outsider ladies were doomed in Glennadoer. Mora drained her wine, turned to Glennadoer himself. “I beg your indulgence, Lord Glennadoer, but I am exhausted, and overwhelmed by the incredible welcome you’ve provided.”
The earl tugged his blond beard and stood. “Let us bid Banna Mora a great many strong dreams tonight! And in the morning, perhaps she’ll join my retainers and myself in some combat demonstrations.”
A roar of approval filled the great hall, and Mora smiled tightly, bowed her head, and left.
Though she moved fast, and the castle corridors were short, Rowan caught her wrist just before she reached the cold yard.
“Mora,” he said, tugging her around. “Why did you leave?”
“Why do you let them treat you below your station here, Rowan Lear?” The vehemence of her words surprised even Mora.
Rowan reared back but did not let her go. A candle in its nook beside them flickered, reflecting the hard gold in his tiger-iron eyes. “My grandmother resents me,” he said. “You noticed.”
“She ought to respect her future king.”
“She wishes my father were the king now.”
Mora frowned, and Rowan shrugged. “Donnan would have had my father marry Solas, not Ryrie.”
“That was a quarter century ago. And none of your fault.”
“But I am a wizard, and marked by the willowy stature of Lear instead of the bear body of Glennadoer, or its roughness. She told my father he should put me out in the winter, because I was too weak to live.”
“Cruel,” Mora said, her fingers curling into fists.
“I did live, though, and she won’t forget.”
“Your father did it? He put you out in the winter?”
Rowan nodded, staring intently at her.
“Maybe Donnan Glennadoer should be put out into the ice and we’ll see if she survives,” Mora spat.
With a little laugh, Rowan pulled her nearer.
“And your sisters,” Mora said, though she nearly forgot why: he was so close.
“Ryrie does not care,” he murmured, still staring at her eyes, her mouth, her eyes again. “She knows the issue of her own body.”
“Rowan,” Mora said.
He put his hand flat across her breast, palm pressing the Blood and the Sea hard into her as if he knew it was there. It set her blood aflame. Pushing, he walked Mora backward against the wall. Then he kissed her.
Banna Mora wrapped her arms around his head, kissing back eagerly, widening her body and mouth, surrounding him. His hands gripped her ribs and one slid low to grab her bottom. He tasted like beer and fire, and his teeth tugged at her lip.
This is power, Mora thought, relishing the kiss of the prince of Innis Lear.
But this was also power: Mora put her hands on his face and removed her mouth from his. She opened her heavy eyes to watch him in the flickering candlelight.
Rowan panted and tilted his head in disapproval, but smiled as if he understood exactly what she proved. He backed away from her, then held out an elegant pale hand.
Licking her bottom lip, where the paint had mostly been smeared away on her cup of honey wine and the tips of her fingers as she’d eaten and then Rowan Lear’s mouth, Mora considered. He was beautiful, and she was beautiful, and she was no hostage. Nor he yet a king.
But the Blood and the Sea pulsed against her chest, and Banna Mora left him in the corridor.
THE ROSES KNOW what flavors are born in the blood of the kings and queens of Innis Lear.
At Dondubhan Castle, this same vine has grown for generations, creeping along the corners of the wide blue granite wall in the Queen’s Garden. Mortar flakes under its seeking grip, and occasionally a gardener coaxes the roses in a new direction in order to shore up the wall again. Queen Astora had adored tangled brambles, and so Queen Solas ordered the roses to be culled back only every seventh year, in honor of her late mother’s preference.
It is neither a likely nor safe place for a boy of eight to hide, but the prince trusts roses all across Innis Lear for the certain cut of their thorns; he’s familiar with worse kinds of pain, and their kisses comfort him. The roses are predictable and natural, and his blood blossoms against his skin in exactly the shade of their petals, marking the similarities between them.
Before today, the boy has only come to this garden with his mother and aunt; before today, he’s never been alone in the fortress with his father.
The roses live and sing their tangled, weird songs below the prince’s