invigorating, and here under the weighty skies of Innis Lear Ter Melia can make herself forget what has happened these past few years, and even what might happen next.
High beside the north turret crowning the queen’s tower, the wizard stares out at the flat black Tarinnish. His hand presses to the moon-blue stones and he feels every rough shape against his skin (noticing the rough but not the fine has always been a fault of his).
He wants to remain here, with Innis Lear. He touches his temple to the turret stones and sighs, amused with himself. So old, yet so much still a child.
A cry of distress echoes from the yard below and jolts him straight, but it dissolves into howling laughter: that band of young men and women dancing a wild hunt tonight.
The wizard remembers real earth saints dancing, the vicious spirals of root and blood-sap, shrieking laughter, razor teeth, lips like bark or curling red fungi, and eyes blacker than deep well water. Sugar on his tongue, draining down his throat until he choked. So what if he gave the saints their bargain? He was nobody, nameless, a memory in the wind and the dusty smell of raven feathers.
Tonight, though, someone awaits him, a creature of flesh and human heart. She knows his name, though does him the courtesy of pretending to forget.
He pushes away from the turret and descends.
ECHARMET OF KURAKE Queen sweats a little, sitting beside the fire built before the well in the star cathedral. Kitty-Cat lounges across his lap, stomach to his knees, and her long brown arms trail against the rug, drawing invisible lines there, loops and letters. Kitty-Cat is drunk too easily for a girl of her status and strength. He rests a hand on the small of her back and tips his head against the wall, looking across at Vatta Bolinbroke with half-lowered lids. The second daughter of Celedrix smiles shyly at him, even as she argues with her mother about whether or not wine and cider should be mulled with the same spices. It is ridiculous, and the outcome hardly matters, but the two enjoy the sparring.
To Charm’s eye, Celedrix’s cheeks are wan more than porcelain pale, her smile too slow to come.
Perhaps she only is tired, but Charm is afraid. When she dies, there will be nothing but himself and Prince Hal and the throne.
He needs his Father for years more, decades. He needs her to see her grandchildren lift sabers and recite the best Aremore learning poems. Earn their first godscarves.
This heat in his guts feels like grief, but Celeda is alive and so why is he already grieving? Moon And Shadow is here, teasing her daughter, lifting that elegant black brow. How can he fear when she will be gone instead of appreciating this? Might it be her last Longest Night? What then?
Charm swallows and pats his sister Tigir’s bottom. Kitty-Cat twists her neck to glare up at him and he laughs, shoulders shaking. He pinches her side. By her miniature shriek his laughter is emboldened. Yes, this is better. Make the moment better, if it is to be a memory; do not wallow.
His laughter draws Celeda’s attention, and Vatta’s. That sister presses her lips into a smile, too, as Kitty-Cat rolls off Charm’s lap into an ungainly pile. But his gaze meets Celeda’s, and they share a snap of understanding, secret and intimate. She knows he thinks of savoring the moment.
This is the gift she has given him, to know the truth. But not only for him, Charm realizes: for herself also, to have an accomplice in memory-keeping.
Yes. Charm nods. He will do this for her (for all of them).
A MAN WHO belongs there slips into the queen’s bedchamber at Dondubhan, knife in hand. He listens to the rhythm of blood pounding in his ears, counting his heartbeats, awaiting the hiss of wind and the flare of power. This is right. This is destiny.
He cuts down, slashing the sleeping queen’s neck. Hot blood splashes his strong hands, his hairy wrists, and when her head lolls over he sees the understanding in those dark brown eyes: she was not surprised.
VINDOMATA OF MERCIA tears into a lover again and again all the stretching hours of the Longest Night. If she does not, she will be plagued by the ghosts of her sons, murdered and haunting her, though it is their killer who should suffer.
The duke of Mercia does not wish her lover to speak, but to expend the