Wine was thrust into Hal’s hand and she drank, sharing her cup with Charm as was proper, he’d heard, for newly married couples. He asked, “Have you heard from her?” and Hal frowned no. She shut her eyes, letting him read the fear on her face. She opened them and smiled for everyone else.
They moved into the crowd as a unit, and his wife, his prince, leaned into him sometimes, and away from him suddenly at others, and Charm suspected Hal felt both strengthened by his solid presence and increasingly nervous of his physical nearness. While not expected by the traditions of Charm’s people, consummation certainly was expected by hers.
An hour passed, filled with conversations and assurances, sharing a bite with each other to perform their union, and still Hal’s final guest did not appear. Earls and lords, knights and ladies, rich merchants, ambassadors and soldiers and librarians from the Royal University approached them with words of congratulations and gifts, passed to Ter Melia at Hal’s left or Tigirsenna on Charm’s right, who then passed them to attendants for safekeeping. Charm spied Lanna Ritus, a former Lady Knight, and Danika de Everus, who had not been one of the original corps, but had served as a foot soldier under Lord Everus during Celedrix’s revolution and been raised in rank for her performance. Both were here on Hal’s invitation, as was Nova Irris, leaning angrily against a pillar of whitewashed stone, flushed in her youthful fury.
Charm’s aunt Elodisil approached with her lips parted respectfully, and said, “Echarmet of Celeda Queen, we will miss your name in our Mother-lines, but respect the line of Moon And Shadow.” With her was Ambassador Enai, both resplendent in gold-shot godscarves, heavy gold earrings tugging at their lobes.
“Will you return home now, first-daughter of Elophet?” Tigir asked from Charm’s side, in the rolling Mother-tongue.
Elodisil tapped a finger to Tigir’s head, where her hair had been ironed into thick curls and no godscarf wrapped. “I will go, yes, to take news of this union to our Great Mother. With the first ships of the spring, though, there will be a battalion of soldiers for Charm to take at his wife’s side when she goes to war.”
Hal said, in careful Mother-tongue, “We give thanks to the Great Mother for her gift. But …” here the prince returned to Aremore, “I regret the necessity of it.”
“It would be a gift even if this were a peaceful time,” Elodisil said, and at her side Enai nodded his agreement.
Charm said, “It is my dowry, Hal.”
She laughed as he’d intended.
The merriment faded quickly as their guests continued to approach, and Hal grew impatient again with searching through the crowd. The prince said, “She has to come.”
Charm offered her their shared cup of wine again. “If she does not, you will be just as strong.”
“That is a low bar, Charm. My strength comes and goes.”
“Like a tide, and nothing affects us more than a tide.”
“The sun,” Hal whispered.
“You can give the declaration to someone else,” he said softly.
Hal lifted her chin, and then, reluctantly, said, “But I want her.”
In the tongue of Mothers, Charm said, “Because she Fathered you.”
“My mother was banished when I was ten. My father died two years later.” The prince’s voice was so low it could hardly be heard over the chorus of guests laughing and chatting. “Ianta Oldcastle was mother and father, both. I want her to know this is possible. I have to do this, make this thing for her and for me—for all of us. To prove the world can change at my word, if only in this small way.”
Charm admired the passion behind her sentiment and nodded once. “It is good for you to make yourself … a home for them. And for me.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
Just then a break appeared in the crowd and there the old knight posed in the center of the marble floor: Tall and wide, in a too-tight orange coat she’d saved for years, and the proof of its time folded at the bottom of a trunk was in the long wrinkles cutting across the tightly buttoned front. Ianta Oldcastle stomped her way down the aisle, silver-blond hair twisted up in a messy bun, cheeks red.
Hal stopped breathing, and then relaxed into a laughing, breathy grin. “Come here, old friend,” she called. She released Charm’s hand, but he followed, placing that hand upon her shoulder.
The entire chamber slowly quieted in waves until each face had turned upon either Hal or Ianta Oldcastle.
The knight obeyed, with only a glance toward Queen Celeda. She stopped out of reach of her prince and sank hard onto one knee. “My lady.”
“Ianta,” Hal said. “Lady Ianta, I am Hal Bolinbroke, born Calepia, daughter of Celedrix and Aremoria, and here is my husband, Echarmet of Kurake Queen, who becomes now Echarmet of Celeda Queen, prince of Aremoria. Someday I will be queen, but our line shall remain named just so: Celedrix.”
Though she sighed hard, Lady Ianta nodded. “I see you, Hal Celedrix, and your husband, for he is rather too large to miss.”
Charm stepped forward to offer his hand to the old knight. “A thing we have in common, Father.” The title he said in the Mother-tongue, because his wife’s Father was now his own.
And Ianta scowled as she gripped his hand, pulling hard to drag herself back to her feet. “I need a fucking drink, Hal,” she said.
Hal answered, “Then go with us. I have another thing to discuss with you.”
With that, Charm and his wife retired to the Princes’ Gallery down the corridor and beyond the throne room, where every portrait of every prince for two hundred years hung upon the gilded walls. Additionally, a small table was set in the center, right where the afternoon sunlight arrowed, and readied with a pen and inkpot, and a roll of expensive parchment flattened by amethyst weights.
Lady Ianta followed grumpily behind, and Hal had Ter Melia collect the others. They were eight in all: herself and Charm, Ianta, Ter Melia, Nova and Lanna Ritus and Danika de Everus, and finally Princess Vatta joined them, too, closing the door upon a disappointed young Tigir. Two attendants shared out wine, which Ianta drank greedily and asked for more.
Then the wizard stood beside the portrait of a young prince upon a battlefield. Charm was unsettled to see the small, strange man simply appear within a closed room.
“Lady Vatta,” Hal said, and walked to the table. She touched the charter. Vatta took up the pen, dipped it in ink, and signed her name.
Ter Melia nudged Lanna Ritus, who came and signed her name, too, marking the same vow. Then Danika de Everus took her turn. Hal drank with both.
Nova Irris, the spiky young woman who had been Hal’s recent lover, stared between her prince and the charter, arms crossed tightly over her chest as she waited just beside Ianta Oldcastle. She’d not choose against Ianta, Charm could see that, and respected it while at the same time he would never forget where the young woman set power.
Oldcastle studied Prince Hal with calm blue eyes.
“Be my Lady Knight,” Hal said. “A wedding present for your future queen.”
Ianta screwed her mouth unpleasantly, glaring at Hal. “I lost everything, Hal, I don’t want to lose again. Look what’s become of me. Drunk, red faced, soft. The muscles under this flesh melted with my future.”
“So bitter sounding.” Hal put a light sneer into her voice. “You’re not the only one. I lost, Hotspur lost—Banna Mora lost, and Ter Melia and Nova! All of us. But not all of us gave in to it. You and I did, we wasted away, we hid and drank and—we must emerge stronger.”
“Why?” Ianta’s voice did not grow louder, as Hal’s did. “Honor—”
“—is for the dead, I know.” Hal shook her head. “This is friendship, and a future. This is about Aremoria and who will be the sun. You’ve spent years at my side, with me, Ianta. I thought you believed me when I said one day I would step out of the rain.”
“I do. But you don’t need me for that. Let me to what I have become.”
“My friend. You were my mentor, but I want you now to be my frie
nd.”
“Do queens have friends?” Ianta muttered.
“Yes!” cried Prince Hal. “Otherwise what is the point of anything? You are my friend, I choose you. All of you, if you will choose me in return. And Miss Quick and my wizard, Charm, my husband and friend, my court, my family, and every person in Lionis, for worm’s sake! All of Aremoria is my friend. The roots and flowers and sky! There is no sun without all of that! Don’t you see? I exist to be your friend. To be Aremoria’s friend! The queen is supposed to be the sun, but what is the sun without sky and moon and land and people? A useless cold star.” Hal put her hands to her waist and glared at Ianta, then at everyone, including Charm, too, in the sweep of her hot glance.
Hal looked back at Ianta. Slowly, with terrible precision, she said, “And if I have enemies, I will be friend to my enemies and meet them where they insist! With violence and mercy.”
“There it is,” murmured the wizard, who had sunk down to his haunches beneath the portrait. Charm felt watched by both the wizard and the painted prince above him.
“Hal,” Ianta said. “All right. Stop fussing.” She looked around at their audience, then at Charm. He crossed his arms again. The old knight struggled to control her descent to one knee again. “My prince. Hal Bolinbroke, daughter of Celedrix. My sword is yours, and my life. So I swear.”
Hal walked forward, a hand out. She touched it to the wrinkles at Ianta’s forehead. “Friend. And friends. You are witness to this vow, and have witnessed one another’s. Though much has come before, this is our beginning. My land is on fire, my loves. Our land is burning. But we will fight, we will stand together and win. We will repair the fault lines pulling our country to pieces, and weave ourselves—this very landscape—into something more glorious than any of us could imagine alone.”
“Prince Hal!” cried Ter Melia.
“Prince Hal!” joined in the others.
“Hal of Aremoria,” added Charm enthusiastically, just as inspired as the rest of them.
CHARM WOULD HAVE let Hal be alone that night, if it had been up to him. Alone, or sharing nothing but mulled wine and the fireside and friendship.
When finally they were ushered to their new rooms, no larger than his had been, but slightly more so than hers, Hal had not spoken a word to him in nearly half an hour. Charm felt heavy, as if his bones were made of steel. He wanted to feel anticipation, desire, hope for their future, but his wife—his wife—remained anxious.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” she said, walking steadily toward a tray of liquor. But she stopped, never touching the crystal carafe. “Over and over again, as if to imagine it in many ways would make the moment better.” Hal glanced at him over her shoulder, determinedly wry. “It didn’t work.”
Charm sighed silently, his shoulders heaving. “As far as I am concerned, as far as Elophet, Great Mother of Es I-Eles-Xih A Es is concerned, I am your husband, your consort, and your future king. There is no further requirement upon our union tonight, nor at all again until it is time for us to make children.”
“I appreciate that, Charm, I do, but the longer we put it off, the worse it will be, don’t you think?” Hal left the liquor alone and suddenly began to untie the laces under her left arm that made her red tunic hug her waist. She fumbled but said nothing, brow wrinkled in concentration. Charm wondered if it would be better or worse to help her as he opened the buckle of the belt across his chest that held his swords crossed upon his back. The harness loosened easily and he settled it on the back of a plain wooden chair. He waited, studying the room instead of Hal.
Windows taller than him were flushed black from the night beyond, and candles lit the room, set in silver upon little tables here and there, on a bookshelf—dangerously, he thought. There was a wide-open arch cut into the wall beside the pretty hearth, and he could see the edge of a bed from where he stood. Dark purple and flower-braided blankets were piled upon it.
Hal hissed as she succeeded, and with one motion stripped the tunic entirely off herself, dropping it to the floor. It plopped down hard, because of the jewels embroidered along the collar and cuffs.
“Your turn,” the prince said, and marched to Charm as if he were a battlefield. She wore only a thin sleeveless shirt over her trousers and polished boots. Her hair looped and curled delicately with moon-drop pearls and tumbled down her neck. She swallowed, and he followed the line of her throat past her collar and to the folds of linen against her breasts. Charm’s skin felt tight and ready, his palms hot, wanting to be filled with her hair and thighs. At least, he thought, he would have no trouble stirring himself for her. He only wished they could make love joyfully, as friends. Hal loved to wrestle, to run and play, and sex ought to have been exactly that between them.
Without warning, Hal kissed him.
Her mouth was hot but awkward, a forceful press of lips—not even as simple as the kiss she’d given him before the folk of Lionis Palace. Charm parted his lips and breathed in softly against her, a god’s kiss.
Hal leaned down off her tiptoes.
Charm had already touched her hips, and followed her motion, letting her be free, though one hand lingered against her ribs, rucking her shirt up slightly.
With wide, intent brown eyes, she studied him, and said, “I keep thinking of Owyn Glennadoer, who I skewered as you will skewer me. There was blood at the corner of his mouth, blood on my sword, and blood sprayed, like ribbons in my hair.”
“I am not a knife inside you,” Charm said very low in his throat. “I am not your death. I have seen death, too, Hal.”
She flattened her hand on his chest and pushed gently.
Charm released his hold.
“Tell me a different story,” Hal whispered, turning her back to him. She reached up to draw her hair around her shoulder, off her neck, and caught his eye briefly.
He stepped close, putting one hand carefully around her waist, and when she did not flinch or draw away, he pulled her flat against him. “You are Aremoria,” he murmured, bending his neck to say the words against her temple. Her lashes fluttered and closed. “The only story I know for this is about touch, and smells, and trust, Hal.” He put his lips to her skin, kissed her, breathing in. “You smell of sweet pine boughs from the receiving hall. Of salt and wine, a heady combination, Prince. I am here to serve you, to make you a Mother one day, the greatest role for a man to play in a queen’s line—and though I may do other things, serve you in other ways to be your consort, my ambition is my own. Through you, I will be able to influence the course of history. For you, I give my body, my seed, and my future united to your line forever. Tell me what you smell.”
Startled, she opened her eyes. Hal put a hand over his on her stomach, sliding her fingers forward to link between his. She turned her face and breathed in. “Wine, and sword oil, and the tickle of the powder in your hair. I don’t know what it smells like, a very delicate clay, perfumed with a vivid earthy something. It smells like I want to taste it.”
“Myrrh,” Charm said.
“You smell like myrrh,” she whispered.
“Do you like it?”
“I do. I like it.”
“That is all this is, Prince Hal, our marriage. Two bodies touching until we smell the same.”
She leaned against him, as if she was finally relaxing. “You did promise me poetry,” she said, eyes closed, head lolling.
Charm hugged her, wrapping both arms around her, and he kissed her cheek, then with one hand tilted her chin sideways to kiss her mouth. He liked how she smelled and tasted, and gave in to the urge to open her mouth with his, kissing more deeply.
Hal shivered, and the squirm of it slid along his entire body. Charm moaned softly for her, so she would know his pleasure, as his sex organ hardened.
But the prince went stiff, too, closing her mouth.
He let go.
“This isn’t going to work,” she said, avoiding his gaze as she moved away—but her thigh hit the edge of the sofa and she snapped her eyes up to h
is. “We’ll need something to … I’ll never be ready. I—I know what is necessary, and it will hurt me too much unless I have something to wet myself with.”
Charm, who had believed her months ago when she had said as much, nodded, jaw clenched. He did his best to hide his disappointment, glad she could not see how warm his face felt, could not understand how tightly he had grown. “I have another strategy prepared,” he said, going to the door. He opened it before she could stop him.
Three attendants waited, should the new couple need anything. One was a young Mother of Ambassador Enai’s household. Her head was bowed beneath a simple pink-and-white godscarf, her light brown hands folded patiently around a silk bag. Charm beckoned for her with her name.
She came inside.
“Hal,” he said, “this is Talsil, whose desire-of-reflection is strong, and has shared with me that she finds you very beautiful.”
The prince stared at Talsil for a long moment, seeming at war with herself, both terrified and intrigued. “Talsil,” she said, licking her bottom lip. “You are also very beautiful.”
The young Mother smiled, rounding her face pleasingly. Charm knew her to be full of humor and familiar with the ways of Aremoria, such as only one who had lived here most of her life could be.
“What do you do?” Hal asked. She darted a glance at Charm, who smiled, too, amused at her.
“I write for Ambassador Enai, and teach the children of his household the art of writing and Luminous calligraphy. But—” Talsil winked. “I have other skills with my hands, and brought with me a very fine oil that warms almost instantly to the touch.”
“Worms,” Hal whispered, then blew out a heavy sigh. She raised her eyebrows at Charm.
“I would like a massage,” Charm said. “It has been a stressful day. Talsil is quite talented at tracing the breath of God upon the muscles of one’s back, wife.”
“Are you?” Hal managed a real smile this time. “I would like to know what words the Luminous has put against my skin.”
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