with him in the caves beneath Lionis Palace, to summon earth saints back to us. When we were children.”
“Another reason he was no fit king.” Hotspur shoved a jug of wine at Hal.
“How can you dismiss it, Lady Hotspur? What do you think the prophecy means?” Ianta took the wine from Hal and poured for them both.
By now, Hal’s mind trembled with a tingle of inebriation. They’d not eaten since leaving Lionis; nor had Hal had much an appetite of late.
“A trick from the queen of Innis Lear,” Hotspur said. “They are fond of such things.”
Hal snorted. “Is she in league with the earth saints, too?”
Mora pointed at Hal. “You are the one who told me stories of King Morimaros vanishing when he died—either his body absconded with to be buried with his lover on Innis Lear, or by the very earth saints themselves. No—I’m not saying I trust this specter, the opposite, in fact. Prophecy ruins good men and women; it twists us up, inside and out, and what is the point? What would an earth saint expect to happen from such a proclamation? What would Solas Lear? There was no direction, no action to take!” Mora clenched her jaw for a moment, and Hal was stunned by the shock of fury in her eyes when she continued: “Even if it is real, it is also a trick.”
“You mean they want something else from Aremoria.” Hal rubbed the bridge of her nose.
“They who?” Hotspur demanded.
“The queen of Innis Lear? Or the earth saints themselves!”
Mora flattened her hands upon the table. “That is the way it goes in the stories.” With that last word she cast a glance at Hal, the teller of tales, the story-maker.
It was true. Hal nodded wearily. “Yes, in the stories, a prophecy is usually not exactly what anyone expects, especially if earth saints are involved—but when it happens, it’s obvious what it meant all along.”
Hotspur stood again. “So we live our lives. We honor our friendship. We act ourselves—I would never choose for Aremoria to end.”
“I might break,” Hal muttered.
Mora glanced at Hal, and Hal did not know what to do except hold her gaze.
Lady Ianta said, “Are you ready to burn, Banna Mora? A dragon, indeed.”
The former prince bared her teeth.
“And who, or what, are the restless?” Ianta continued. She swept her gaze across the three of them, drinking deep. “What a puzzle.”
The wine in Hal’s stomach soured. Still, she poured another drink.
LATE THAT NIGHT, Hal followed Ianta into the chamber in which she’d been—well, not sleeping, exactly, but throwing all her stuff.
“For what I found in the cellar,” Hal said, holding up a vial of honey liqueur and a bottle of burnt whiskey. “Tell me more about Rovassos’s rituals.”
Ianta poured herself into a short, soft armchair beside the cold fireplace and held out her hand for the whiskey.
The prince smacked the glass butt into Ianta’s palm and slid onto the floor, sitting cross-legged with her back against the stone hearth. This was a small room, but cozy with tapestries and thick braided rugs. The bed pressed into the corner, covered with a shaggy fur and plump woolen pillows. It smelled of Ianta’s sharp pipe smoke, horses, leather, and sword oil besides. There, tucked against the door, leaned Ianta’s huge broadsword. It had no name, but needed none, either.
The former Lady Knight popped the lid off the whiskey and drank. She opened her mouth after and sighed in satisfaction. Hal put her tongue out and tipped the vial of honey liqueur for a single drop that splattered down, coating her best muscle. Ianta gave her the whiskey and Hal drank that, with the honey sweetening the burn so it lifted up through her face and skull and into her brain. The prince’s lashes fluttered, and she thought, If it were poison, how fast would I realize?
The flavor might fool her into thinking it was safe, and nothing would change, but suddenly Hal would simply stop. Fall dead, never knowing it. Would that make her final heartbeat into a ghost itself? A specter of a prince trapped outside of death because she’d never seen the moment approach?
Or Hal’s skin might flush, she might feel her throat close, she might sense the painful creeping of poison through her veins, locking her muscles with cramps until her heart burst and her bowels let go and her teeth cut into her own cheeks—a slow, brutal death.
Surely that was to be preferred.
“Why do you want to know about magic