go set something on fire.”
Connley and Sennos got her into bed, and she touched her husband’s face in a way intended to be gentle, but like her scoff, was more of a slap. “I haven’t been this drunk since our wedding night,” she reminded him.
She wasn’t the only one unsettled. Thanks to Mora’s declaration of certain war, Dondubhan became a nest of friendly folk drawing each other closer for warmth, yet never forgetting that when they emerged at the end of winter, rivalries would reform sharper than ever. If they emerged at all. Too many prophecies haunted them, touching on weather, desire, death, marriages, open mouths, open skies, and many girls being born. Some folk even called for a stop to evening readings, and a decent handful of Learish men and women grimaced when they caught themselves glancing up. Nobody wanted to see the Dragon, the Lion, the Wolf in any reading ever again.
The worst prophecy should have been the one that whispered behind closed doors: The hemlock queen will die. That one wove a filament of thrill through the tapestry of their lives, a thread that tugged sometimes on Hotspur, quickening her pulse. And the wind, when she listened, hissed, One for Innis Lear, one for Aremoria. It was a phrase she’d heard before, when she pulled her sword from the oak tree.
But to Hotspur, the worst prophecy was The wolf will choose the end, for it put the weight of Aremoria’s future squarely on her undeserving shoulders. Every time she thought she’d already made the choice, the world revealed more complications. She hated prophecies.
Hotspur tried to dismiss anything that wasn’t relevant to her daily needs. But magic made her listen. The wind teased Hal’s hair, whispering prince; sunlight caught the bloody garnet clutching Mora’s forefinger; Hotspur’s own pulse echoed back to her through the stones of the castle.
Connley continued her lessons, and Hotspur clung to the language of trees as if it could explain to her every mystery of the world.
Snow returned to coat the world in white ice but did not trap them in the great hall again. Every few days a party rode out to supplement their stock of salted fish and pies with fresh meat. Hotspur never missed a hunt, nor did Hal, and they circled each other as they searched for their prey, drawing nearer together again.
Despite Mora’s challenge on the zenith, or perhaps because of it, Hal seemed to embrace the remaining days before the Longest Night and squeeze loose every possible drop of enjoyment. As if after this winter there would be no more enjoyment in all the world—which perhaps was true. Prince Hal’s frenetic energy drew everyone, including Hotspur. The prince argued at the high table with Glennadoer and Banna Mora over historical accounts of battle, or shoved tables and benches aside to create huge strategy boards. She used stools and wide-eyed children to stand in for armies or mountains. Hal challenged anyone to games, and Hotspur found herself again and again at the end of a long table checking Hal’s priest and star pieces, or flipping cards. Hal won or lost, uncaring, but dragged those games out as long as possible.
Often Hal and Hotspur were thrown together (along with Mora) at the high table while Rowan and Connley hunched near the center fire with the wizard, murmuring about ancient magic and practicing little things like vanishing stones into shadow or shaping the flames into salamanders and ravens. Hotspur might’ve joined them, now an apprentice in magic herself, but could not choose the men or magic, when the other option was Hal.
One afternoon, some three or four days before the Longest Night, Connley leapt to his feet with such excitement Rowan tumbled backward and the wizard laughed gently. Conn spun to the high table and called, “Isarna! I did it!” He clapped his hands and fire sparked at the tips of his fingers.
She lifted her cup of beer in salute.
That night as she ate, Conn to one side and Hal to the other, Hal leaned around Hotspur and said to Conn, “The wizard is a good teacher?”
Shyly, Conn nodded. His eyes widened and he sighed softly, composing himself, then snapped. A tiny flame popped to life against his thumb, putting a dance of vibrant orange into the depths of his black pupils.
“How did he teach you?” Hotspur asked, thinking of Connley crouched by the cold, dry wood in Aremoria, struggling to light it.
Conn’s gaze dropped, and the fire puffed into nothing,