roared in Hal’s skull.
Hal gasped, but—it was not real. Her mother frowned at her, very much breathing and alive and annoyed.
For a brief moment, Hal shut her eyes, then she said, “Will we ever be allowed to stop killing our friends?”
“I am so very sorry, Hal. I brought you to this.”
“You were the right choice for Aremoria,” Hal whispered. “So will I be.”
“Take a deep breath, then bring us some bread and water. We will eat together, the two of us, and so fortified, put on armor and fight.”
Nodding, Hal squeezed her mother’s hand and stood. “Armor for our bodies, and our hearts,” she muttered. Her hand reached for the flask in her pocket, but Hal let it fall. Later, when she was ready—(she would never be ready)—when she prepared to mount her horse, fully dressed with sword in hand, she’d pour Terestria’s tears onto the soil, a drink for Aremoria.
THE DAY DAWNED silent and striated by sheer clouds.
They waited until the zenith to charge, because it was the most fair time, when the sun was at its pinnacle. For four generations the queens of Innis Lear had made zenith suns their most holy times for bringing people together.
War brings people together, too.
JUST BEFORE THE call sounded, Connley strode up to his wife, dressed like a Learish soldier in vivid blue with steel mail. She began to compliment his look, but he kissed her. Hotspur was surprised: there were soldiers everywhere. For a split second it was Hal kissing her fiercely, two years past, in the courtyard of the Lionis barracks before she led the queen’s army to take back the March.
Here. To this very valley.
She’d led the army here, and seen those same three figures standing at the crest of the Liresfane hill, though she’d not had a name for the ruins then.
The earth tilted beneath Hotspur but Connley’s mouth was warm and slow; this was no desperate kiss, no passion, no performance, but more a benediction. She felt his blessing exactly like the hiss of her iron sword, through her skin and blood, down, down through her feet and into the roots.
Where she belonged.
Home.
IN THE MOMENTS before the call to attack, Hal Bolinbroke’s mind quieted.
The sky was pale gray, windless and smooth. Struggling light diffused the shadows of horses and infantry and dulled the polish of armor and sharp blades, but made bold contrast of colored flags and tabards in violent orange and red, bloody purple and dark winter blue.
Hal took the first step off the edge of the line and raised her sword to signal the archers.
When the two sides charged to the blaring song of trumpets, the field of Liresfane trembled.
LADY HOTSPUR LED the charge, spear in arm and buckler braced as she held tight to the reins of her horse. Her courage was a rush of breath, the bloom of bloodlust, and a cry for Banna Mora.
Between hoofbeats a voice whispered, Wolf of Aremoria.
I am already home.
But that was Hal’s voice, haunting her.
Hotspur’s focus narrowed as it always did: push forward against this man before you, and that man to your right. Thrust with spear, pull back fast. Speed was the only champion between speared cavalry, and Hotspur would be on her feet too soon, so must make use of the horse, of the heightened position.
Awake
Yelling “Banna Mora!” again, she lifted her spear, rallied her soldiers, and pressed the charge.
Awake
She kicked out into a soldier’s face, knocking the man back. Shrieks of horses and the grunts and cries of men filled her ears, drowning her own voice. In the center of the maelstrom of battle, Hotspur was most alive. Her bones jarred with impact, her teeth set.
An enemy—but still Aremore—got past the blade of her spear and grabbed the shaft. Hotspur twisted it and pulled back, dragging the soldier off-balance. She lashed out with her boot and knocked the man to the ground to be trampled.
come home
She threw her spear like a javelin; the target was close enough the blade sliced through his gambeson and knocked the soldier back. Hotspur crowed and leapt off her horse: she knew she was faster, more efficient and deadly on the ground. She landed hard, making way deeper into the opposing forces, dragging her army behind like she was the prow of a ship driving into enemy waters. That was the goal: break their line, crush as many as possible, make them understand it was Hotspur’s army that owned the rocks of the field.
wake up!
Drawing her sword, her beautiful,