DEATH HAUNTED HAL’S every glance.
In the center of an army, perhaps any rational person might be more aware of mortality than usual, but for Hal, usual itself held mortal thoughts in friendly company.
(Celedrix’s charger bolts into Hal, knocks her down, and tramples her into a smear that shocks in the memories of onlookers as brightly as the orange of her gambeson.)
(Hal’s boot catches on that edge of turf cut into the muddy field by a wagon wheel and she falls forward into the axle of that same wagon, jagged and jutting and awaiting repair. That one is a slower death; she gasps for air as blood fills her lungs, pain radiating and her fingers going numb. She’s too weak to pull free, but the hands of her friends grab at her, dragging her off the jagged wood. The wound sucks painfully; with a pop of air she’s free. There’s a hole straight through her, and even the stars can see inside her now.)
(The canvas she’s trying to sleep beneath catches fire and her dreams labor under an onslaught of smoke: she’s dead of suffocation before the flames are noticed by the guards outside—they drag Charm to safety, though, that’s what matters.)
(That soldier over there, glaring at her, is an assassin, and his blade appears in her chest, silently and without even a glint of moonlight as it flew from his hand. She dies of surprise more than blood loss.)
(Celeda stops speaking midsentence, heart stopped, and slumps forward, dead.)
(Celeda does not wake at dawn, no matter how vigorously she is shaken.)
(Celeda is dead.)
(Celeda is dead.)
(Celeda is dead.)
Hal had tucked a flask of Terestria’s tears into her bloodred jacket but tried not to imbibe too much. It was a personal dare, to feel the shudder of a death-dream and not take a sip for soothing.
She shared a tent with her husband, though during the seven-day journey here to Liresfane—though it would have been merely four without the massive army—she rode in formation with her Lady Knights, and so Hal was surrounded by her friends.
Still, the absences rang louder to the prince’s awareness than the rebuilding camaraderie.
The Lady Knights rode together, camped together, built fires and hunted and scooped shit together. Hal did her share, and made Vatta, though they both ate with their mother and Mata Blunt, Prince Charm, the lords Westmore and Alsax, and their general of foot. Enough squires had been commissioned to the Lady Knights to be shared among them, but Hal and Vatta had royal aides of their own, one military and a palace girl to tend to their wardrobe and tent.
Vatta asked Hal if this was how the rebellion had been, but of course it was not: that had been immediate and desperate, while this was a true campaign. The sort of summer war Aremoria excelled at, while all Hal remembered of their mother’s rebellion was exhaustion, panic, blood, Hotspur, and the ghost of Morimaros.
The prince took pity on Vatta, though, and told her stories. Her sister was intelligent, which Hal had overlooked during her wastrel year, for a smart sibling could only have impeded her frivolity. Beyond that, Vatta was both gracious and vain, which made her struggle to get along with Ianta Oldcastle extremely entertaining to the rest of the knights. For Ianta did not allow vanity around her, weaving circular commentary that might or might not have been offensive to any princesses, but also Ianta was too old and too good at her job for Vatta to feel she could repay in kind.
For two days they’d been camped here at Liresfane, and Hal had taken Ter Melia and Nova to scout with three of Abovax’s soldiers and a Westmore captain. They’d paired up, spread out, and spent an afternoon and evening taking the lay of the land before Nova and the Westmore man rode north to wait for sign of Banna Mora. The two had charged into camp midmorning today, filthy and exhilarated: the enemy would arrive within five hours.
So Hal had put on her best mail under her red jacket and ordered that Lady Ianta be prepared as well, with Charm, to ride with her for parley. She had considered bringing her wizard but decided not to take anyone under any authority but her own. While she trusted the wizard, to outsiders his allegiances were unknown.
Before they departed, her husband said, “Remember, Hal, that you have made every choice for the right reasons.”
“I do remember,” she said. It was good to be reminded, though, for she’d spent hours these past weeks telling Charm everything she could, as if he were a diary to record her thoughts. She’d told him if she was to have a husband and king, they ought to be of one mind. They were not of one bed, after all.
They rode under the banner of the Lady Knights: herself, Lady Ianta, and Charm.
Riding to meet them were three more: Banna Mora austere in blue and black; Hotspur, armed in leather and passion; and Mared Lear, who smiled grimly as he held Mora’s banner. It was a golden sheaf from the March upon a vivid blue field, and a curve of stars above it, angling the shape of the Dragon of the North’s arched neck.
Hal thought, One of us will have to die.
But she did not let herself imagine it.
When the riders were near enough, Hal raised her hand. “Banna Mora.”
“Prince Hal,” Mora replied. “Ianta, this is a surprise.”
“I am the commander of the Lady Knights,” Ianta said. “Yours once, too. But this time the charter is real, built upon solid truth, not thin promises.”
“I betrayed no promises to you,” Mora said, chiding.
Lady Ianta smiled grimly. “But such were given to you, Prince, and so you are lost.”
“I’ve not lost yet.”
“Wandering lost, my love, if not defeated.”
Hal slid her glance to Hotspur, who sat easily upon a pale brown mare, staring back at Hal. Wind tugged her red-hot curls. Hal felt bleak. Mirthless. She drew herself up in her own saddle and politely said, “You’ve not met my husband, Echarmet of Celeda Queen.”
Hotspur’s mouth pulled in discomfort, but she glared at Charm in a very Hotspurish way.
“Hello, Echarmet,” Mora said. “I am Banna Mora of the March and Innis Lear. This is my sister, Lady Hotspur Perseria, and here my brother, Mared Lear.”
“I have heard much of you, Banna Mora,” Charm said, voice a deep purr.
Though the moment should have felt portentous, Hal would rather get it over with. Aremoria glinted with the strength of summer: green-gold fields soon to be trampled and running red; blue sky and wisps of clouds ready to dissipate; the sun, oh the sun, bright and glorious. Hal said, “Will you surrender, Banna Mora? Leave the field and withdraw from Aremoria? This is not your country any longer, and we will compel you away if we must.”
Mora smiled, pleased and hungry. “I will not. But if you consider—”
“No.” Hal held up her hand. “I did not come to negotiate. I came to say goodbye.”
Surprised painted itself across Mora’s face and held her still for a full breath.
Mared Lear’s eyebrows lifted and he turned to glance behind him, as if he expected something dreadful to interrupt.
Charm and Lady Ianta had known this would come, and rested easy in their saddles.
It was Hotspur who exploded. “Goodbye! You cannot dismiss parley, Hal! This is—”
“Is what, Hotspur? Going to change anything?” Hal pressed a fist to her chest, where her heart pounded. “I will not compromise with those who seek to murder the people and peace of Aremoria.”
Hotspur gasped, and in another age, Hal might’ve found her exaggerated shock to be funny.
Mora’s hungry smile had returned. “It is all right, Lady Hotspur. Prince Hal has found her spine, and she is correct—we are here for what is ours. This land we stride upon is a missing body of Innis Lear. Ours. And we will reunite all tomorrow morning, land and people, and we will open the corridors of magic that so long have been severed. Hal will see, and her knight and her husband, and everyone in Aremoria will feel the magic rise, the land awaken, and Aremoria will lift a crown onto my head, because I am the heir to the hemlock throne.”
“You cannot have this throne, this land, or this people,” Hal said.
“You’ll have to kill me to stop me,” Mora said.
“Death is everywhere, Mora.” Hal glanced at Charm for strength—he knew what she would say. “I used to be afraid of many things, death worst among them. But death by betrayal, especially. Do you remember, Hotspur, what Rovassos said just before he died? That betrayal is the only way kings ever die. I believed him, and maybe I still do. Maybe I will die tomorrow, but I can’t let it stop me from doing what I must, from being who—what—I am. I can’t. Or I would never get out of bed. You showed me that, Hotspur, to keep fighting, and keep choosing. And Mora, you lifted yourself out of the worst betrayal and found new meaning, new love. A new destiny entire! I admire you both so very much.”
Hal laughed a little bit. “If I die in the morning, I’ll love you now anyway. That’s why I came to say goodbye—because I would rather have this moment with the people I have loved more than anyone in the world, than never speak to you again.”
The prince had to stop, for the swelling in her throat.
Mora stared at her, face drawn cold. Hotspur’s hands had become fists around her reins.
“I taught her to give speeches,” Lady Ianta drawled, and Hal laughed again, breaking the hold on her heart: tears splashed her cheeks.
“If there is nothing more to say?” Charm asked.
Hotspur nudged her horse forward, and it tossed its head. She turned it, to better reach for Hal. “Aremoria wants the magic, Hal,” Hotspur urged. “I wish I could say otherwise, but Mora is right—Rowan is right. We must do this. I must do this. The magic must take root. Aremoria must wake up. That is the end I choose.”
Ianta Oldcastle leaned forward, and her broad charger took a step toward Banna Mora. The old knight said, “Are you awake then, Wolf?”
“I am,” Hotspur said, a look of surprise on her face.
Hal held up her hand again, to Ianta. The prince looked at Hotspur, and at Banna Mora, Mared, and back to Hotspur. “Then let the star roads blaze. I am the lion prince, and my heart is already home.”