and for a moment it almost seemed her hair stood on end. The queen rose and stiffly walked to her daughter. “That is the traitorous tongue Ianta planted in your mouth. I acted rightly, and you certainly had no argument with it at the time. Or was that only because your Hotspur was there, and you followed her? I will tell you something: Hotspur never needed you, but let you fawn on her. She wore you proudly, like a piece of fine armor, but shed you when she found stronger steel.”
“No.” Hal’s hands became fists again as her mind chased flashes of red-hair memories, biting kisses, and the wind tearing at them. Hot lips and eager hands. “No, leave her out of this. Hotspur loved me.”
“Maybe,” the queen conceded. “But she did not choose you.”
Hal stumbled away.
“You, my daughter, refuse to choose anything at all, and so you spend your days and nights wallowing, drowning the petty mistakes of a very short life. There is so much time before you! Much you might do, if only you would choose!”
But Hal hated all the options she could see.
And so she said nothing.
As she raced away, her mother called, “Would she were my daughter instead of you.”
Hal caught herself against the door, breathless with hurt, then walked on when she realized she agreed with the queen.
HOTSPUR
Northern Aremoria, late summer
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