head down, and he whispered, calling wind to spin around him. Tendrils of green crept out of the earth, too soon, out of season, touching his toes and glancing off his ankles. The springtime shoots quavered, and a small cry of pleasure and surprise trickled though the breeze behind Hal, spreading as if Innis Lear itself approved.
Sweat glistened at Rowan Lear’s temples, and with a yell, he heaved the wheel of fire at the wizard; his was a mortal blow, should it strike, yet Connley did not intervene, for who could believe the wizard at risk?
With a fist, the wizard punched through the fire.
Flames burst all around him, driving off in ragged lines like cracks of lightning, and the wizard cried out, reached with his hands, and grasped at the air: a soft pop knocked deep in Hal’s ears, and at the edges of the circle all the lighting-flames simply stopped. The crowd who’d shied away slowly lowered defensive hands.
The wizard collapsed to his knees, shoulders heaving with effort.
Rowan swayed with exhaustion but kept to his feet. Staring at the other man, the prince touched his bloody wrist, and with a red-tipped finger drew something in the air.
As if the world split, pink-white tears appeared, hanging where Rowan drew them: hash-marks, the language of trees.
Hal desperately wished to read it. She bit her lip to keep from begging for a translation, wondering if Hotspur understood.
The wizard actually laughed: a soft, sorry laugh, filled with self-mockery. He nodded.
Rowan closed his fist, and the hash-marks danced together, forming a shape: a small animal, large trianglular ears and thick tail. A fox. It dashed toward the wizard, around him, and then dissipated into the shadow made by the dark storm cloud.
Silence held taut in the fortress yard.
Then the cloud itself rumbled, and the billowing verge of its shadow touched the wizard’s hand, enveloping it. He glanced up to the opposite edge of darkness as it grazed Rowan’s foot, then slid up over his body: both men were engulfed in shade.
The wizard smiled slightly, whispered something, and rolled forward into the shadow.
He vanished.
Rowan cried out in shock, and the crowd erupted.
But the wizard stood behind Rowan; with one step he was up against the prince’s back, an arm wrapped around Rowan’s throat and his other hand around his chest, reaching up to hold the taller man in a choke.
“End!” yelled Connley, dashing frantically forward.
The wizard released the prince, who pitched away, spun, and gaped at his vanquisher.
Everyone was cheering, gasping and amazed, and Hal ran into the circle. Her boots skidded over the rushes and fiery ashes. She blocked sun from her eyes; the cloud dissolved, pulled away in every direction by the wind.
“That was—you stepped through the shadow,” Rowan said to the wizard, eyes wide, lips parted as he panted a little.
The wizard said nothing. Though his dark eyes, too, were wider and brighter than usual, as if in a fever.
“Men and women can do no such thing,” Rowan added.
“You named me just now, you know what I am,” the wizard answered softly.
Solas Lear stood off her throne and stepped down off the pavilion. “That was incredible, Fox of Aremoria,” she said, “and I grant you the winning of this battle, despite the prowess and strength with which my nephew and heir wielded his magic.”
“You are very good,” the wizard said to Rowan, who nodded, the start of a smile on one corner of his princely mouth; he had the grace to accept the compliment.
“Will you teach me?” Rowan asked.
The wizard peered at him. “Perhaps in a few decades,” he said.
HAL DONNED HER full armor to meet Hotspur on the field of battle.
The Lion and the Wolf, together at last.
Midafternoon poured down upon them blue and clear. The bright sun did nothing to warm the air, only crystalized the light into shards that bit at Hal’s eyes. She settled into the burden of plate mail. It pressed down on her shoulders and the small of her back, the weight dispersed evenly so that her entire body felt meatier, indomitable.
The prince strode out, sword in hand and buckler gripped in her left, the small circle shield like its own silver sun. Her helm held down the flat braids Catrin had plaited into her hair, and Ter Melia had smeared dark paint around her eyes for the glare. “The champions arrive,” she said, staring at Hotspur. She made her lips hook up into a smile.
Tell the story, Hal reminded herself.
Hotspur gleamed in steel and studded