king was all the religion the people needed. Or ought to need.
Hard to imagine Celeda Bolinbroke anyone’s god.
That’s the problem with a coup, isn’t it? Mora thought viciously. If one murders the consecrated king, one’s own rule can never quite be so hallowed.
“Such anger,” Sin murmured. “Give me your hand.”
Unthinking, Mora obeyed. Her grandmother spread Mora’s left hand open, palm up, and traced a tickling circle, then small hash-marks along her thumb. Mora felt a tremble through her bones and fought to keep from curling her fingers into a fist. It was anger, Sin was precisely correct.
Mora deepened her breath. The Blood and the Sea was a weight around her neck.
“Fire,” Sin said. “You must go north for the Longest Night, Banna Mora.”
“Northern Innis Lear? Glennadoer land.”
Her grandmother nodded, lips pursed, bony old hands cupping Mora’s.
“Why?” The Longest Night was more than six months away.
The old duke said, eyes bright, “There is a dragon in the north. And it is waiting for you.”
PRINCE HAL
Lionis, summer
IN HER ELEMENT, and motivated by passion, Hal Bolinbroke was a glory to behold.
At the center of a crowd, playing her audience like the strings of a harp, the prince made herself into a rare beast indeed: everybody’s friend.
Don’t you hope the prince wins her wager with Lord Aesmaros, a courtier might say, and his companion agree, though neither recalled exactly what the wager was about. It did not matter, for they wanted Hal to win it. And they wanted to be heard to say so.
Did you hear how the Wolf of Aremoria raged on behalf of Banna Mora in the corridor outside Celedrix’s study, and how the prince appeared to tame her with little but a smile and a touch?
I did—except I heard it was no touch, it was a kiss to envy.
When Lady Hotspur appeared at a welcome dinner for the new ambassador from the Third Kingdom wearing a thin silver bracelet with an amethyst exactly the color of the Bolinbroke arms, everyone knew from whom the gift had come.
Rumors drifted up from the city that Prince Hal dropped by a different tavern most nights, drawing a crowd and spreading liberal benevolence in the shape of copper and beer. Some older, more traditional members of the esteemed Aremore nobility disapproved, naturally, but not Hal’s peers, not those sons and daughters of Lionis who benefited from her generosity—both by following her to some such tavern evenings, and by joining her at invitation-only affairs in the palace. Themes for such parties abounded—legends of Aremore past, earth saints, Third Kingdom splendor, Learish goblins—and the cost of admission was naught but a bottle of liquor, a rare book, or an even rarer metaphysical theory. Philosophies were shared, history argued, and Hal herself often read from the diaries of Morimaros the Great, unless a professional poet attended, in which case they had recitations and songs and new compositions in honor of, usually, Lady Hotspur of Perseria, who blushed and fumed and glared affection at the prince.
Some accused Hal of adopting the habits of the Merry King himself, but she would answer such critiques, Ah, you see, I make no promises and bestow no favors. This is not the work of politics, this is the work of cultivating the minds and imaginations of Aremoria. For the future benefit of our people. My friends shall take our arguments and learning to politics, perhaps, or to the country or the royal libraries, better and stronger for having laughed, recited, debated vehemently.
So long as the queen herself did not disapprove, what could anyone do?
Those who attended the private parties and tavern hauntings swore to mothers and fathers, to anyone who asked, that it was only drinking and education, with perhaps the occasional celebratory kiss—nothing untoward. Nothing like the Merry King’s rumored debauchery. Ianta Oldcastle did not attend the palace soirees, though occasionally she was spotted in the prince’s company when Hal ventured into a tavern near the river.
And indeed, at the height of summer, when the queen opened the People’s Courtyard for a festival, the prince’s flock took themselves to the streets and amidst the palace celebration, cheerfully arguing, sharing their songs and high spirits—their liquor, too. They proved to many that the nature of their revelry was righteous, if rambunctious.
It was a magnificent summer—except for the absence of Banna Mora, who remained hostage to Innis Lear.
They had no direct word from her, only a statement from Queen Solas that Banna Mora was her guest, and of course negotiations could be engaged with