better to get the three of you out.”
Though by no means a certainty that the lion and dragon referenced in the Learish prophecy were Hal and Mora respectively, the people who’d been present had collectively agreed upon it, and spread the story wide. Hal’s standard was the Bolinbroke lion-and-bluebells, after all, and when Mora had been prince, her uniquely designed house standard had been a rampant dragon, guarding the golden sheaf of the March. They were linked, former prince and current prince, and between them, the Wolf of Aremoria.
It was a relief, Hal could admit, to ride away from Lionis.
Summer closed in around them as they veered away from the river and into the old oak forest toward Tenne-Tiras. Hal’s bones seemed to relax, and she hoped she might sleep soundly tonight for the first time since her mother’s coronation.
It was nightmares that plagued her: dreams of death, of murder and betrayal. This is how kings die. Hal always had been rather distracted by death, both in her dreams and waking, but since the rebellion, her visions of violence and self-harm had become more intense and more frequent.
Now, Banna Mora and Lady Hotspur rode at her flanks, and a small but competent stream of newly appointed personal retainers following behind. Hotspur had brought her first aide Sennos, the plain young soldier Hal had seen take her armor at the Battle of Strong Water, and Mora had a woman called Grenna, who’d been her attendant for five years. Ter Melia, formerly of the Lady Knights, served in the palace guard as Hal’s captain: she was a tall and slender woman with muddy brown hair, easily pinked skin, and a taut mouth, but brilliant green eyes that caught a person in an instant, so vivid Hal used to tease her about being a child of a sorceress. Ter Melia endured Hal’s teasing laconically, and under this new regime seemed undisturbed so long as she could serve in the same capacity for which she had trained all her life.
Hal broke the silence. “There’s supposedly a witch tree around here somewhere, huge and gnarled, probably where an earth saint died, and the tree grew out of her ribs, and her heart still beats. If we’re quiet, and listen, the gentle buh-dum, buh-dum will lead us to her.”
“All I hear is the thud of horses’ hooves,” Hotspur said, cocking her head as if to listen.
Mora slid them both a glance, not disapproving, but amused, perhaps. It was often difficult to tell with Mora these days. She said, “Weren’t you born among the roots of a witch tree, Hotspur? I’ve heard that said of you.”
Hotspur grimaced. “Not a witch tree, but there is an old yew growing in the center of the conduit court at Annyck, and that is where my mother went into labor.”
“I would like to visit that tree,” Hal said, imagining it: they used to be called throne trees, and were planted by the old lords that had ruled this land to root their names, blood, and futures to the seat of their power. Not many such trees survived, and it did not surprise her the Persys maintained theirs.
It pressed at her teeth to say something about the Wolf of Aremoria, about the legends already surrounding Hotspur—but by some silent agreement, none of them had yet discussed the prophecy amongst themselves.
“This winter,” Hotspur said, “you would be welcome at Annyck—if you can be away from your mother for so long.”
Hal licked her bottom lip before she could stop herself. It baited a warm pulse in her heart for Hotspur to so easily invite her home.
In the village of Tenne-Tiras, the new Prince Hal was not quite greeted with enthusiasm, but purple Bolinbroke ribbons had been laced around lantern posts and local white lilies tied in bunches to hang from doorways. Children waved, laughing, and some few adults, too, though perhaps they had come to see Banna Mora alive.
Hal smiled at everyone, and because of who she was, those smiles came easy and true. She even called out to the leather-smith by name, promising a commission for new boots, and the wife of the innkeeper, asking after her son who’d been at the Battle of Strong Water and recovered still from a broken arm.
It was well done, she hoped. Banna Mora, when she’d been the heir, had held herself at a formal distance from some folk. Hal couldn’t do that if she wanted to—especially not in a place like this where she’d thrown up