little bursts of pain as he separated tangled pieces of her hair out and worked. Hal did her best not to think of braiding her and Hotspur’s hair together, idle and naked on her bed.
With charms pulled from pockets or worms-knew-where, with little threads of wool, the wizard put dozens of small braids into her hair, twisting and looping them around one another. He left the rest unbound and tumbling down her back.
The attendant came to watch after a few minutes, and the wizard used her hands to hold pieces apart. “This is more elaborate than I can do on my own,” he said.
“Oh, it is like yours, wizard!” The girl nodded eagerly.
Hal skewed him a glance: his thick black hair was twisted and braided rather wildly back from his face. Tiny bone-and-shell charms dangled at his shoulders, giving him the impression of untamed magic. Hal smiled. She did not mind having a wizard’s hair.
“It’s easier to maintain if it’s shorter,” he said. “Most on Innis Lear use elaborate braids to counter the salt wind, or are born with softer hair that likes this rough treatment.”
“And the magic,” Hal insisted.
“I thought, when you mentioned your grandfather was Ispanian, that this might suit you.”
He said it casually, but Hal read the truth in his admission: he had Ispanian blood, too.
“Will you tell me your name, wizard?” she asked again, for the third or thirtieth time.
Wind blew between them, flaring the fire and drawing blurry lines in the mist.
The wizard said, “It is not my right to speak it. Especially on Innis Lear.”
ASTORA CITY DRAPED itself across an entire deep valley in the west of Innis Lear, surrounded by massive hills. From the southern approach, Hal and her company saw the whole of the city as the low clouds lifted away with the afternoon sun. Built of stone both cream in color and dark gray-blue, Astora reminded Hal of home. Two castles nestled beside one another in the city’s heart—one, only finished a generation ago, rose toward the sky in pale sandstone towers and crenellations. Glass glinted in the high, arching windows. The second was older, built of hardwood and granite, impregnable and windowless.
They paraded through the city, escorted by men belonging to the Earl Bracoch and the duke of Taria’s retainers. At the broad gates of Astora Castle—the new one—the duke of Taria himself waited for Hal. He was young, thirty or so, and tall as a maple but just as skinny. Dark brown hair was braided back from his face and his narrow cheeks were wind-chapped pink. Hal remained seated upon her horse as he greeted her elegantly, welcoming her to his city. Hal smiled and called his name; he invited her inside to meet Queen Solas.
Hal accepted his hand and dismounted. Her usual military outfit had been replaced by a heavy, deep orange overdress belted with black leather over layers of cloud-white linen skirt and winged sleeves that would make eating a problem if they weren’t tucked in. She wore black boots and black gloves, as well as the Heir’s Score. Its hilt was black-wrapped and the short iron crosspiece was set with a single white pearl like an eye.
The wizard was a forest shadow at her back.
The castle’s great hall lifted three stories at least, with grand arches between the stone columns carved with vines and hung with dark pink banners. Benches sprawled off long tables that soon would be filled with courtiers and retainers, but for now the hall was clear for Hal, her wizard, Ter Melia, and five soldiers, the duke of Taria to approach. At the far end waited Queen Solas and her sister, Ryrie, on two high-backed chairs, with three rangy dogs at the queen’s feet. A young woman embroidered, perched upon a stool nearby. Behind her, some queen’s retainers stood guard.
The queen sat straight, her hands resting on the arms of the chair, and a smooth, plain blue tabard fell from her shoulders over plump breasts, belted at her short waist before blossoming over equally fat hips. Silver rings graced every finger and silver chains dripped across her forehead from round silver pins holding dark brown hair off her temples. White dots curved under her eyes and her bottom lip was bloodred with paint. She was at least as old as the wizard and exuded confidence.
Beside the queen, skinny Ryrie Lear smiled prettily beneath flushed cheeks, though her dark eyes did not quite focus on Hal’s face.
“Welcome, Calepia Bolinbroke,” Solas said, “to Innis