Lady Hotspur

by Tessa Gratton

  “Should we go elsewhere?”

  “No. The Thorn is rising in mist most mornings, and neither the dragon, nor lion, nor wolf will leave me be. I still cannot see past the Longest Night. There are too many prophecies breathing life.”

  “What has Solas said?” he asked. Connley appreciated, as few would, having this conversation at the threshold, neither inside her room nor quite outside.

  “That there is no action to take but caution. Despite and because of the slippery prophecy that the hemlock queen will die.”

  Connley did not know what to say to that. Era did not know that Rowan had put himself through the same hemlock ritual, and perhaps would be the one to die. There might even be others: many on Innis Lear knew how a queen was made. It was only that most of them revered the ritual too much to shave away any of its power by attempting it. Rowan revered nothing but what the stars told him to revere.

  “You wanted something else, when you knocked.”

  Era’s words startled him, and Connley hesitated, thinking of Rowan, of prophecies and risk, of opening the stars between Aremoria and Innis Lear, and of that line from the Dreamer’s journal: dead at the crown of her ancient church. He’d wanted to ask Era about Ashling, about her behavior while he’d been gone. During his stay in Aremoria, Connley had feared the worst, that the spirit would rampage, cause storms and wreckage, perhaps even kill. But when he set foot upon Innis Lear again, Ashling had said his name with such joy, such relief, he had felt the same blossoming of love that he’d felt as a child. But while Ashling had welcomed him home, he’d not missed her treatment of his wife. The coffee and acorns, the small annoyances. He asked her to behave, and she sweetly promised she did not torment his beloved.

  Connley was unsure how to begin, and so he stalled. “Thank you, for offering to read our marriage stars, even if they will be as chaotic and uneasy as every other prophecy this year.”

  Era’s smile widened with childlike delight. “I thought you would ask Rowan, or Aeli.”

  “When we can have the Star-Seer herself?”

  “Flattery won’t affect the prophecy,” she chided, but with a teasing lilt.

  “That has not been my experience.”

  Era lifted her chin. “Rowan is of the Lear line, and as such rarely understands the stars ought not be manipulated, even to the throne’s advantage. Stars are pure of intention, and I only translate with the same purity.”

  Connley smiled affectionately. “That is why I wanted you.”

  “This is for you.” Era darted a hand out and offered him a holy card, faded and soft at the corners.

  Taking it, Connley turned it over. The Tree of Ancestors. A white-and-silver sapling covered in tiny new leaves, only each leaf was a tongue of flame. He thought of Isarna. So connected to her Aremoria, to the drowsy magic of the trees, as if she were born a witch but hadn’t quite learned the language. The voices of her ancestors whispered in her ears, and she declined to listen.

  Era said nothing as he studied the card, waiting for him to glance up at her again. When he did, she said, as if she’d known exactly what he wanted, “You have to choose, Connley, what you want. Either joined to the ash ghost, or to your mortal wife. A witch apart, or a player upon the island’s stage. That is your birth star: the Elegance. You can only balance the world if you understand your place in it. And I fear for the next months that we will need balancing players more than ever.”

  Connley shut his mouth. He believed in Era’s prophecy, and in her, with all his heart, but it was a choice he felt incapable of making. Mora had thrust him into marriage and politics. Rowan had always tried to keep Connley a piece of the island, as much a spirit as Ashling. Isarna, Connley suspected, did not know her own place enough to make one for him.

  “Keep the card,” Era said meaningfully.

  The Tree of Ancestors, a living root that bloomed fire. Though he had seen it depicted with stars for leaves instead of little flames.

  “I will,” Connley said, and turned to go back to his wife.

  “Connley!” his cousin whispered urgently when he’d gone a few steps.

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  Era had peeked her body half out of the door, while half remained hidden. “I notice you have no tears on your face.”

  Connley’s hand flew to his cheek; he’d forgotten to draw the black line, despite the cold hearth in the bedroom with its plentiful ashes.

  It felt like a portent, like his heart had already decided.

  But so, too, did the spirit-knots destroying Isarna’s hair when he returned.

  “Get dressed,” he said to his wife, after they had finished untangling and cutting her hair. “I have something to show you.”

  Isarna looked small huddled in the wide bed, with her mess of ruined hair cut short around her face, pieces clinging to the shoulders of her nightshirt. Her eyes seemed more vibrant after crying, like the miracle blue at the heart of fire.

  But she agreed, and put on warm clothes after scrubbing her face and shaking out her hair like a dog. Nervously, he led her to the castle’s navel well, tucked on the south side of the ruins of the old black keep.

  Morning was full-on by then, and the castle awake. The busy factions of residents were used to Connley stepping in and out of castle life, but Isarna was unusual and new, and she drew attention. Connley held her hand in his and turned away most who approached with a soft word that they went to make Isarna’s first devotions at the Errigal navel well. A few children trailed in their wake until he shooed them to their work or breakfasts, while on the lookout for Mared Lear or Era, or anyone who would be harder to put off. He listened for the approach of Ashling, too, and readied himself to defend his wife, even if he had to scream himself hoarse taming the wind. He wished Rowan were here; the prince could always control her.

  Isarna remained quiet. The cool morning breeze clarified her eyes of their painful hesitation. Her stride had lengthened to confidence the moment they left their private chambers. She glanced east, at the clouds, and Connley recognized the tilt of her face.

  “Is it going to rain?” he asked gently.

  Thin gray clouds were blowing, but they were not heavy with storm.

  “You have a weather sense,” Connley said. “Your father told me, and I had heard it from some retainers at Red Castle as well. The winds have always whispered to you, even in Aremoria.”

  She twisted her mouth.

  He tugged her gently to the rim of the navel well. Built of limestone, the once creamy-gold stone was grimy with smoke stains and lichen. Any mold that grew in the cracks or in the mortar was carefully scrubbed clean by young hands at every zenith. Brambly blackberry vines twisted along the north of the well, all spikes and brown leaves, and a cluster of spindly starweed stalks lifted over the back rim, heads brown and heavy with death-rattle seeds.

  “That’s not safe,” Isarna murmured, staring at the hemlock. “There are children everywhere.”

  “They know,” Connley replied, glad she was familiar with the plant. Even the crunchy seedpods were poisonous.

  The dipper hung from an iron hook drilled into the well, below which a rope coiled like a nest around the small bucket. Connley picked it up and dropped it down the shaft, lowering it with practiced ease so that the bucket never tapped the sides of the well.

  “Is this the well you crawled into as a baby?” Isarna asked, putting both hands to the edge. She leaned over and peered down at the darkness. Hair fell around her and she sniffed in irritation, trying to tuck the disparate short curls behind her ears.

  “You believe that story?”

  Isarna glanced at him with a wry smile. “Would Mared lie to me?”

  Sunlight chose that moment to glint through the clouds and shine down against the back of her head, catching the curls alight, gracing her cheek, and finding even the pink corner of her mouth.

  Just like the island often found ways to make Rowan appear more spectacular, so it seemed to favor Isarna. Innis Lear wan
ted her—or needed her.

  As he stared, Isarna took the rope from him and dragged the bucket up. It knocked clumsily against the inner stone bricks. When the bucket appeared, Isarna grasped it, holding it against her belly. She smiled at him.

  Connley filled the dipper from the bucket. He offered it to her, and she accepted, putting it to her lips. She raised her eyebrows to ask if she was doing it correctly.

  “Just a sip,” he said. “And give thanks to the rootwaters for feeding you.”

  Isarna drank, licked a drop off her bottom lip, and said, “Thanks, Innis Lear.”

  Though amusement tinged her voice, she was not dismissive.

  Connley drank, too, reveling in the cold starlight flavor, and in the language of trees he whispered, Our thanks, for rejuvenation.

  “What did you say?” She lowered the bucket down again, not looking at him as she spoke. “I can almost understand sometimes.”

  “The same as you, nearly.”

  “And what does this have to do with … this?” Isarna fluttered her fingers around the ragged edges of her hair.

  Connley caught a curl and held on. It put his hand a breath away from her cheek, his body near to hers. Never had he thought of kissing someone shorter than himself before. It might be awkward. Quietly, he said, “It doesn’t. But I’m taking you where I can explain, and to enter, it is better to … be welcomed with rootwaters.”

  “All right.” Isarna took his hand from her hair and lowered it, but did not release him. “Let’s go.”

  Connley led her into the ruins of the old black keep.

  It had once been a fortress with twelve-foot-thick walls and arrow-slit windows, four levels of impregnable stone. Isarna’s expression clearly showed her better approval of this defensive posture than she’d had for the decorative, newer Connley Castle. Connley touched the small of her back as he led her under the remains of the gatehouse and into the long, dark tunnel that cut through the wall.

  Inside, the air smelled of earthy water and crisp woodsmoke, of fallen leaves and roses. The keep had been gutted, the wood rotted away long ago, and so it was only the shell of what it once had been, and roofless. Holes appeared at every level where support beams had once been placed, and the hooded alcoves that would have been hearths held deep shadows.

  In the center grew a massive oak tree.

  “It was planted for the lord’s throne tree,” Connley said. “Like your yew at Annyck. They used to be grown in all our castles—in ancient Aremoria, before Lear was cleaved free. As a living heart, and to feed rootwater prophecy. If the tree blossomed and thrived, so did the heart of the castle.”

  “Pretty story,” Isarna murmured. She stared at the out-of-season roses: they bloomed even now, small faced and white as snow, along the north wall. Hidden among their thick vines was a low, bluish stone slab as long as one of her arms. Matching slabs were fitted low against the other three walls. Recently, the lower walls had been scraped clean and limewashed, then painted with dark blue constellations; the entire cycle of the year was represented around the eastern, southern, and western walls. Era, Connley, Rowan, along with Rowan’s brother and sister, Mared and Vae Lear, had painted most of it themselves three summers ago.

  Isarna walked to the eastern altar. Connley did not follow, though he knew what she studied. Scoured into the rock was daywise root in the language of trees. A shallow bowl held the remnants of wine, and stained evidence of past offerings painted dark lines around the rim.

  “What is this place?”

  He turned his hands palms outward, as if in welcome. “A chapel, of sorts. The oak, as I said, has been here for centuries, but Regan Lear—Elia the Dreamer’s sister—brought the altars here. She was a witch, and she placed the stones where natural lines of magic converge, to meet at the oak. It strengthens the voice of the oak, so that this tree can reach out in turn to rootwaters across the island. They must be rededicated regularly, for the wind is fickle and would drag away fixed magic.”

  Isarna set her fists on her hips. “Why are we here?” she asked, a little too loudly.

  “I wanted to show you this place. I feel peaceful here, and an ache of beauty …” He twisted his mouth uncertainly. “Do you … know what that feeling is?”

  “Yes,” she said, clearly annoyed.

  Connley stepped nearer to her, and whispered in the language of trees, Oak mother, this is Isarna, my wife.

  The wind lifted, dancing and fluttering about him. A lark on one of the low branches cocked its tiny brown head and stared down at Connley, and he smiled. Little brother, will you come say hello? He held out a hand and tilted his face toward the crown of the oak. His lips pursed and he whistled lightly, then said, Come say hello, little brother.

  The lark hopped down, spread its speckled-brown wings, and swooped down to land on Connley’s outstretched hand.

  It was a trick to impress Isarna, and it worked. She touched her mouth in surprise. The bird hopped to Connley’s index finger and perched there, chirping at him, its chest fluttering fast. Will you sing for my pretty mate, little brother?

  The lark spread its wings, flapping them gently for balance, and let out a long, merry trill—usually these birds sang such songs in flight, searching for their own mates.

  Connley smiled the tenderest smile and lifted his eyes to Isarna’s so she might share it.

  The look in her eyes was defiantly disbelieving, yet also intrigued.

  Connley had never needed to convince a layperson of prophecy and witchcraft. Though it was a wild little creature he held, tickling his finger with tiny, sharp talons, he felt like the wild creature himself: a bird keen to befriend a wolf.

  He stared at Isarna until she focused her eyes on the bird alone. He supposed his wife relied on facts, and valued boldness or at least simply honesty. He admired it, for he did not like dissembling himself, nor elaborate poetry, nor games. Though often things were awkward between them, it had served him best these last five weeks when he said exactly what he needed to say, or asked simply for what he wanted.

  “All right, little one,” he murmured, then lifted his hand to boost the bird back into the air. Both he and Isarna watched it fly up and up, darting through bare oak branches to the cloudy blue sky.

  When Connley looked at Isarna again, he bowed his mouth down grimly. “There is a spirit haunting me.”

  Isarna laughed lightly at his melodrama.

  Connley did not smile. He had never needed explain this to anybody before, because everyone on Innis Lear already knew. None spoke of it—though when Connley wore his ashes he received glances of pity and awe, and often both. A fate like that which belonged to those chosen by the Lady of Ashes invoked many complicated emotions on the island. In the same solemn tone, he said, “Innis Lear is home to many spirits and ghosts, those voices part of the wind and embraced by the roots of the trees. They’re like any spirits of any living place, though often stronger because of the rootwaters. But for this one: she is too aware of herself, and a part of the wind, but not. Rowan believes she’s a misborn earth saint, because we have no true earth saints on Innis Lear. I’ve known her since I was a baby, and I—I love her. It must be strange to hear, but always her voice has been in my ear, her devotion unwavering. She is the Lady Ashling, and loves me, and is an entirely jealous spirit.”

  “You think she did this to my hair.” Hotspur backed away, her uncertainty clear.

  “And cooled your drink and threw acorns at you, and has tormented you since the moment you arrived on the island.” He felt himself speaking faster. “Ashling has, in the past, not recently, drawn children into the woods with goblin lights, and pretty songs. You should be safe from such things—”

  “Connley,” she said, then nothing more. She crossed her arms around her ribs.

  “You don’t believe me.” He nodded, sad but unsurprised.

  “I don’t want to believe you! It’s madness, and if it’s true, then—then what else is true?”

  He frowned, attune
d to things unsaid, and so hearing an almost-confession in her words. What else is true. Connley moved nearer again to her, wishing to grasp her in his arms. That was what Rowan would do: take her curls in his fist and she’d do anything he wanted. He said, “I have seen you tilt your head to listen to the wind, Isarna. I know you sense the call of trees, and the wind nudges you where safety lies or tells you of coming rain. You hear the voice of your sword.” Passion put a whisper to his words, as if he could sink into quiet emphasis instead of yelling at her. “You do believe.”

  Fury suddenly blazed across Isarna’s expression. “Then you’d better do something about it, Connley Errigal. I am your wife, and I will not tolerate disrespect from anyone or anything on Innis Lear. Do you hear me, ghost?”

  Tilting her head back, Isarna flung out her arms. She glared at the oak tree, at the altars and sky, at the very air itself. “Stay away from me! And Connley—he’s mine now!”

  “She doesn’t come here,” Connley said, taking Isarna’s wrist. “This garden—she doesn’t come here.”

  Isarna tugged away from him. “Then I’ll go where she is.”

  Connley was too stunned to stop her when she marched back out of the black ruins. He hurried after, running into her back when she stopped abruptly in the inner yard. “What is her name?”

  “Ash. Um, Ashling.”

  Isarna bellowed, “Ashling ghost! Show yourself if you are no coward! Try your best, but I am not going anywhere!”

  The noise drew folk to windows along the castle wall, and everyone in the yard paused to stare.

  “Ashling!” Isarna yelled again.

  Wind blew, pressing and thoughtful—curious even, Connley thought, though he could not stop staring at his wife. There she stood, red hair shorn wild, fists on her hips, in a dark blue overdress, screaming at the sky—at the very island itself.

  “If she can’t understand me, translate,” Isarna demanded.

  Lady, are you here? Connley said in the language of trees.