Lady Hotspur

by Tessa Gratton

  The first night that Mora joined Rowan Lear and Barra Ironwizard—the royal guardian of Queen’s Keep—in the great hall for dinner, a week after the defeat of the March, she learned just how informally they held themselves at the Keep. The iron wizard clearly did no more to dress for dinner than throw off her leather apron from her day at the forge and push her hair off her face with ashy hands, leaving gray streaks behind on her ruddy forehead. Rowan wore a dark sleeveless tunic that fell to his thighs and plain leggings, good boots, and nothing else but bands of iron and copper circling his arms. His hair was pulled half back, with no decorative ribbons or charms. It was very attractive—for a farmer. If Mora hadn’t known him to be a prince, how might she have been able to tell him from the rest of the crowd? Seated at the long tables were retainers in dark blue, women she recognized as attendants and minor ladies, a star priest from the nearby town of Steps, the army healer, children, wives, husbands, and anyone not currently helping to bring food from the kitchen. It was a wild mess of people and dogs. Laughter lifted up to the dark wood rafters like smoke. Small boys dashed past her, and Rowan fed a hairy dog from his own hand.

  Though initially frozen with distaste, Mora gazed out and remembered similar scenes from her youth. This was exactly the sort of casual meal her parents had once shared at Connley Castle with the duke of Errigal and their spiraling, sprawling families. Cousins everywhere, fighting over who would be served first, folk clearing their own trenchers and sending the youngest cousins to the kitchen for more bread. Taking beer with them for the cook.

  Rowan saw Mora standing at the threshold and lifted a hand to beckon her.

  She moved, slowly, attention focused on Rowan. Let the horde of Learish folk gape at her, at her regal bearing and the scarlet swoop of gown that dragged through the fresh lavender rushes. They were used to Third Kingdom blood on this island, darkening several family lines, but Banna Mora had been heir to the throne of Aremoria.

  The iron wizard called for another chair and moved hers over. “You look entirely recovered,” Barra Ironwizard said, offering a cup of wine. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so.”

  The prince cut a slice of juicy mutton from the platter before him and gave it to Mora, glancing at her with a half-smile. He said, “Her gaze is tight and there’s a wan cast to her cheeks still; when she is healthy again, she’ll bowl you over with the power of her beauty.”

  Barra saluted with her own wine while Mora narrowed her eyes at Rowan. “And you would know that how? You’ve not seen my beauty since I was fifteen.”

  “Faith, Banna Mora.” He proceeded to cut the meat into bites for her, which she only allowed for knowing it was considered a compliment and marker of status on Innis Lear.

  Once she’d had her first taste, Mora said to Barra, “I would like to see your work, when I am ready to venture into the forges.”

  “My honor, princess,” the iron wizard said, a flush in her cheeks likely due to wine more than emotion. Barra was a good twenty years Mora’s elder, unless the depth of her wrinkles was due more to iron dust than age. Humor shone in her bright brown eyes. “If any of the iron speaks to you, perhaps the prince will commission a sword to your name.”

  “There already exists a blade of Errigal steel under my name,” she replied with the calm of old anger.

  “Oh? I should love to commune with it.”

  Rowan said, “The Heir’s Score, Barra. And it is not here.”

  “Ah, apologies, Lady March,” Barra said quickly. “Naturally you speak of the sword you’re owed.”

  Mora nodded, and chewed another piece of meat despite the slow creeping throb beginning at the base of her skull.

  The next morning, Rowan Lear turned up at Mora’s chambers, politely requesting audience through her attendant Trin.

  They met beside the stone hearth in her room, its fire roaring. Mora wore a long, heavy gown of dark purple and a shawl draping her shoulders, for though it was late spring on Innis Lear, the sea wind chilled her. But she liked the heavy shutters open so she could look out at the steely sky. Rowan held casual in his sleeveless tunic. He was a Glennadoer, after all; his father’s people had scraped and suffered for centuries high on the worst frozen peaks of the island’s north shore. This chill would be nothing to him.

  Mora asked, “Have you histories of the Glennadoers? I would like to read such a thing.”

  “You’ll have to ask me what information you would have,” Rowan said. “Glennadoers are deeply invested in history, but not in such civilized pursuits as writing those histories down.”

  “Perhaps you ought to begin.”

  Rowan sat back in a chair, hands relaxed on the carved arms, knees spread; he was fully in possession of himself and his space. “Perhaps I ought.”

  In response, Mora held herself stiffly as she sat across from him. She did not offer him a drink, though Trin hovered by the arched doorway. “Does it bother you that you’re not as huge as your father? He’s intimidating even when he sleeps.”

  “Have you seen him sleep? He snores like a bear.”

  She smiled slightly. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve heard from the Summer Seat: a rider arrived late last night. My aunt welcomes you home, Banna Mora, and offers to place a title around your shoulders, as you are your mother’s heir.”

  “I thought such things passed to Connley when I accepted Rovassos’s entitlement.”

  “Your brother divested himself of worldly titles three years ago.”

  Mora frowned. She’d not heard. But again, she’d not—of late—sought any information, either. “How does he live?”

  Rowan glanced out the north window, a distant smile softening his handsome features. It was fondness, Mora guessed, and felt an entirely uncalled-for twinge of jealousy. “Conn is caretaker to the old star cathedral in the heart of the White Forest. He lives on whatever he likes.” The last was said with a hint of amusement Mora did not quite understand.

  Irritable, she said, “So like a hermit.”

  “Some call him the Witch of the White Forest, which is a title in and of itself, though none any queen or king may bestow.”

  The memory of butterflies invaded her thoughts: pale pink and yellow, like tiny floating blossoms; elaborately striped orange wings batting at dark hair; luminescent blue scales smeared down a dusky cheek. “I want no titles from Solas Lear, either. Not now.”

  Rowan frowned. He leaned forward, one hand out as if he might touch hers. Wisely he refrained. “The wind expects you to take a title, as do the stars.”

  “Do you do everything the stars tell you?” Mora asked, not bothering to hide the edge of sarcasm.

  “For twenty-four years it has served me well.” This time he did touch her, but only a gentle brush of finger on knuckle. “Will you walk with me, on the ramparts?”

  She agreed.

  The wind scoured southerly, leaping over the low mountain to swarm the Keep and slip, slide, rush with the noise of river rapids down toward the marsh and the town of Steps. It grabbed her curls and tugged, slapped the hem of her gown against her ankles. Instinctively, Mora grasped tighter at Rowan’s wrist beneath her hand—a formal gesture he’d offered as they slowly climbed the stone stairs to the wall. Rowan opened his mouth, but whatever sound he made, laugh or gasp, was dragged away.

  Mora sighed hard, just to hear her own breath compete with the gale. Her eyes watered under the onslaught and she released Rowan, turning her back to the north to let the wind cascade around her shoulders. It drew her gaze south to the dark green of the marsh, the thatched cottages in town that gleamed golden. Ragged moorland grass bent in the wind, as did the small, spindly trees. The horizon was too hazy to make out the distant ocean.

  Rowan touched Mora’s shoulder. The prince stepped to the thick, black crenellations and reached into the empty air. His long hair pulled in all directions. This time when his mouth moved, Mora heard his words hissing and harsh in the language of trees. He suddenly fisted his hand as if he cou
ld grasp the wind and jerked his arm down.

  The wind stumbled and died.

  In the sudden silence, the world itself felt hollow.

  Rowan Lear smiled proudly at Mora’s shock. He whispered something else, and a breeze danced around him, flicking the tips of his white-gold hair. It brushed her cheek like a cool kiss.

  Mora stepped back. Rowan’s smile softened. “This is better for conversation.”

  “You planned it—you knew how strong the wind was today.”

  He stepped toward her. She touched the crenellation at her hip, holding on to it. Rowan said, confessing, “I wanted to impress you.”

  Mora replied coolly, “Think you to be the first man to try it?”

  The prince held her gaze. “Perhaps I would rather be the last.”

  Her lips parted as awareness struck her: of her own body, the way the copper belt pressed against her hips and the brush of linen over her unbound breasts, the tickling breeze at the nape of her neck.

  “Someone’s coming from Errigal,” Rowan murmured, startling her. She’d expected further flirtation. With his chin, he gestured over her right shoulder. Mora turned. Along the north road, around the edge of the mountain to the east, came a small party of riders in armor and a wagon painted blue as the sky.

  “Grandmother,” Mora whispered.

  She wished the wind were wild again to steal away her dread.

  THREE CREATURES WATCHED from a hill crowned by mossy ruins as Isarna Persy led her army into the March. They stood, tall and thin as moonlight, between visible and not, waiting, wondering what their near-made wizard would do.

  One, the youngest, blinked cornflower eyes and spoke in a voice like the flutter of sparrow’s wings, Why struggle for this? Why not fade as perhaps we are meant to? Everything dies.

  The eldest answered, hissing in the way of wind through lightning-charred branches, You remember death, or so you believe, but that was a death of transformation. For us now, it would be complete nothingness. Loss of entire existence and memory. Who would not fight against such an inevitability? They can save us. She can save us.

  You want us to trade her life for power.

  Oh no, we want them to do it.

  HOTSPUR

  The March, spring

  THE BREEZE, SCENTED with lavender and apple blossoms, ruffled the long grasses of the valley, touching every soldier with a kiss or tease; the Red Castle pennant snapped once, twice, and wisps of Hotspur’s hair danced, untamed by braids.

  Hotspur thought she heard—but no, she shook wild thoughts away and glanced up at the crumbling shadow of whatever keep or tower had guarded Liresfane field hundreds of years ago.

  A bird swept off the ruin, cried out, and glided across the tops of spring-green canopy lining the southern fall of the hill. Hotspur saw nothing else, but she shivered. Something had been there, she was certain.

  “Hotspur?” Sennos said.

  She shook her head. “I think it will be clear tomorrow; those clouds will not give us rain.”

  THE NEXT DAY, under a bright sun indeed, Lady Hotspur routed the remnants of Glennadoer’s army from the March. Her force did not even require aid from Vindomata’s Mercian troops, and clearly the Learish men had not been ordered to hold anything. Most were gone, having left only a symbolic company so it appeared they had taken control of the territory. They didn’t even enter Marchtown or attempt to breach the castle seat.

  All in all, Hotspur was cranky, but the six-day ride to achieve this had been beautiful, and here was an easy triumph to take back to Lionis and the queen, and certainly it indicated that Banna Mora would not be harmed or held hostage. They’d return her for some equally symbolic ransom, or with gentle politicking.

  Vindomata brought Hotspur through the town and up into the castle, where they ate healthily with their first aides and captains, and caught up with what they’d missed of each other’s lives. Hotspur learned her mother Caratica was faring better, well healed after the winter, though still in pain and walking with difficulty. She disliked canes or an arm for support, but would accept them, Vindomata said.

  Then she smoothly asked her niece if Celedrix had ordered the assassination of her sons.

  Shocked, Hotspur set down her cup of honey wine. It had been well watered, more of a sweetened, tipsy water than real mead. “Aunt, you cannot believe such rumors.”

  “Can’t I?”

  “Celeda has always been your friend.” Hotspur pressed nearer, to keep her voice hushed. “She had no reason to turn against you or undercut you so. You were allies and she’d only been back days! Who could she have gotten to do it?”

  Vindomata, statuesque and as redheaded as her niece, nodded once. But her skin tightened around her eyes and she did not soften the angry pull of her mouth.

  Hotspur touched her wrist. “It is an ugly rumor because—because their deaths were so surprising to all. And unlikely. A sudden, unlikely tragedy, Aunt.” Thinking of Hal, she suggested, “People want a story to explain it.”

  “Vindus was strong,” Vindomata insisted, slamming her fist on the table.

  “Yes.”

  “Your uncle is drinking himself to death.”

  Hotspur frowned. She knew her uncle less well than she’d have liked, for he was no warrior. “I am sorry for it.”

  “I cannot give him more sons to see die. I am too old, and I cannot …” The Duke of Mercia closed her eyes. “Tell me it was worth it, Hotspur. Tell me it was worth my sacrifice to overthrow Rovassos. Is Celedrix a glorious queen? Does she live up to what she promised us? Does my old friend deserve all the blood of my sons?”

  Mouth dry, Hotspur could only take her aunt’s hand in both her own. “I …” She swallowed, shook her head. “Celeda is pulling Aremoria together, but deserve? That is not how we can measure war and death, Vindomata. We cannot think like that, and be soldiers still. It is not a fair question.”

  “Fair?” Vindomata scoffed lightly, a glint of murder in her eyes.

  Hotspur steadied herself and met the gaze. She held her ground and wished Hal were here, to tell Vindomata a magnificent story about her sons.

  THAT NIGHT THE Wolf of Aremoria dreamed of the ruins at Liresfane, of walking among the vine-covered and mossy remains. She reached the center, where a pile of black stones rose to waist height. It had been a well once, and in the dream Hotspur could see blood filling it to the brim. The blood soaked through the cracks and crumbling mortar, and instead of fear or revulsion, Hotspur felt the same merry awe she felt when Prince Hal kissed her.

  They have stepped upon the same land, now, said a wicked, whispering voice. The one from Aremoria, and the one from Innis Lear.

  BANNA MORA

  Innis Lear, spring

  SIN ERRIGAL WAS the tiniest old woman Banna Mora had ever seen. She was so slight Mora was certain that even in her own weakened state she could lift her grandmother in her arms like a baby.

  Not that Sin needed it: the old duke moved stiffly but quick and well, and even if she’d faltered a moment, everyone nearby would’ve leapt to her aid. Nearly all the Keep—retainers, servants, wizards—pressed into the yard to greet her as she and her elderly attendants were helped out of her wagon. Mora was swept along in the crowd, glad to be lost among them, for the chance it afforded her to observe.

  It had been fifteen years since Banna Mora had seen her grandmother, and even then Sin had been old. The wrinkles that had already lined her light brown face gouged now, and her dark freckles seemed to have blurred with age. Her lips were so thin as to nearly vanish, and her earlobes drooped and dragged under the weight of several rough iron rings. But those dark eyes still snapped with fire and wit, despite being sunken farther into her skull. Wisps of white hair curled tightly at her temples, free of the wide green-and-gray scarf wound about her head and otherwise hiding her hair. The robe she wore drooped off her bony shoulders like the musty wings of an ancient swan.

  Rowan escorted Sin to a chair by the massive hearth in the great hall. A
footrest was brought, and more chairs for her Errigal attendants, stools for Rowan and Barra Ironwizard, benches pulled up, and then in a flurry there was wine in a heavy pitcher set in the feet of the fire to warm for Sin herself.

  Sin seemed content to be coddled by her prince, who eagerly dragged his stool to her knee and already had engaged her in spirited conversation. But the duke laughed, revealing she lacked many of her teeth, and patted Rowan’s cheek like he was a child. “Where is she?” Sin’s voice rose above the fracas, bright and young sounding.

  Mora strode forward.

  “Ah,” Sin said, boldly eyeing Mora up and down. “You’re looking like a queen.”

  Rowan Lear seemed to release a breath of relief at the words; Mora tensed further.

  “I should have been one,” Mora said.

  “May still be,” replied her grandmother.

  Rowan caught Mora’s gaze. “The stars will tell us,” he said.

  Sin added, “The worms, more like, with this one.”

  “Ah, Grandmother,” Rowan said, though they were barely related by blood, “together then, though surely the heights to which our Banna Mora reaches are best known by the moon and her stars.”

  “Your Banna Mora?” Mora said, lifting one eyebrow.

  “Banna Mora of Innis Lear,” he said so simply it would’ve been rude to deny it.

  Taken aback, Mora held out her hands, and her grandmother took them. Sin squeezed, displaying strength still in those knobby fingers. “Come to me in the morning,” the duke said. “I’ll have a day with my long-lost granddaughter apart from this madness.”

  “Yes, Grandmother,” Mora said.

  Sin released her, though it was not quite a dismissal. The old woman nodded at an empty stool. Rowan offered her wine.

  It was time for a strategic withdrawal: retreat to consider her position and balance advantages versus disadvantages. Yes. And to calm her racing heart. With a careful smile, Mora admitted her head was aching and perhaps she should lie down.