ANNYCK CASTLE SPRAWLED in golden limestone glory on a bluff rising off the River Win. The main keep was a solid four-story building with a small square tower at each corner, in the center of two broad, green yards, themselves surrounded by twelve-foot-thick walls and guard towers. The massive front gate fell open for Hotspur, slowly and under the power of a dozen strong retainers who lowered it across the dry moat, alive this time of year with summer wildflowers.
While most of her army slowly made its way around the surrounding town, Hotspur had led several lines of soldiers directly through the winding main street. She rode armored, with the green cloak of Perseria spilling from her shoulders to flow over the rump of her horse. Two flag bearers just behind her flew her crest, the Red Castle. She smiled and waved to those townsfolk who leaned out windows or paused in their days’ work to welcome Isarna Persy home.
The sky was brilliant and clear, the air just cool enough it was not quite a hell to ride so slowly under such military weight.
The hostage, Douglass of Burgun, rode unbound beside her. His armor and weaponry had been returned to him, and he’d been given plenty of food and water to care for himself, though denied attendants. He was broad and handsome in an angry, blocky way that Hotspur appreciated but was uninterested in: his nose crooked over a beard of indeterminate brown, his mouth was full and often pursed in thought. He glowered now as if the sun were his enemy, gloved hands curled tight around the reins of his borrowed horse. She admired his seat and balance, the ease with which he rode, and though the fur trim of his cloak had been torn in two places, the ripped fur gave an impression of barbarian power instead of decrepit royalty. The latter of which was much more accurate, Hotspur thought, sneering in amusement.
And Douglass caught her looking.
He’d already proposed to her twice. The first time she’d angrily told him she was not in the marrying mood. Next he’d suggested her rumored devotion to the Prince of Riot was gossip she ought to rid herself of, perhaps by wedding a handsome Burgun man, so she’d shoved him off his horse.
Now Hotspur led her captains and aides across the bridge and under the iron teeth of the portcullis, though the way narrowed so only two might ride through abreast. When she emerged into the sunny foreyard, a half circle of residents waited, including both her parents. They stood upon a wide green rug—more emerald than the trampled and yellowing grass of the yard. A high-backed chair waited behind her mother, a shorter one behind her father, and stools upon which several of Hotspur’s cousins and more distant relatives had perched angled around the two thrones like chicks after their dam. Servants held tall ash poles strung with green-and-silver banners and ropes of wildflowers, creating a wall behind the earl and her husband, Lord Perseria.
Hotspur leaned back in the saddle to stop her horse, and dismounted. A retainer took the reins as she strode toward her parents.
Caratica, the Earl Perseria, was forty-six years old and stood leaning slightly toward her right side, her fist tight around the head of a polished cane. She held her chin high, watching her daughter with the same blue eyes set in a more square face, and skin become paler from having lost her place in the army. She suffered constant pain that had already etched itself around her mouth. Her husband, Lord Perseria, was ten years older, a Rusrike, and slowly dying of a rattle cough. They’d always been friends, but never more, at least to Hotspur’s eye.
Though she loved her parents, it was Hotspur’s respect for Caratica that squeezed her heart. Her father frustrated her—and had since the day he suggested swords and skirts did not get on together, and perhaps she should give up her mother’s and aunt’s soldiering ways.
Young Hotspur, naturally, had taken her sword and cut her skirts away, glaring at her father all the while. Caratica sent her at the age of nine to foster with Vindomata, who had turned her into a warrior.
Her mother stepped forward now, a hand outstretched for her daughter. Hotspur went to one knee and kissed Caratica’s fingers. “I’ve returned victorious, Mother.”
“I never doubted,” the earl said loudly. “We’ll drink to you tonight, and to your stories, and join the ashes of your dead with those in our family vault, to honor them.”
Hotspur stood and went to hug her father. His beard tickled her cheek, and he put his fingers under her chin to better angle her face that he might frown upon the cuts put there by the prince of Burgun. Lord Perseria said, “You are otherwise uninjured?”
“Nothing major, though I’ll have a fine scar here.” She touched her shoulder, where beneath cloak and mail and linen the stitches Vindomata had sewn ached with gentle fire.
“My daughter the warrior,” he said with pride, finally, and disbelief, still. And then as always, Hotspur wanted to suggest he might not’ve been surprised, marrying into a line of warrior women, if he’d ever chosen to look past his own expectations.
But she said nothing to her father, instead waving a hand at the man behind her, who slouched on his horse like a massive child.
“Here,” she said, “is Douglass, the prince of Burgun, and my hostage.”
Lord Perseria hummed and eyed the prince, seeming impressed, but Caratica frowned and said, “Yours?”
“Mine,” Hotspur confirmed, meeting her mother’s eye with a silent warning.
“Let us go inside, then, and see to our guest,” Caratica said. “But first, a toast.”
Wine and small cups were brought out, given to all who were more than soldiers or servants, including the recalcitrant Douglass.
“To Hotspur,” the Earl Perseria said, lifting her cup high.
“Hotspur!” called those gathered, and Hotspur herself breathed deeply of the sound: she had done well, exceedingly so, and deserved every moment such as this.
Caratica told Hotspur to clean up and then attend upon her for an hour before supper would be laid for welcome, victory, and Douglass of Burgun.
“I’ll show him to his rooms,” Hotspur volunteered, kissing her mother’s cheek again. Then she beckoned her hostage to her side. “Come, man, this way.”
He bowed grudgingly at the earl, then stomped to Hotspur; she led him a half pace ahead, though it allowed him to hulk over her. She kept her shoulders rigid and a hand on her sword. Burgun would do nothing to risk himself, not in the Persy ancestral home.
They walked through the thirteen-foot-long tunnel that burrowed through the keep’s main wall, beneath murder holes and two iron gates, then entered the conduit court. Built of stone walls and stone floor, from here one could go directly to any part of the keep. Dark archways on the ground level led to kitchen and larder, then to the tower stairs—either down into the armory and below even that into the bedrock prison, or up to the secretarial offices and staff living quarters. A wide stone staircase on the western wall led to a balustrade circling the entire court with arches leading into master chambers, great hall, study, and library.
Hotspur jogged halfway up the stone staircase before she realized Douglass had paused in the courtyard, staring up at the fifty-foot yew tree growing from the center. She hardly noticed it anymore, as it hadn’t changed in all her twenty years of life.
Gray bark, ridged deeply, curved in a slow spiral up and up and up toward the high gray branches. Narrow, bright green leaves draped over the courtyard, shading all of it. At the base, heavy stones had been placed in a circle like a well. They were uneven now, as the tree had pressed up against them as it grew.
“Is this an altar?” Douglass asked.
Hotspur twisted up her face. “It’s a tree.”
The Burgun prince slid her an uncharacteristically wry look. “Was it an altar, then?”
“What do I know of ancient superstition? Is that a thing you know well in Burgun?” It was on her tongue to say something terrible about burying bones in the roots of trees like this, the way heathens did, and earth saints. Beneath her hand, her sword whispered uneasily.
Douglass shrugged. “It seems unlikely to have been anything else, but I suppose it’s possible a Persy ancestor was just stupid enough to try to grow a tree in stone.”
“It worked,” she snarled.
Douglass laughed and took the steps two at a time to reach her in seconds. “Or you built the castle around the tree.”
Other retainers and servants were filtering in behind them with stools and discarded cups from the greeting party, so Hotspur did what none expected of her: she swallowed her retort and grabbed his sleeve, dragging him with her the rest of the way to his rooms.
“Here, Douglass. I’ll send someone to fetch you for dinner, and send a bath. You stink.”
“I know I don’t, Lady Persy, but I’ll take your snarling as a compliment.”
She shoved him into the room and dragged closed the heavy door. As she hurried around the balustrade toward her room, she snagged a man and asked the order be passed that Douglass was to be assigned a footman for his stay, and treated like an honored guest despite being housed over the armory. Then she slammed into her room, where one of her mother’s girls waited to help her into the bath. Once dry and dressed again, Hotspur snatched a handful of dried peach slices and ate them as she went to her mother.
Caratica waited alone in the study just off the greeting hall. The earl stood at one tall glass window, leaning on her good leg. Her red-gray braid was unpinned, hanging like a rope down her spine. “Hotspur,” she said lightly.
“Mother.” Hotspur sank onto a cushioned stool beside the shelves of books and scrolls that lined the entirety of the south wall. She finished the last strip of peach. “I have little to say that can’t be shared with all. The battle was straightforward, though …” Hotspur grimaced. “Vindomata will tell you I drove off the queen’s representative. He was disgusting and terrible, and you’d have hated him, too. All disrespect for my men, my soldiers who’d just died, Mother! It was appalling. Abominable.”
“I’m sure it was, Hotspur. That is not why I wanted to speak with you alone and immediately.”
Hotspur sat straight up from her slouch. Caratica’s tone was too light to be relaxing. “What is wrong?”
The earl reached, without shifting her legs or weight, for two folded letters on the windowsill. “I have received an interesting letter from Banna Mora.”
“Mora?” Hotspur cried.
“Yes. As have you.” Caratica offered the top letter to Hotspur, who leapt up and took it, tearing past the wax seal to unfold it.
Dear Isarna, Lady Hotspur,
Long has it been since last we spoke, and as many things have happened to me in the interim, I imagine your portion has been just as complicated and strange.
First I shall say: I miss you.
Second: I find myself in good spirit here with my family and among the ancient roots of my people on Innis Lear. Within the week I will be married, to Rowan Lear.
This is my third attempt to write you. I cushioned my words in the previous versions, sidestepping the truth and dimming the harsh light by tugging clouds across the face of the sun. I should have remembered you would have no interest in pretty words if they were lies. I have remembered myself, too, and who I am, fundamentally. And so, I say this plainly: I am the true heir to the throne of Aremoria.
You know this, and Celeda knows it, too, or else why keep me away?
I aim to take the crown to reunite Innis Lear and Aremoria, as they were always intended to be. Morimaros himself wrote it: the greatest king will unite the two lands. I want your aid. Perseria has long been the shield and sword of Aremoria, and at best, I ask you to be my sword and my shield. At least, I ask you to remove your shield from across their bodies. Allow me my path.
If you read still, Hotspur, I take it only as evidence you have not immediately burned my letter in horror, hatred, or disgust.
If you read still, consider this, too: I have a brother named Connley, your age and strong of heart. He is of my blood, half Aremore and half Learish, both royal lines, and besides that he is a wizard. I have begun to know him these last months, and believe him to be everything that is good in the heart of this island. Marry him, and solidify our friendship. Marry him, and find happiness I know you have not yet found. The end you seek can be for both Innis Lear and Aremoria.
I await your response eagerly,
Banna Mora of Aremoria and Innis Lear
Hotspur read the entire missive, then read it again. Marriage, and—and open rebellion. And that last line, the end you seek, Hotspur understood too well. Mora wished for the same thing Hal had last year: to use the prophecy and win a crown.
“Hotspur?” her mother said carefully.
Hotspur’s mouth was dry. She swallowed and asked, “What does she say to you, Mother?”
“She proposes your marriage to her brother, though I suspect she is more bold in her words to you, or else you have jumped to a political conclusion faster than I expected.”
It was said so calmly Hotspur knew Caratica was clamping down on her emotions. Hotspur handed her letter to her mother and watched as she read the first few lines, then had to stop looking. Hotspur turned to the wall and gripped the dark shelf, wishing she could imprint her nails into the smooth, grainy wood.
Her skin flushed, but her stomach felt like a chunk of ice. Mora was bent on retaking her crown. Offering Hotspur alliance. But against Celeda, the queen Hotspur had fought alongside, to put her on the throne of Aremoria.
Oh, wormshit, but Celedrix should never have forced Banna Mora away from Lionis.
There would be war, soon, no matter what the Persys did.
Hotspur’s stomach twisted.
What would Hal say to this?
What was best for Aremoria? For Hotspur’s family and the people of Perseria?
“Oh,” Caratica said, a single syllable pulled from her guts, dark and immediate and definitive.
Hotspur caught her mother’s eyes. She shook her head, panicked.
The earl sat abruptly on the windowsill. She flattened her hands on her knees. “Hotspur. Isarna. Tell me everything that happened on the Burgun border, now, and everything about the queen’s man, and everything you can think of that Vindomata has said to you in the past two months. We must send for my sister, and see.”
“See?” Hotspur whispered, her fingers trembling. “There is nothing to see.”
“How we will respond, Hotspur. Do we ignore it, do we bring it all to Celeda? There is no turning back from this letter, my daughter.”
“Mora must know that, too. She sent it—knowing. She’s not afraid at all,” Hotspur said, disliking the breathy quality of her voice.
“Why should she be? What should she fear?” Caratica touched her forehead, pressing a spot of white into the skin, banishing all blood.
Hotspur opened her mouth with the immediate answer, but stopped herself from admitting the instinct to her mother.
Me, she thought. Banna Mora should be afraid of me.