Lady Hotspur

by Tessa Gratton

  Of her wizard, Hal had asked, “Are you a witch or wizard?”

  In his quiet way, he’d answered, “When I have been reviled or feared, I have been a witch; when admired, a wizard. That is the only distinction I know.”

  “Are people afraid of me?” Connley wondered, brow wrinkling, and Rowan had touched the man’s jaw with his fingertips.

  “They don’t understand you,” he’d replied, firmly.

  The yard of Dondubhan grew hushed, as everyone studied the two wizards. Though Rowan was the younger, he was also the taller and broader where Hal’s wizard was fit but small. Rowan seemed a gilded prince at the height of his power; the wizard a modest soldier.

  Connley used chalk to mark the circle, then bowed to the queen and announced the field was ready. Solas raised her hand and bade the game begin.

  The wizard drew a deep enough breath his shoulders lifted, and he turned his left palm outward. Nothing changed.

  Rowan bowed to him and stepped his right foot firmly down. The ground trembled, and Rowan’s lips moved; with his whisper came the wind. It gusted toward him, spinning around the prince, and shot toward the wizard, who merely closed his eyes. That wind tore at the wizard’s hair, shoving at him, and the wizard leaned in. Rowan spread his arms and brought his hands together with a massive clap: fire sparked, and when Rowan pulled his hands apart, white-orange fire blazed in an arc between his palms. He tossed it skyward and the fire transformed into a hundred tiny bats, wings aflame. The fire-bats shot at the wizard, but the wizard murmured and pushed out with a hand; wind pushed the fire-bats aside, knocking them to the ground where they sparked and flared and died.

  Hal’s hands clenched together over her heart.

  The prince sighed and gathered his breath with his hands, weaving it into solid water. He spun his hands and the water spiraled, tilting vertically. Rowan sent it whirling at the wizard, and the wizard reached with one hand to catch the edge. Water splashed in every direction, and the wizard said a word: the water became shards of ice. They did not drive fast at Rowan, though, but sliced down into the yard with hissing thuds.

  Rowan smiled and said, “You never attack, wizard.”

  The wizard smiled back.

  “I won’t tire fast,” Rowan said.

  The wizard remained quiet.

  With a laugh, Rowan crouched. He put a hand to the cold yard, brushing aside gray-gold fronds of river rushes. Eyes open and on the wizard, Rowan spoke to the wind and roots. The earth trembled again, and then dirt rippled, chunks of it moving away from his hand, more and more until the earth became a small fountain and lifted into Rowan’s grip a small, sharp rock.

  With it, Rowan cut a line of blood onto the back of his wrist. He dotted blood into his palm and onto his bottom lip, and spoke again in the whispering language of trees.

  Wind erupted, dragging at the prince’s white-golden hair, dragging at the wizard’s dark braids.

  The wizard did not move.

  A shadow appeared on the earth between the men and Hal glanced up: a cloud was growing over the combat circle. It was thick and dark gray, billowing slowly outward from a single point. All the rest of the sky was clear blue. She didn’t know which wizard had summoned it.

  Rowan said something, and roots thrust out of the ground like reaching fingers. They gripped the wizard’s ankles, tearing at his trousers. The wizard glanced down, surprised, but bent, and when he touched the roots they crumbled. He took a handful of the ashy roots and stood again, meeting Rowan’s gaze. The wizard held out his handful of ashes and slowly released them, letting them drift in the wind.

  With a snap of his fingers, Rowan called more fire. Ten jagged balls of flame floated over his hands, rising into an arc, and he shoved them at the wizard, who extinguished them with wind.

  That gathering storm cloud grew, the edges of its shadow reaching toward the Poison Prince and nameless wizard.

  The wizard still did not attack. Rowan stared at him.

  Again, Rowan stepped hard onto the ground, and from his bare foot a ripple spread, hard and fast, and it whipped the wizard off his feet. The wizard fell back, hitting the ground hard, but he rolled and threw a handful of dirt and rushes, which the wind picked up and slapped at Rowan. Rowan cut his hands down before him, and a shield of wind spun up, shredding the projectiles.

  Rowan spat a word in the language of trees and his wind-shield caught flame, spinning and sparking white-hot. He shrugged off his robe and walked forward, hands out, pressing the fire-wheel forward. It grew, flaring out, and Hal felt the heat of it, narrowing her eyes against its brightness. She heard gasps and worried murmurs but did not look away from the fire. It impressed upon her eyes, so bright, as Rowan moved slowly, holding it all together with a clenched jaw, hair shifting in the eager wind.

  The wizard held his palms out, too, head down, and he whispered, calling wind to spin around him. Tendrils of green crept out of the earth, too soon, out of season, touching his toes and glancing off his ankles. The springtime shoots quavered, and a small cry of pleasure and surprise trickled though the breeze behind Hal, spreading as if Innis Lear itself approved.

  Sweat glistened at Rowan Lear’s temples, and with a yell, he heaved the wheel of fire at the wizard; his was a mortal blow, should it strike, yet Connley did not intervene, for who could believe the wizard at risk?

  With a fist, the wizard punched through the fire.

  Flames burst all around him, driving off in ragged lines like cracks of lightning, and the wizard cried out, reached with his hands, and grasped at the air: a soft pop knocked deep in Hal’s ears, and at the edges of the circle all the lighting-flames simply stopped. The crowd who’d shied away slowly lowered defensive hands.

  The wizard collapsed to his knees, shoulders heaving with effort.

  Rowan swayed with exhaustion but kept to his feet. Staring at the other man, the prince touched his bloody wrist, and with a red-tipped finger drew something in the air.

  As if the world split, pink-white tears appeared, hanging where Rowan drew them: hash-marks, the language of trees.

  Hal desperately wished to read it. She bit her lip to keep from begging for a translation, wondering if Hotspur understood.

  The wizard actually laughed: a soft, sorry laugh, filled with self-mockery. He nodded.

  Rowan closed his fist, and the hash-marks danced together, forming a shape: a small animal, large trianglular ears and thick tail. A fox. It dashed toward the wizard, around him, and then dissipated into the shadow made by the dark storm cloud.

  Silence held taut in the fortress yard.

  Then the cloud itself rumbled, and the billowing verge of its shadow touched the wizard’s hand, enveloping it. He glanced up to the opposite edge of darkness as it grazed Rowan’s foot, then slid up over his body: both men were engulfed in shade.

  The wizard smiled slightly, whispered something, and rolled forward into the shadow.

  He vanished.

  Rowan cried out in shock, and the crowd erupted.

  But the wizard stood behind Rowan; with one step he was up against the prince’s back, an arm wrapped around Rowan’s throat and his other hand around his chest, reaching up to hold the taller man in a choke.

  “End!” yelled Connley, dashing frantically forward.

  The wizard released the prince, who pitched away, spun, and gaped at his vanquisher.

  Everyone was cheering, gasping and amazed, and Hal ran into the circle. Her boots skidded over the rushes and fiery ashes. She blocked sun from her eyes; the cloud dissolved, pulled away in every direction by the wind.

  “That was—you stepped through the shadow,” Rowan said to the wizard, eyes wide, lips parted as he panted a little.

  The wizard said nothing. Though his dark eyes, too, were wider and brighter than usual, as if in a fever.

  “Men and women can do no such thing,” Rowan added.

  “You named me just now, you know what I am,” the wizard answered softly.

  Solas Lear s
tood off her throne and stepped down off the pavilion. “That was incredible, Fox of Aremoria,” she said, “and I grant you the winning of this battle, despite the prowess and strength with which my nephew and heir wielded his magic.”

  “You are very good,” the wizard said to Rowan, who nodded, the start of a smile on one corner of his princely mouth; he had the grace to accept the compliment.

  “Will you teach me?” Rowan asked.

  The wizard peered at him. “Perhaps in a few decades,” he said.

  HAL DONNED HER full armor to meet Hotspur on the field of battle.

  The Lion and the Wolf, together at last.

  Midafternoon poured down upon them blue and clear. The bright sun did nothing to warm the air, only crystalized the light into shards that bit at Hal’s eyes. She settled into the burden of plate mail. It pressed down on her shoulders and the small of her back, the weight dispersed evenly so that her entire body felt meatier, indomitable.

  The prince strode out, sword in hand and buckler gripped in her left, the small circle shield like its own silver sun. Her helm held down the flat braids Catrin had plaited into her hair, and Ter Melia had smeared dark paint around her eyes for the glare. “The champions arrive,” she said, staring at Hotspur. She made her lips hook up into a smile.

  Tell the story, Hal reminded herself.

  Hotspur gleamed in steel and studded leather, her shoulders broadened by pauldrons and her breastplate polished as a mirror. She stepped strongly toward Hal and jammed a helmet over her hooded head. Those blue eyes burned, the only color but for a few thin curls of red hair pressed to her left cheek.

  There were no other people in Dondubhan, for all it mattered to Hal.

  “The day counts only for its end,” Hal said to Hotspur, her voice low and mysterious, for this was a legend she described, a legend reborn right here, between the two of them: Prince Hal and Lady Hotspur. “One champion tall and dark, her elegant strength apparent in every step, her glory in the shine of her sword—a sword of providence, the Heir’s Score, handed down from prince to prince for three hundred years. The other champion aflame, burning too bright for her size but able to carry the power: in her hand a whispering old blade, plain and black, but connected to the very earth beneath their feet.”

  Hotspur scoffed, but her smile made Hal’s heart glow.

  Hal’s heartbeat thrummed in her ears, in the palms of her hands. She tightened her grip on her sword and lifted her buckler to salute in the direction of the royal pavilion. To Hotspur, she said, “The fate of the world knots between these champions, these old friends, bound together by stars, sure, but mostly by their own hearts—and loins. It was time.”

  Hotspur groaned and attacked. Hal met the knight sword to sword, and the force of connection jarred through her bones. Hal ground her feet down, leaning in, pressing toward Hotspur with the blades of their swords crossed, hilts together. Those beloved eyes were every blue that had ever existed, chips of ice and flickering flame, blue sky, blue sea, blue pennants snapping over a tournament, sapphire blue and heavy lapis. Hal clenched her jaw, bared her teeth at Hotspur, and pressed.

  Either could break away: a foot on thigh, a twist and knock of hip, could swing their buckler toward the other’s face. The strain burned in Hal’s shoulder and arm, and the roar of the crowd pressed against their pocket of aggression. But the two held firm.

  “Hal,” Hotspur said through grinding teeth.

  Hal made a kissing face at her and thrust herself away.

  Panting, she winked at Hotspur, and Hotspur shook her head, amused. The sun caught the motion on her helmet, winking light back at Hal.

  This time when Hotspur attacked, she clearly meant it. The world narrowed to patterns ingrained in Hal’s body for fourteen years: strike and turn, buckler up to block, hook the enemy sword and twist to punch up with the pommel, disengage, angle her shoulder right, plant her heavy boots, breathe, breathe, breathe.

  Hotspur got in a tight turn and cut under Hal’s arm for the weak seam between plates; Hal barely avoided it, twisting too fast, and hit a knee to the ground. Dropped her buckler and grabbed Hotspur’s sword wrist, flinging Hotspur back hard enough that she had a moment to clamber to her feet. She pressed her attack, shieldless now but unconcerned. The sword was all she needed.

  Moving hard and quick, Hal hacked at Hotspur again and again, forcing Hotspur back as the knight blocked again and again. They turned on the field, and Hotspur yelled angrily, then dove to escape, catching herself with the buckler and tucking her shoulder. She rolled up, a lovely feat of dexterity in all her plate armor. Hal grinned and ran at her, sword high.

  Hotspur braced with her buckler and sword together, and though Hal shifted the angle of her strike, Hotspur was ready and caught it. Hal pressed in, yelling with effort, using all her weight. Hotspur had to drop her buckler to add power to her sword, and it was pure strength against strength again.

  Hal’s breath burned up her throat, and she forced Hotspur down onto a knee, holding the blade of her sword just over the crossbar with her gauntleted left hand. It added power to her hold, allowed her to adjust the pressure.

  “If I could—if I had a knife,” Hotspur ground out, “I could gut you now, right—right there where the plate is riding up.” Her blue eyes darted down, and Hal’s followed.

  The moment she looked, Hal realized it was a trick and she scrambled back as Hotspur contorted to free her sword and brought it smashing down on Hal’s shoulder.

  It was more than a glancing blow. With a grunt, Hal swung up and caught Hotspur’s side with the edge of her blade. She ought to have lifted to cut up into Hotspur’s armpit, but Hal never wanted to hurt her.

  Hotspur stumbled sideways and used the awkward momentum to grab up a discarded buckler. She flung it at Hal’s face. The edge slammed into Hal’s helm, but she jerked her head aside. Overbalancing, Hal used her sword in the ground to stay upright, gouging a furrow into the yard.

  She was tiring. Single combat like this took more out of Hal than melee, when the chaos drew her into a narrow fugue state and she forgot pain and weariness, she forgot all but the goal: live.

  This, though, was not live or die; Hal had no enemy here.

  This was Hotspur.

  “Maybe,” Hal panted as they both dragged themselves to face off again, “maybe these two champions meet in the middle, and as the zenith sun brings clarity and—and togetherness, we should put our swords down and go get a drink.” She managed a lopsided smile. Her best charm.

  Hotspur choked on a little laugh. “You’d count that as a win.” She attacked.

  Hal sprang forward and caught her arm under Hotspur’s: they slammed together with mutual grunts. Hotspur tried to tear away, but Hal clung to her. Their sword arms could not swing from this position; they were stuck.

  She said, “A win for both of us. Show these islanders how Lady Knights do things, Hotspur. What Aremoria is.”

  “What is Aremoria, Hal?” Hotspur whispered harshly, knocking her helmet against Hal’s. “What is it?”

  “Whatever we make it, together,” Hal begged.

  With a strangled cry, Hotspur dropped down, startling Hal into loosening her grip. Hotspur spun on her knee, sword arcing perfectly, beautifully, into Hal’s unprepared hip: the prince toppled over.

  The ground slammed into her shoulder and leg, jarring her painfully, and Hal rolled half onto her stomach, reaching up to shove the helmet off her head. Pressure fled with it, and sound blazed true again, unmuffled: she was out of the drowning sea.

  She rolled just in time to avoid Hotspur’s sword, and then kicked herself up and shoved into Hotspur’s stomach—the only way Hotspur could avoid it would be to stab directly with her sword. She didn’t.

  Hal bowled her over, and Hotspur’s sword flew out of her hand as she hit the ground. Hotspur’s mouth opened in a grimace. Hal stood in the moment of Hotspur’s stunned delay.

  Panting, Hal put her sword against Hotspur’s gut, and glared. She wiped
hair from her sweating face, and glanced at Hotspur’s burning red cheeks. “If you want to be the Wolf of Aremoria, you must do it under my command.”

  Hotspur snarled at her, but it was not fury in her eyes, it was uncertainty and rebellion.

  Hal swept her arm out, removing the sword. “Aremoria wins,” Hal called, and forced herself to grin. She glanced back down at Hotspur. “Friend,” she added.

  Cheering and celebration pounded through the earth.

  BANNA MORA

  Dondubhan, early winter

  IT HAD BEEN suggested to Mora that she would feel stronger this week because it was the full moon, and such moons lent support to pregnant women. Mora managed to bite her tongue instead of snapping that this was exactly why she wished to regain the Aremore throne: Learish superstitions drove her to madness.

  But as she walked with the royal procession from Dondubhan to the Star Field for the zenith memorial, Ryrie said sweetly, “You’re invigorated tonight,” and Mora easily replied, “It must be the moon.”

  On her other side, Rowan snorted: he knew his wife’s ways, and was himself sparkling with vitality after the day he’d had. Mora held her expression cool and pleasant, and Ryrie seemed to decide her son’s reaction was uninteresting enough to ignore, or at least a shared joke between husband and wife.

  Not for the first time, Mora wondered what sort of mother Ryrie had been, and the anger smoldering in her heart flared.

  An hour ago, as Mora reclined at the great hearth in the communal room of the queen’s tower, awaiting all the Lear family to gather for the ritual, Glennadoer had joined her. He’d crouched beside her like an imposing old dog, fur cloak spilling off his shoulders and bone charms braided into his beard. Black dots arced around both his eyes: the Bear’s Teeth constellation. Mora recognized it herself now.