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