to flare out. But one woman—Trin, a sturdy milk-skinned brunette whose family had long served the Keep—was brilliant with ribbons and managed to softly wind them into the front of Mora’s hair so the dazzle of curls was held out of her face.
As her bruises healed and her hip strengthened, as the knot on her head lessened and her nausea reduced, Mora luxuriated in the attention the women gave her skin and hair in the form of spicy-smelling oil, silk, and the finest linen. Trin brought piles and piles of dresses, skirts, over-gowns, aprons, shifts, and jewelry out from storage. Mora would be back in leather and trousers and heavy boots soon enough, so enjoyed the silk slippers and layered gowns while she could.
Mora began to explore the Keep, from the spindly lookout tower to the thick black stone wall that cupped its base. Built into the craggy rocks of this small, lone mountain on Innis Lear’s southeastern foot, the Keep was a marriage of ancient black rocks and pristine limewashed walls, hung with not only the midnight blue banners of Lear, but iron stars and silver sunburst pennants. The air outside smelled of smoke and the tang of iron thanks to the rows of chimneys lined along the slope of the mountain where iron wizards smelted and hammered and crafted the finest, strongest weapons the world had ever seen.
The first night that Mora joined Rowan Lear and Barra Ironwizard—the royal guardian of Queen’s Keep—in the great hall for dinner, a week after the defeat of the March, she learned just how informally they held themselves at the Keep. The iron wizard clearly did no more to dress for dinner than throw off her leather apron from her day at the forge and push her hair off her face with ashy hands, leaving gray streaks behind on her ruddy forehead. Rowan wore a dark sleeveless tunic that fell to his thighs and plain leggings, good boots, and nothing else but bands of iron and copper circling his arms. His hair was pulled half back, with no decorative ribbons or charms. It was very attractive—for a farmer. If Mora hadn’t known him to be a prince, how might she have been able to tell him from the rest of the crowd? Seated at the long tables were retainers in dark blue, women she recognized as attendants and minor ladies, a star priest from the nearby town of Steps, the army healer, children, wives, husbands, and anyone not currently helping to bring food from the kitchen. It was a wild mess of people and dogs. Laughter lifted up to the dark wood rafters like smoke. Small boys dashed past her, and Rowan fed a hairy dog from his own hand.
Though initially frozen with distaste, Mora gazed out and remembered similar scenes from her youth. This was exactly the sort of casual meal her parents had once shared at Connley Castle with the duke of Errigal and their spiraling, sprawling families. Cousins everywhere, fighting over who would be served first, folk clearing their own trenchers and sending the youngest cousins to the kitchen for more bread. Taking beer with them for the cook.
Rowan saw Mora standing at the threshold and lifted a hand to beckon her.
She moved, slowly, attention focused on Rowan. Let the horde of Learish folk gape at her, at her regal bearing and the scarlet swoop of gown that dragged through the fresh lavender rushes. They were used to Third Kingdom blood on this island, darkening several family lines, but Banna Mora had been heir to the throne of Aremoria.
The iron wizard called for another chair and moved hers over. “You look entirely recovered,” Barra Ironwizard said, offering a cup of wine. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so.”
The prince cut a slice of juicy mutton from the platter before him and gave it to Mora, glancing at her with a half-smile. He said, “Her gaze is tight and there’s a wan cast to her cheeks still; when she is healthy again, she’ll bowl you over with the power of her beauty.”
Barra saluted with her own wine while Mora narrowed her eyes at Rowan. “And you would know that how? You’ve not seen my beauty since I was fifteen.”
“Faith, Banna Mora.” He proceeded to cut the meat into bites for her, which she only allowed for knowing it was considered a compliment and marker of status on Innis Lear.
Once she’d had her first taste, Mora said to Barra, “I