head snapped up. “What? No.”
“Your horror at this letter is selfish, and if she asked you, you would go to Hotspur and fight against me.”
“Do not think that!” cried Hal, thrusting forward to grasp her mother’s shoulders.
Celeda remained silent, body rigid. Those accusing dark eyes, so like Hal’s, held steady. The queen neither shrugged her daughter away nor embraced her. All was cold and stiff between them.
Hal said, blinking fast to banish tears, “I beg you, don’t believe this of me, no matter what Hotspur is—was—to me, or how I am now. I … Mother, I know what this news means. To us! To Aremoria! I would not ever go against you. My—my queen, and mother.” She let go and sank to her knees. “I will die a thousand deaths before I betray you.”
For a long moment, Celeda was unmoved. Then she said, with near tenderness, “More than a thousand will die as a result of this.”
Hal kept on her knees, chin tilted toward her mother. Her heart ran wildly; she would not think of a married Hotspur, a traitor Hotspur, a slain Hotspur. Nor remember I wanted you to choose better or My Hal is dead Hotspur. All Hal would think of was proving to her mother and queen that she loved her, and no matter what else, Hal would do everything in her power to keep Celeda on the throne. The only option besides the crown is death, for a queen.
She saw Vindomata’s sword again, slashing, and the burst of bright death in the blood of Rovassos King, only now it was her mother whose neck flowered in blood.
No—Hal closed her eyes in anguish. “Mother,” she whispered, and felt the feather-light touch of fingers to her brow, then skimming along her cheek to her chin. Hal looked, and her mother’s eyes were occluded by watery grief.
“This foolish affection,” Celeda murmured, and flicked a tear from the corner of her left eye.
Hal had to stop this. She felt it as if a sudden gaping hole opened beneath her. A death of desperation, drowning in her own worthlessness—if she could not save her mother and Hotspur—
“Let me go to her—to them,” Hal said wildly.
Then she firmed her voice before her mother could protest: “To Innis Lear and meet with Banna Mora and Hotspur. Let me prove to you who I am—who I can be.”
“They might murder you, then, instead of me.”
Hal shook her head. “No, of that I remain certain: Hotspur will not kill me.”
“But Banna Mora, or ferocious Glennadoer, or Solas Lear—what might they do, my dove? Or Vindomata of Mercia, who hates me now, and would take my children from me as she imagines I took hers.”
“You’ve already put Vatta in my place in your council; if I die you will exchange me for a better heir.” She tried to imbue her voice with nonchalance.
“Do not be flippant, Calepia. Hal.” Celeda tugged at her daughter’s chin, and Hal stood for her mother’s embrace. It felt good, and also terrible. As Hal slipped her arms around her mother’s waist, she battled her own tears.
What was Hotspur thinking, to openly align herself with Innis Lear and Banna Mora? The Wolf of Aremoria could not rebel against Aremoria!
“I swear to you, Mother,” Hal whispered in the queen’s ear, “you will be queen for years yet. You’ll see. Let me do this; I will bring Hotspur back to us, and she will drag Vindomata to heel.”
Celeda laughed softly, bitterly. She pushed back enough to see her daughter. They stared across inches of sunset-dark study. Lanterns needed to be lighted. “Vindomata will never give up.”
“Nor shall I.”
“Even if you must kill your wolf, Daughter?”
Hal shuddered. “I—I won’t let it come to that.” But even as she spoke it, Hal knew. This would end with someone dead.
Death haunted Celeda’s gaze, too. “Hal …”
At her mother’s strange, uncertain pause, Hal felt a chill. She smiled. “Mother?”
“No.” Celeda smiled tenderly in return. “I will tell you when you return home to me from Innis Lear.”
Triumph surged and Hal’s face lit. “Thank you—thank you, you’ll see, Mother!”
“It will be official. I will arrange it all and send word to Solas of Innis Lear to expect you. As congratulations, we shall say, for her nephew’s summer vows, and our Hotspur’s winter ones. And your spring ones.”
The reminder of Hotspur’s marriage cooled Hal’s head, souring the moment. But Hal bowed to her mother and left then, for she had much preparation to make.
HOTSPUR
Innis Lear, late autumn
WITHIN DAYS OF her