thinking of Hal who’d argued so passionately that this war would do more harm than good, that Mora’s chance was over, that Aremoria itself would suffer. That Mora only wanted revenge.
Hal, drawn and pale with blood splattered along her jaw again, eyes too-wide circles, nearly feverish with the aftereffects of Glennadoer’s murder, commanding Hotspur no.
She said, “I won’t deny Hal began to draw me, at the end. She is right that war comes with a steep cost. You know that, and so I ask, how do you know you must do it, Mora? How do you know it is right?”
Banna Mora drew another slow breath, held it, and pursed her lips to blow it out as if she could see the wind of her lungs piercing the world. She sat up smoothly and said to Trin, “Bring my child to me, and leave us.”
It was done as she ordered; Trin also handed Mora a towel and refreshed both her and Hotspur’s water from a pitcher. The retainers shut the doors to the practice hall behind them; the two women were alone with the quiet and the sighing baby. Bundled in soft blue wool, Cealla slept with her tiny bottom lip stuck out and her brow wrinkled. Hotspur frowned, and in answer, Mora put the baby into Hotspur’s lap.
She weighed nothing, and Hotspur curled around her, smelling gentle lavender and the sour echo of spit-up. A smile hooked the Wolf of Aremoria’s lips as she touched a finger to Cealla’s round little cheek.
“You want one,” Mora said.
“More than one,” Hotspur whispered as she folded the blanket a little higher up around Cealla’s head, casting the dusky pink face in shadow. A child of hers and Conn’s would have thick curly hair, she was certain.
“You’ll have your chance. And they’ll be cousins.”
Warmed at the thought, Hotspur glanced up at Mora again. There was something of the princess’s cheeks and the shape of her eyes in the baby, though Hotspur might just as easily find similarity in the shape of a cloud, the baby remained yet so unformed. “Is it strange? To be made of war and fire, but have my heart swollen with such tenderness and wanting?”
Mora smiled crookedly. “If I knew tenderness, perhaps I could tell you.”
Hotspur rolled her eyes a little, then dropped them back to Cealla. “She’s lighter than the most delicate stiletto, fragile enough to be killed by stray breeze.”
“On Innis Lear, even a queen of great strength might be killed by the wind.”
The two women watched Cealla sleep for a few moments, sharing the water between them as through the open window drifted voices and that very wind, warm but stinking of spring rot from the thawing marshes. Mora leaned back on her hands, tipping her head toward the ceiling beams. Motes of dust bobbed in the angled sunlight.
Gathering her courage, Hotspur touched Cealla’s soft cheek, then looked square at Mora. “Why are you not content with all you have? Family, a crown already, and this strangely willful island? A people, a place … it is everything, right here. You love your husband, and he you. You can be happy, without sacrificing more soldiers or yourself, without trying to kill Celedrix or Hal.”
None of the words had cracked under the weight of Hotspur’s urgency, but Mora glanced sharply at her friend.
Hotspur added, “This winter I saw royalty in Hal Bolinbroke again—finally. A true power, the spark of leadership shining through that mess she made of herself. It took her a long time to learn it, but she was thrown into rapids as much as you were. And you know she did not kill Glennadoer willingly, she had no choice. Even Solas was glad of it, and though your husband might have liked to do the deed himself, you must be relieved he was not forced to. Patricide would change him, no matter how just. Hal was a—a vessel of justice, unburdened Learish subjectivity. Imagine, Mora, how her actions change shape if we all are friends. Allies.” Hotspur paused, passion catching up with her, and whispered, “We could have everything.”
Mora studied Hotspur nearly long enough for Hotspur to grow skittish. Then Mora asked, casually, “Did I tell you I met a dragon last year?”
Stunned, Hotspur knew not whether to tense at being teased or to shatter against this perfect pearl of truth unexpectedly revealed.
“It was the Dragon of the North, a massive beast of granite and rubies, and it taught me that when the world burns, we must