pavilion.
But Queen Celeda stood tall, flanked by drooping orange banners, her head up and her dark hair perfectly in place. “Even the wind is eager for this combat,” she called.
“Yes!” Hal threw her fist into the air. She dashed off the field, mail flashing. The prince did not climb over the rail into the royal pavilion, just leaned back against it, elbows propped and long legs stretched before her. In her expression was an intensity—nearly longing, but sharper—as she stared at Hotspur.
Hotspur hefted her sword and saluted Celedrix. She caught Banna Mora’s eye, and the lady of the March did the same. Swallowing a dusty mouthful of spit, Hotspur rolled her shoulders to loosen the tension a bit, and bent her knees. The judge called the match and Hotspur attacked.
It was a good fight, but in the end Banna Mora made sure to lose. Both of them were sweating, their grunts low, neither speaking, and Hotspur did not know which of them would have been fairly victorious. Mora was strong and precise; she herself was fast and determined. Shieldless, their swords served as both offense and defense, along with hips and elbows. But when Mora turned her wrist and nearly disarmed Hotspur, Hotspur was so focused on breaking away she didn’t see Mora plant a foot where Hotspur would trip her. Mora went down, crying out as she landed on her own arm and her sword flew several paces off.
Stunned, Hotspur nearly said aloud that Mora had done it on purpose. She panted, her shadow covering Mora’s face. The once-prince shook her head, breathing through clenched teeth. “Hotspur,” she hissed. “Don’t. This is better.”
“How,” Hotspur demanded, holding her hand out to haul Mora up.
“I cannot fight Celeda in the next round. Better to lose to you.”
Hotspur understood but shoved Mora away. She despised prevarication.
The crowd was cheering again, and Prince Hal held their attention before the royal pavilion, proclaiming a story she’d heard about the Wolf of Aremoria.
Hotspur lost her fourth-round battle against Lord Aesmaros, the younger brother of the duke of Westmore, who had sixty pounds of muscle and eight years of practice on her. Hotspur thought if they’d been astride, she might still have beaten him. Aesmaros went on to fight the queen in the final round.
Celedrix won.
Raising her sword to the sky, Celeda said, “I am Aremoria, by birth and might, and I claim you as my people. My life and service is yours.”
Hal stood, flinging out her arms, and cried, “Long live Celedrix!”
The crowd screamed it back, widemouthed and smiling, throwing hats in the air and waving. The sun shone, bathing everything in warm golden light.
From her position at the edge of the royal pavilion, Hotspur had a perfect view of the moment the party of Learish men revealed themselves: in unison, nine men in the dress of common foot soldiers stepped into the ring of the tourney field, flinging hoods off their heads to display wild Learish braids and star-sign paint dotted over their cheeks and foreheads.
Two stood directly across from the pavilion, one young and dark haired, the other older, bearded, and in an orange gambeson. Hotspur could not believe the Learish men had disguised themselves in Aremore colors!
The young one cried, “Welcome, Queen! Recognized by your rights of birth and might! I am Mared Lear, son of Ryrie Lear, the sister of Solas, and I speak for Queen Solas of Innis Lear. She sends me to you with a gift for your annunciation.”
Celeda turned on her heel, head high, and gestured for her knights to lower their arms. Hotspur stepped to the rail, staring at the leader of the islanders. He was barely older than her, pale and narrow faced, but with lively dark eyes and braided brown hair. He smiled a smile that clearly belonged on his merry mouth. Beside him, the bearded man in orange gazed solemnly at Hotspur, and even from this distance she could see the blue of his eyes was as vivid as shards of the summer sky.
“Thank you for the greeting,” Celeda said. “I am amused by the timing, though appreciative of your sense of drama.”
The young man shrugged one shoulder, still grinning. “I serve my queen in every detail. Will you hear our gift?”
“We will.”
Mared nodded, closed his eyes as if recalling the exact wording of his message, and then called out:
“On the rising full moon that blessed the ascension of a new Aremore queen, Rowan Lear, the Poison Prince of Innis Lear, cast a star