade from Hal’s cheeks.
The prince breathed into the wet shirt, mopped it down her neck, and then dropped it to the floor atop the splatter of vomit.
It smothered some of the acrid smell.
“I’ll send for a bath,” Mora said.
“Wait.” Hal reached for her hand. “I don’t— Mora, I’m sorry.”
The tremor in the prince’s voice, and the gentle grief, infuriated Banna Mora.
“For what, Hal?” she demanded. “Being a drunkard? Many kings are so. Nightmares? Everyone has nightmares. But you learn to leave them in bed. Or are you sorry for stealing everything that belonged to me? For never thinking about what your mother was doing to me and to us? What is it you’re sorry for, Hal Bolinbroke?”
The prince tilted her splotchy face up to Mora’s. She shook her head slightly. “For not being able to give it back to you. I don’t—I don’t want it.”
“You don’t … want it.” Mora wanted to scream. It had been part of Mora’s heart and spirit, her dreams and her destiny, and Hal dismissed it so easily as something one could want.
“Mother told me yesterday—we have to solidify the line of inheritance immediately. She already—already arranged it. There’s a prince from the Third Kingdom, of course, who she knows well, and it’s already done. I’ve been engaged for months and didn’t even know it.”
Mora went cold, thinking of that Aumerle cousin and his accusation that Celedrix had murdered Vindus because she never intended a marriage alliance with Mercia.
Hal didn’t stop, digging her fingers into her mess of hair. “Married this time next year! And—pregnant fast. Saints, I’m—I’m going to throw up again.”
“She’s right,” Mora said softly—a softness of danger, of gathering storm clouds, not tenderness or friendship. “Instability is the greatest threat to Celedrix’s rule right now. It’s your responsibility, Prince.”
“I can’t— I don’t want to be responsible for Aremoria! I don’t want to command or rule. I don’t want to have to choose who lives and dies—I can’t see something like that—like that again. I only ever wanted to be your knight. I want to never live in terror that everyone is thinking how best to cut my head off, or murder my mother. And Hotspur! Saints and worms, I dreamed it was her, dead in my arms. All my dreams are dreams of death, Mora. Bloody or stupid, I don’t … I don’t want it.”
To Mora’s horror, tears blazed behind her own eyes, threatening to spike out. “It’s yours, though. I thought you were stronger than this. I’d never have knighted you—made you my first!—if I’d suspected how you’d shatter under pressure. How dare you let all of us down. Better to be defeated by a worthy opponent than—than—” Mora flung her hand out.
“This,” Hal finished for her. “Me.”
“Yes.” Mora stood. She backed away. Her hands shook. The Blood and the Sea burned at her breast. How could she entrust it to this creature before her? Hal was too selfish, too afraid to lead. Broken. She would let Aremoria fall to pieces.
Mora could not give over the Blood and the Sea like some kind of benediction.
She turned and left without another word, nearly running into Hotspur as she exited.
“Mora,” the knight said, startled enough to step back.
“Help Hal get her shit together, Hotspur Perseria,” Mora snarled, “or she’ll have to face me one day, and my sword.”
The lady of the March shoved past the knight, heart thudding beneath her ribs, hard, dull: a death knell.
The death of hope, and the death of Aremoria beneath Hal Bolinbroke’s wretched hand.
HOTSPUR
Lionis, winter
THE FIRST WINTER of Celedrix’s reign was mild, but Hotspur remembered the strife.
Lionis Palace was a mess of agendas and politics, factions and families vying for new authority and the queen’s favor; there were enemies to be rooted out, alliances to be made and remade, executions to perform, petty squabbles, gossip, defense concerns and messages from the least secure borders. Hotspur acted as the prince’s chief of securi
ty, as well as Hal’s right hand, and consulted with the generals in the war room on strategies for holding the north and east against the perpetual Diotan raids and the press of the Rusrike. Hotspur was constantly on her feet, rushing from meeting to dinner to the garrison to her own shift at Hal’s side, to something appalling like a dress fitting. The formal occasions were the worst, required as she was to converse calmly or even flirt—her best flirtation happened in the form of single combat—or stand for hours at a time at Hal’s shoulder while Hal in turn stood at her mother’s. Rarely did Hotspur find a moment’s quiet, even with the prince, for when they did manage to slam together they rarely chose to relax.
Despite being pulled in so many directions, Hotspur was happy. Maybe she shouldn’t have been, given the state of the country’s politics, and the delicate, torturous war of words that slowly established Celedrix. How could Hotspur be happy in spite of her mother’s crawling recovery and her aunt’s grief and anger, or especially in the face of Hal’s constant, violent dreams? But through it all a golden thread wove itself, luminous and constant and secured between the strong folds of Hotspur’s heart: she was in love.
Thank the saints and worm-eaters she was busy enough, or Hotspur might spend every moment glowing in Hal’s direction. She even sometimes thought gratefully on the fact that their affair came with an expiration date—else the potential of living so blissfully for the rest of her life might’ve overwhelmed her.
But for the time being, Hotspur couldn’t help but constantly contemplate the prince’s lips and talented fingers, biting her own tongue or surreptitiously ducking into an alcove to press her forehead against cold marble wall and try, try, try to calm down so she did not arrive flushed for a meeting with Commander Abovax or skip through a security briefing.
Any progress Hotspur made in managing her emotions and body were undone the instant she turned a corner and there was Hal, smiling like she’d been saved. That smile devastated Hotspur, especially when it blew away the shadows of stress under Hal’s dark eyes, or straightened her spine, like Hotspur was the only god Hal believed in.
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