them, and I know it hurts you. Sometimes it’s necessary. We must protect Aremoria, defend our home from danger. But I’m not danger! My mother is not. This isn’t necessary, and everything I’ve said is worse many times over when the war comes from inside.”
Though it had been Hal’s impassioned, quiet speech, Hotspur felt her own breath coming faster.
“Mora is the danger, Hotspur. She wants revenge,” Hal continued. “I understand that. She wants what was taken from her. But what is the price? Burning Aremoria to ash?”
Hotspur shook her head. “Mora won’t do that—she loves Aremoria as you do, as I do.”
“Then she should stop warmongering, and do what is best for our country.”
“You both have different ideas for what that means, Hal. I have to serve the prince who is right.”
“I’m right, Hotspur.”
“Mora is right! The queen of Aremoria must be our sun. She must be the tree that roots our people together. If that sun turns black or the tree rots from the inside, it is worth it to burn the poison out.”
An incredulous laugh bubbled from Hal. “You think my mother is poison? I know you don’t love me anymore, but you think I’m a blackening sun?”
Queasy, Hotspur swallowed. She shook her head, no, but said, “Mora does.”
“And Mora is your prince.”
“Mora is my family.” Hotspur stood. Her hands were trembling. “We’ll do this later. You choose the categories for the tournament; I don’t care what games we play. I’ll still win.”
Hal reached out to catch Hotspur’s hand. Her skin was cool, and Hal brushed her thumb softly against Hotspur’s palm, sending a shiver up the arm and straight down her spine to her belly. Need pooled there, warm, and Hotspur stared down at Hal again, longing to—to just hug her. Slowly, Hal stood, putting herself too near Hotspur, so Hotspur had to tilt her head up slightly or else be trapped staring at the prince’s pink lips. That thumb still pressed Hotspur’s palm. And they were surrounded by enemies (not enemies, but family, neighbors, so many varied folk of Innis Lear, but enemies was the word in Hotspur’s wild mind).
“Hotspur,” said her best friend in the entire world, low in the throat and full of that same yearning.
Her seams tugged, about to burst; those stitched-over scars and those she’d been born with, about to be unwoven, undone by a simple word from the mouth of Hal Bolinbroke.
Hotspur snatched her hand away and, with all the control she could muster, escaped the great hall.
HOTSPUR FLUNG HERSELF into her bedchamber and clattered past a chair to the window, unlatched it, and jerked the heavy shutter off the ledge. It thunked hard against the floor, and Hotspur cursed as she propped it in place. She leaned then against the thick windowsill, staring out of the tower over the edge of Wellage and the bleak black waves of the Tarinnish.
Rubbing her palm where last Hal’s thumb had touched, she knocked her temple against the edge of the window, eyes wide. The lights and colors of Innis Lear blurred, mostly gray and white, some dull gold thatching and whitewash, dark water and hurtful blue sky, distant mountains … It was not tears smearing it together, but dry longing that made her vision hazy. Of course.
“Isarna.”
She closed her eyes at her husband’s voice, guilt slashing her like a lion’s claws. Her hands fisted and she bent over the sill, putting her eyes against those fists.
Connley lightly traced her spine through tunic and shirt. His hand came to rest at the small of her back. Supportive, patient.
Slowly, Hotspur raised her head and turned. Without glancing at his face, she hugged him, burying her nose in his neck, arms around his waist. He could be her shield still, a costume with which to wrap herself—to become someone who was not in love with Hal Bolinbroke.
“The air ripples between you and her,” Connley said, embracing her gently, as if she were molten spikes.
Hotspur grunted and shoved him away. “No, it does not.”
“I see it in you,” he insisted.
Wanting to growl, she settled for baring her teeth. “I tell you what there is in me, and it is nothing.”
“Fine,” Connley snapped, surprising her. “Lie to me.”
Hotspur planted her fists on her hips. His eyes were wide and unblinking, the green shards hotter than usual in this winter light. He stared back at her, angry and unmoving.
“I love her,” Hotspur whispered. As if by making it quiet, it would hurt less.
He asked, “Do you regret marrying me?”
“It’s