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.