were stronger than this. I’d never have knighted you—made you my first!—if I’d suspected how you’d shatter under pressure. How dare you let all of us down. Better to be defeated by a worthy opponent than—than—” Mora flung her hand out.
“This,” Hal finished for her. “Me.”
“Yes.” Mora stood. She backed away. Her hands shook. The Blood and the Sea burned at her breast. How could she entrust it to this creature before her? Hal was too selfish, too afraid to lead. Broken. She would let Aremoria fall to pieces.
Mora could not give over the Blood and the Sea like some kind of benediction.
She turned and left without another word, nearly running into Hotspur as she exited.
“Mora,” the knight said, startled enough to step back.
“Help Hal get her shit together, Hotspur Perseria,” Mora snarled, “or she’ll have to face me one day, and my sword.”
The lady of the March shoved past the knight, heart thudding beneath her ribs, hard, dull: a death knell.
The death of hope, and the death of Aremoria beneath Hal Bolinbroke’s wretched hand.
HOTSPUR
Lionis, winter
THE FIRST WINTER of Celedrix’s reign was mild, but Hotspur remembered the strife.
Lionis Palace was a mess of agendas and politics, factions and families vying for new authority and the queen’s favor; there were enemies to be rooted out, alliances to be made and remade, executions to perform, petty squabbles, gossip, defense concerns and messages from the least secure borders. Hotspur acted as the prince’s chief of security, as well as Hal’s right hand, and consulted with the generals in the war room on strategies for holding the north and east against the perpetual Diotan raids and the press of the Rusrike. Hotspur was constantly on her feet, rushing from meeting to dinner to the garrison to her own shift at Hal’s side, to something appalling like a dress fitting. The formal occasions were the worst, required as she was to converse calmly or even flirt—her best flirtation happened in the form of single combat—or stand for hours at a time at Hal’s shoulder while Hal in turn stood at her mother’s. Rarely did Hotspur find a moment’s quiet, even with the prince, for when they did manage to slam together they rarely chose to relax.
Despite being pulled in so many directions, Hotspur was happy. Maybe she shouldn’t have been, given the state of the country’s politics, and the delicate, torturous war of words that slowly established Celedrix. How could Hotspur be happy in spite of her mother’s crawling recovery and her aunt’s grief and anger, or especially in the face of Hal’s constant, violent dreams? But through it all a golden thread wove itself, luminous and constant and secured between the strong folds of Hotspur’s heart: she was in love.
Thank the saints and worm-eaters she was busy enough, or Hotspur might spend every moment glowing in Hal’s direction. She even sometimes thought gratefully on the fact that their affair came with an expiration date—else the potential of living so blissfully for the rest of her life might’ve overwhelmed her.
But for the time being, Hotspur couldn’t help but constantly contemplate the prince’s lips and talented fingers, biting her own tongue or surreptitiously ducking into an alcove to press her forehead against cold marble wall and try, try, try to calm down so she did not arrive flushed for a meeting with Commander Abovax or skip through a security briefing.
Any progress Hotspur made in managing her emotions and body were undone the instant she turned a corner and there was Hal, smiling like she’d been saved. That smile devastated Hotspur, especially when it blew away the shadows of stress under Hal’s dark eyes, or straightened her spine, like Hotspur was the only god Hal believed in.
Hotspur became skilled at discovering Hal’s hiding places, for the heir to the throne tended to disappear when not nailed down by witnesses or specific duty. The Princes’ Gallery was a favorite, though others could find her there so it tended to be an escape when she had only a few moments to breathe. The secondary kitchens were another favorite, and once Hotspur even discovered Hal kneading bread with a cap holding back her hair, covered in sweat and flour. The prince fled to the kennels occasionally, to pretend she was checking on the dogs and considering a plan for a winter hunt. The worst were the nights—and days—Hal slipped her guards and vanished from the palace itself. At least she only went to the Quick Sunrise to find Ianta and