itself was crystal cold.
Connley thrived. He rode beside her when he could stand it, otherwise looping off the trail and finding them again in an hour. Hotspur went with him sometimes, asking about the land. He told her the names of trees and scrub as they climbed along the eastern edge of the White Forest, up into karst plains. But when he was not answering her questions, Connley talked openly with the wind in the whispering tree tongue. He smiled, winced, spoke fast as if arguing, and even once laughed. The Errigals ignored it; Hotspur’s party openly avoided Connley. Hotspur herself could hear the words tucked into the wind’s replies, though she did not understand.
A bird pooped on her shoulder the second day. As they lunched beneath the shelter of some oaks, an acorn pelted her on the head. It hurt for such a tiny thing, and there was no squirrel nor gust of wind to explain it.
Her coffee as they rose the third morning was shockingly cold. She took a second sip and poured it out in a fury. Steam drifted visibly from Sennos’s cup. Her captain eyed it, and offered his to her, but she screwed up her face in refusal.
Hotspur complained to nobody, especially not Connley, nor the acting duke of Errigal who’d greeted them at Port Comlack and escorted them to his ducal seat. He was a broad man with an easy smile and a booming voice, a craggy unhandsome face that he compensated for with kindness. Connley’s uncle, he called Hotspur his niece and said he looked forward to sparring against her talkative sword.
Could everyone on Innis Lear hear the blade growl?
“No,” Connley said, when she asked. “Only wizards and witches and maybe a few with iron magic in their blood, like Errigals.”
That was a relief, she supposed.
Connley Castle spread broad limestone arms in concentric walls around a low grassy mound and a black ruin that had once been a fortress keep. Built only two hundred years before, the modern castle was an elegant, sprawling citadel in Aremore style, with slate roofs, glassed windows, and more concern for accommodation and grandeur than defense. Oddly, no village spilled from the base of the castle walls. The nearest town was in a valley to the south, Sker, and quite large. Errigal told her it nearly rivaled Astora City in Taria dukedom, the largest city on the island, and perhaps in another generation Sker would overtake the other.
Here Hotspur was treated like royalty returning home. The entire castle had been garlanded with golden wheat and pinecone wreaths, while thorn twigs bright with vermillion haws decorated the doors. In the great hall fresh rushes covered the floor and the hearth burned sweet-smelling juniper. Hotspur was bedecked with hard berries strung into necklaces, as was Connley, and three young women asked to weave charms into her hair. Bemused, Hotspur allowed it. This place reminded her of Annyck at the midwinter holidays, except for the cats blinking from every corner and twining between her ankles as she walked. Her smile was unforced, even after her annoying, sleepless days of travel. She took Connley’s hand, to the obvious pleasure of his uncles, aunts, and cousins.
Sin Errigal presided, insisting Hotspur and Connley drink spiced honey wine with her and sit in fur-covered chairs at the fire. The hall was narrow for a castle this size and ribbed with pale stone pillars, but the crush was alleviated by the reaching height of the ceiling, some three stories overhead. Hotspur began to sweat right away, and laughingly divested herself of her traveling leather and mail right there with everyone.
“No airs, this one,” the acting duke of Errigal said to the entire hall, adding his booming laugh.
Connley’s eyes gleamed quickly from the alcohol, and he took up Hotspur’s hand again once she was stripped down to her wool shirt and trousers. Quietly he said, “You look very Learish,” and it was difficult for Hotspur to tell if it pleased him or was merely a statement of fact.
Hotspur held on to him with one hand and her mead with the other, concentrating as she was introduced to a stream of Errigals. Sin Errigal had five children, all of whom had lived long enough at least to produce seventeen grandchildren for her, most of whom had children of their own, and in one case, grandchildren. There were a total of three men named Errigal who occasionally went by Rory: the acting duke, his eldest son, and Rory the