she appreciated they did not put her at the center of their formation like a prisoner. But she did imagine the swift cut of a knife in her back, and how she’d arch and stumble, then fall silently to her knees, clutching her breast as she died. Despite the vision, Hal smiled brightly at those they passed in the yard and corridors, though that smile faded as the magnitude of the situation layered itself upon her shoulders.
Her mother played a heavy hand by sending soldiers to Hal’s Uncourt, and Hal truly knew not what to expect. It had been just less than four weeks since the equinox, and Celeda had been quiet with regards to her eldest daughter. Relieved, Hal thought, that friendship blossomed between herself and Charm, though Hal continued to refuse any meetings that might address official marriage rituals.
The chamber doors were gilded and guarded by additional soldiers in orange tabards, carrying tall spears. A standard bearer—a young page—bore proof the queen was inside.
Hal entered to a burning hearth, but otherwise this reception room was unattended. She glanced longingly at the sideboard with its array of decanted wines and liquors.
“Come in, Calepia,” her mother’s disembodied voice drifted out from the study beyond. The arched door gaped open. Never a coward—so she told herself—Hal strode through to find her mother seated at the long, dark desk, her back to the windows.
Hal stood straight, waiting. This room was darkly paneled and draped with purple tapestries. Proof of the queen’s comfort was in the relaxed single braid drawn over her shoulder and the simple day robe she wore, free of jewels and lip paint. Only the Blood and the Sea circled her forefinger as Celeda tapped a final line of signature onto what Hal assumed was a letter. Then the queen blotted the ink and leaned back in her chair.
Her mother regarded Hal for some time, while Hal herself struggled not to shift. Sunset carved the queen in black lines of silhouette, melting the panes of glass behind her in red and violet strokes.
“Mother,” Hal said finally, frustrated. Then she closed her lips until Celeda would speak—even if that meant the end of their lives waiting.
Celeda tilted her head and said, “I have been thinking of late, wondering truly, why it is that my own blood is the cause of so much of my grief. If I believed in fate, Hal, I might believe that some star had taken an interest in punishing me for my misdeeds, and discovered the directest way to pierce my heart is through my first daughter.”
To that, Hal did not know what to say.
“After midnight if I cannot sleep, or in a slip of temper,” the queen continued, “I wonder how it is possible all this degradation and waste you have fallen to can possibly exist in the same blood as gave life to great kings. Before I returned you were spoken of with admiration and respect—known to be bold, and for youthful transgressions only, not your current shame. Your sisters are not so ruined as you. I myself have never been enticed toward riot. Your father was the most even-tempered man I have ever had the privilege to know. Where did this come from? It must be a furious star.”
“Stars do not control us in Aremoria,” Hal managed. Worms, she wished for a drink.
The queen stood. “You have lost your seat at my council, Hal. I’ve given it to Vatta.”
Hal exhaled in distaste. Vatta only took officially a role she’d played already for months.
Celeda walked to her daughter and finally Hal saw her mother’s face clearly: tight lines shaped her eyes and her brow pinched with tension. Something weighed on this exchange, not merely another lecture and dressing-down of a recalcitrant heir.
Hal nearly asked, but Celeda continued, “The March is yours, though you neglected that ceremony, too. You will take a modest army and relieve Vindomata of Mercia of its command. I expect no real resistance, but prepare yourself for Mercia to be stubborn and play the transfer of power to their best advantage. You will spend the winter there, and in the spring return to Lionis for your wedding—and it will be a magnificent celebration of Aremore beauty and renewal. You may only remove the March from your name upon the birth of your first child. I am not concerned with your input, or what you would prefer. You will hold the March, Hal, and you will marry Charm.”