BOLDLY STRIPED BUT tattered banners decorated the courtyard behind the Quick Sunrise and cheering filled the air—roars of pleasure and surprise, or the occasional horrified booing as the Prince of Riot and her shadow wizard wrestled.
It was an impromptu, drunken match, and the celebrating crowd had shoved aside benches to make a square before the stone well that sank down to the hidden channels that fed Lionis. Most buildings in this low neighborhood did not have wells—they used the nearby river—and some quietly credited the presence of the well for the success of Miss Quick’s establishment. In all probability the well had nothing to do with such bounty, but Ianta certainly would not have purchased the grounds to the north and south if not for it. The old knight still ended every visit to the Quick Sunrise by pouring the final drips of her sack into the well, or if she’d forgotten to save some, spitting over the edge. It was a perfectly casual bit of heresy.
Ianta sat on the low stone edge of the well now, cheering on her prince, and beside her perched the muscled prince of the Third Kingdom. Ianta wore, in honor of the Shadow-Half Festival, a short cape of deer fur, still spotted; it covered only her shoulder and arm, and she stroked it with her other hand, imagining the poor small creature, hoping its spirit had returned to the wind. She thought it a wonderful Halfsies, for she was the opposite of a delicate prey animal, being rather huge and adept at killing. At least, once upon a time.
The Third Kingdom prince had, for the occasion, put on a full complement of Aremore attire: boots, trousers, shirt, and tunic—though the tunic hung unlaced now, thanks to the hot day and sweet sack in his blood. He’d even acquired the binding underthings worn here, and did his best not to shift uncomfortably because of what was, and wasn’t, hanging correctly between his legs. His black hair puffed around his skull uniformly, and he’d powdered it half white, half gold.
Most of the folk in the courtyard wore painted animal masks and ivy crowns, ruffled capes, and all the tumultuous, vivid colors of Aremore autumn. They drank, ate from Quick’s heavily spread sideboard—money from Hal and Ianta both had laid the groundwork for this day’s celebrations—and had been dancing, arguing, and crying insults back and forth until the moment that nameless wizard had murmured some soft thing none but Prince Hal heard. Her brown eyes popped and she insisted they wrestle. The winner would teach the other better grappling.
It was clear the wizard would win.
But to the approval of all, he dragged out the fight. Hal made such glorious, exaggerated faces when headlocked or pinned or when she nearly twisted the wizard into a hold.
They wrestled in only trousers and boots, shirtless, and Hal had unwound the Third Kingdom godscarf from her head—her Halfsies costume, naturally, to complement Charm’s—and insisted Ianta’s squire and her lover Nova help her wrap her breasts tight. Charm had said in his booming voice that in his homeland, the prince would spar as naked as her wizard, and Hal joked that they weren’t even married yet for him to already offer his wife’s breasts to the sight of strangers. The humor hit home with most of those present, but Hal intended it for Nova, who’d yet to forgive the prince for her behavior at Tenne-Tiras.
The wizard, upon presentation three nights ago, had lit all the candles in the Quick Sunrise with only a whisper and snap, then refused to perform further—therefore nearly everyone agreed he had to be quite powerful. Charlatans and witch-priests from the Rusrike or Ispania begged opportunities to prove whatever meager prowess they claimed.
It entertained Hal that everyone called him the wizard, or simply wizard. Ianta called him a fox once, clever and guessing, but his response had been too bland to offer any confirmation.
The wizard’s wiry arm curled like an oak root around her neck, holding her chokingly tight to his chest. She twisted and hooked her leg back around his knee, pulling them both down again hard. He grunted, turned, and flipped onto his back, dragging her with him so despite her being on top, he still held control.
Hal relaxed into the hold as if he were a bed, and she grinned, moaning as if with immense satisfaction. She felt the wizard’s stomach and arms stiffen, but they were surrounded by uproarious laughter.
Blue sky stretched overhead, a dome of perfect autumnal light, but soon it would dim purple, torches would light, and Hal would be late for her mother’s festival feast. She hoped she could convince Charm to skip with her and thereby avoid Celeda’s censure.
“You’ve lost interest?” the wizard said in her ear.
Hal turned her head and kissed the corner of his mouth.
Sighing at her antics, the wizard released her. She rolled onto her knees, sparing a glance to check that her chest remained bound. The wizard snapped up into a crouch, still coiled and ready.
Hal stood, held out her hand, and blessedly a cup of sack was thrust into it. She drank, then lifted it. “To my wizard, who now must teach me his moves!” Wiggling her hips to change the meaning of the words, Hal tipped the cup at him. He slowly stood, all controlled energy, and took the cup from her. They both knew the flirting was performance, and truly he did not seem to mind.
The wizard drank and handed the cup back to her, then bowed as a servant to a prince. He went to collect his long shirt from the woman who’d begged to hold it for him. Shrugging it back on, he said, “You have too much to learn for a lifetime of teaching, Prince.”
“I’ll teach you, Hal,” Nova said, and kissed her.
Glad for the touch, the casual flirt after a week’s tension, Hal kissed back and smiled against Nova’s cheek, adding a peck that was no act, only a glad gesture for a lover. She took Nova’s hand. “Sit with me, and let’s see who else will perform.”
“If only,” called Ianta Oldcastle from the well, “we had someone present who could challenge this handsome beast with his Sun and Moon swords!”
It was Charm to whom the knight looked, and despite his Aremore attire, he’d not left off the harness that crossed his chest and secured his two curved swords to his back.
“Charm has promised to instruct my little sisters with those swords,” Hal said. “So, one day we’ll have Tigir come and show us.”
“Not Vatta?”
Hal pulled herself straight, put on an overly serious face, and raised her chin. “Lady Vatta does not perform like a clown,” she said, stretching her voice a tad higher.
Charm said, “It should be admired that she takes swordwork very seriously.”
“Oh, Charm.” Hal smiled like a villain. “I will take your sword as seriously as I must, for the good of Aremoria.”
Nova groaned and Ianta smacked her own forehead, and half the crowd shrieked laughing. Hal flung out her arms and bowed with a smirk. Such jokes were all too easy to come by.
The Third Kingdom prince met her twinkling gaze and shook his head slightly. But the corner of his wide mouth twitched. He bore her teasing so well, Hal was forced to like him. She still did not know what she would do with him.
As a pair of women—sisters, Hal thought—took the impromptu stage to sing a riddling song, Hal shoved herself between Ianta and Charm, perching on the well with her knees wide enough that Nova could sit on the ground and lean between them. The wizard stood across from her, shrugging into his plain leather jacket. He might seem almost civilized. Except he’d braided little bone-and-bead charms into his thick wild hair, and that pesky silver ghost light in his eyes, which none seemed to notice but Hal.
“This is a grand song,” Ianta said, clapping her hand on Hal’s thigh. Hal leaned against Ianta, humming along the countermelody. It was a story of twins who played at being one person so long, even they forgot who they were apart, until the night both arrived at an assignation with their lover, and the man was shocked, then nearly died with double the pleasure—perfect, ribald, appropriate for Halfsies Day.
Hal finished her cup of sack, gratefully accepting the dregs of Charm’s when he noticed hers empty. So very solicitous he was, charming, indeed, and stolid. Here her mother had served her a consort on a platter: handsome, good, ready, and ambitious. Not cruel, only as violent as Hal liked in her warrior-lovers. She ought to be thrilled, but thinking of bedding him, again and again, him sticking inside her, wove in Hal a special tangle of nausea.
Sometimes, when drunk enough, Hal envied those women who welcomed any sort of body to their bed. But most of the time she was glad to disdain masculine flesh—Ianta, too, had never bothered with men.
Hotspur said once, If only one of us were a man, wistful and easy, as if it would solve all their problems.
In the courtyard of the Quick Sunrise, Hal’s guts clenched, and every time she stopped cheering, drinking, being loud, her throat went tight. It was the day, she told herself. The day’s festival only, nothing else.
She ought to have stayed in bed today, huddled and aching from missing Hotspur.
But Ianta would know why, and so Hal had forced herself out, forced herself to play and dance and tease Charm and Nova both. She could do it.
At the end of the sisters’ performance, Ianta herself heaved up off the well’s rim and strode to center stage. “Good folk of Lionis, I am Ianta Oldcastle, lady of knights, friend to kings and princes, lover of women and seeker of magic, wind-whisperer, sword-crusher, and—”
Hal threw the remains of sack in her cup at Ianta, laughing. “What will you perform, oh mighty giant?”
Ianta drew herself up with exaggerated dignity. “A tale of greatness born, from a century ago,” she began, drawing it out to turn and eye people at every edge of the courtyard stage.
“Morimaros the Great!” cried Nova, knowing the start of this tale. Her call was echoed by many, and Ianta flapped her hands for quiet from her audience.
It was Ianta’s favorite story, of the battle Morimaros won against Diota when he was no more than Captain Mars, commander and soldier. His identity—that he was the heir to the throne—had been known to only a few friends. From the battlefield he’d emerged with glory as his mantle, but before his soldiers came a royal messenger with white flags. The king, Morimaros the First, was dead, and his son now was king. The messenger cried it loud for all to hear, summoning Mars to take the ring, the Blood and the Sea, and put off his everyman-self, his facade of simple soldier. He must now be King Morimaros.
Would that Hal could rebirth herself from obscurity as Mars had. Whether Prince Mars had built his legend deliberately or not, it was one of the best tales, and everyone loved him for working as a common man for a while, even a hundred years later.
Charm leaned toward Ianta, listening—oh, he had never heard the story! Hal smiled, clutching the rim of the well. All eyes were riveted to Ianta. If Hal leaned back, if she fell softly into the black pit of the well, how long before it would be noticed?
Nova would realize, would feel the empty air where once Hal’s legs rested to either side of her shoulders. Nova would mourn, knowing there was no point to gathering rope to climb down and down into the dark where Hal’s body crumpled, curled like a babe in a cradle, at the base of the well. Embraced by black water.
It sounded peaceful to Hal. Noise would find her, but muffled, and for an hour or so every day the sun would pierce down the shaft. That was all the sun a prince like her needed.
Hal called for more sack and fisted her hand in Nova’s hair to anchor herself to life. Nova tilted her head back, lips parted, pale eyes begging. So Hal kissed her. She licked at her tongue, planted kisses along Nova’s jaw—her hands she held to herself, working nothing but mouth parts.
Beside her Charm shifted, and Hal wondered if he liked it or only grew angry. Before Hal could choose to press or withdraw from her lover, that name she could never ignore darted through the noise of the courtyard:
“Hotspur!”
Hal jerked her head up, and there Hotspur stood, framed by the arch of two columns supporting the balcony above. The crowd had parted, and it had been Ianta who’d said the other knight’s name with surprise and pleasure.
Hotspur was still the most beautiful creature Hal had ever seen.
Fury pinked her cheeks and her fire hair straggled around her square face, braided and messy, falling in chunks nearly to her waist. She wore a dark green dress and a leather vest studded with silver that bound her breasts flat, pinching in her waist. Her sword pulled at her hips. Hotspur’s bright eyes pinned Hal, gouging her, and Hal’s lungs constricted.
The knight—the wolf, Hal’s mind flailed—stalked into the courtyard. Hal stood, inadvertently nudging Nova out of her way, and stepped off the well, to the uneven cobbles of the courtyard. “Do you—do you want a drink?”
“No, I do not want a drink.” Hotspur pressed her mouth shut, grasped her sword’s pommel with one hand, and said, “I want—I want you …”
As Hotspur sputtered, Hal’s heart sparked, warming.
But Hotspur added, “I want you to not be here, I want you to be better—I needed you today, and you should have been at my side.”
“I’ll go now, anywhere you say,” Hal said, bursting forward the final steps. She did not quite touch Hotspur, but her hand fluttered at her side with wanting to.
“I don’t need you now, Hal, I needed you hours ago, facing your mother’s summons.” Hotspur’s voice rose. It needn’t, for not a single person in the entire courtyard breathed: they leaned in, desperate to hear.
“Are you—are you all right?” Hal hadn’t known Hotspur was in the city, and of course nobody at the palace had told the prince Celedrix had sent for Hotspur.
Hotspur sneered. “It’s not me you need to worry on. If you’d been there, Hal—if you weren’t such a degenerate, a—a drunk! Look at you, here!” Hotspur flung her arms around, gesturing at everything. “And dragging your—your— You should be at court, performing as a prince, even if you can’t manage to make yourself one in actuality.”
“But she is a prince, Isarna Persy” snapped Nova, appearing there beside them. “And you shouldn’t speak so baldly to her. She’s your better.”
Hal felt gutted at the words, knowing them false; she deserved Hotspur’s censure. She couldn’t stop staring at the delicate lashes framing Hotspur’s eyes, at the trailing freckles.
Those angry eyes narrowed on Nova, and Hotspur nodded. “Nova Irris. How disappointing to find you here, too, fallen with Ianta and Hal. You could be amongst my retainers, or my aunt’s. You could still be in the queen’s service if you’d tried.”
Nova scoffed. “I was to be a Lady Knight, and when that title was torn from my future, I followed who I loved. I refused to settle for a consolation prize.”
“Instead you settled for sour wine and gutters.”
“Being with Hal is not settling, it is rising.”
“Nova,” Hal said carefully, shifting away from her: Hal buzzed, she floated; she was not fully present in her body. This was not real—no, she was supposed to meet Hotspur again alone, and sober, or at least calm.
Hotspur saw the shift, saw Hal remove herself from Nova’s protection, and shook her head. “See, Nova? Hal will not claim you when it is hard. She will not be loyal.”
The words were a hammer against Hal’s heart, freezing rain on her head, dripping down her body.
Nova said, “You left us. Hal never even had a chance to stand with you. You left!”
Hotspur only shook her head again, watching Hal.
And Hal understood why. Though Nova did not seem to notice, they were not speaking of themselves. “I argued for ransom, again and again, all winter,” Hal said. “I tried. I did try, Hotspur.”
The energy around them crackled as folk grew anxious—some could not hear, and others would defend their Prince of Riot. Hal sensed Ianta standing to the side, her attention sorrowful, longing; and burly Charm nearby, curious but there at Hal’s back. She did not deserve his support.
“Try!” yelled Hotspur. “I don’t care if you begged or argued! I don’t care what you said or think you said to try and convince Celeda to bring her home! Everyone knows what you are now, Hal, everyone—Prince of Riot! Drunk, whoremonger! Irresponsible! You might have made the most eloquent pleading speech on her behalf, and it wouldn’t have mattered, because the reason Celeda needs her gone is you!”
Hal backed away.
But Hotspur stepped in again and hit the side of her fist on the bare white skin above the godscarf binding Hal’s chest. “If you were a better prince, your mother would have no reason to fear Banna Mora!”
Chaos erupted, calls of horror at the name, or cheers because the people remembered Mora, missed her—everyone’s opinion was divisive.
There was nothing Hal could say. Hotspur remained there, fist against Hal’s chest, and she was trembling—or Hal was, or both of them. “I came here to see you,” Hotspur said, quieter now.
“I miss you,” Hal said, only her voice didn’t arrive. Her lips moved, her tongue, but there was only sack and disappointment and fear inside her.
Hotspur’s hand fell out of its fist, and she slid it up Hal’s neck until a rough thumb touched oh so lightly to Hal’s jaw. Hal moved nearer, almost gasping. Hotspur leaned up, her mouth bent in a sad, full frown.
“My Hal is dead,” Hotspur whispered.
It was like dying, to hear it.
Hotspur turned her back on Hal. Away she strode, finished with this battlefield, eager and ready for the next: Hal recognized that walk. This battle was over for Hotspur, while Hal hadn’t even chanced an attack, or formed a strategy. It was over, and she hadn’t known it was coming.
“Hotspur!” Hal croaked, reaching desperately after her.
The fiery knight glanced over her shoulder, and there were tears streaking her cheeks. “I wanted you to choose better, Hal Bolinbroke. That’s all I wanted, today, of all days—for you to find your better half, and to be her.”
And then Hotspur was gone, piercing through the crowd like the sword she was, and Hal couldn’t breathe. Nova spat an insult, Ianta sighed, Miss Quick shared around more cups and poured more wine. Charm stared after Hotspur, and there was enough admiration in his confused brown gaze that Hal nearly cried.
But tears weren’t for her anymore.