been ten entire years! Worse, would her mother recognize her? Hal was older now, a woman, and bloodied.
“This way,” called the Bolinbroke soldier, and picked up his pace to the inner ward.
There they dismounted—Hotspur winced when her left foot touched down, and Hal reached to clasp her arm in support.
Hotspur bared her teeth but allowed it. “I took a hit from behind, twisted my ankle to avoid being knocked to the ground. But I got him in the gut. I didn’t realize it was so bad while battle-high.” Her eyes glowed like little suns, fiery blue, and she could not seem to stop grinning at Hal, whenever Hal glanced over. Hal’s cheeks heated.
“Your mother,” Hotspur said.
Hal saw her, standing in a small crowd of nobly armored knights and commanders: Celeda Bolinbroke, regal and tall, her black hair knotted in braids, her body covered in tooled steel armor so she shone like a moon. The capelet tied over one shoulder was fresh, untainted by blood or ash, fringed in black and dyed a vibrant purple with the lion-and-bluebell crest of Bolinbroke embroidered in white and black. Celeda spoke with the men, holding sway over them with her bearing and dark charisma. One man stood too near her, in a weathered orange gambeson with a small crown pressed into the steel of his single pauldron. He had shorn hair, an equally short beard, and suntanned skin, and he stared suddenly at Hal with vivid blue eyes. Hal did not recognize him—and she knew everyone with an ounce of royal blood.
But it did not matter then who he was, because Celeda was there.
“Mother,” Hal said, the word sticking in her throat. She tried again. “Mother.”
Celeda stopped midword and turned, her surprise transforming into eager welcome. “Calepia, come here,” she said, holding out a bare hand.
The command rang through Hal, and she released Hotspur to dash for her mother.
The two women slammed together, Celeda’s arms open and Hal flinging hers about her mother’s neck. Her chest plate clanged against Celeda’s, keeping them from truly meeting, but Hal hugged tightly, tears squeezing out of her eyes. “Mom,” she whispered, breathing sweat and blood and dusty black hair.
“My Calepia, little Hal, you are so tall,” Celeda said. She herself was more than forty now, and it showed in the frowning lines about her mouth, but not in the black of her hair.
Hal laughed, “Still not so tall as you, Mother.”
Celeda pushed Hal back, holding her at arm’s length. “I’ve good reports of you.”
“And I of you,” Hal teased, unable to help it. She thought her eyes must be saucers, they felt so round and bulging.
Hotspur came up behind them, giving greetings, and Hal turned with a sweep of her hand. “This is Isarna Perseria, Lady Hotspur.”
“Lady Hotspur,” Celeda said.
Hotspur bowed. “It is an honor to meet you, having battled for your return and justice, Lady Celeda.”
“And I am most pleased to see you with my daughter, for I wish the two of you to be great friends, as I myself have been with your mother and aunt for most of our lives. Here is Commander Abovax and Commander Ios de Or, Lord Cevo of Westmore and his brother Aesmaros.” Celeda pointed at each of the men encircling them, ignoring the man in the orange gambeson. His mouth beneath the beard seemed to bend in amusement he shared only with Hal. He looked so familiar; why could she not recall his name? Hal knew Abovax from his work in the Lionis palace guard, a nemesis of her youthful pranks, and Commander Ios, too. Celeda continued, “Mata Blunt is deeper in the castle with Vindomata, meeting with Rovassos.”
“And my mother?” Hotspur asked.
Celeda made a disgruntled face. “Refusing to go to the hospital. I have her in a chair at least and a healer I brought from the Third Kingdom is at her side. If she does not die of infection she will survive, though perhaps not walk again.”
Hotspur gritted her teeth but nodded.
“And Dev?” Hal asked.
Hal’s mother hesitated; it was Abovax who spoke. “Devrus is dead, but Vindus I’ve no report on.”
“No,” said Hotspur, too softly.
“Vin is dead, too, Mother,” Hal said. Both the sons of Vindomata of Mercia, lost to Celeda’s rebellion. Hal’s guts were knots. They’d been such strong warriors—but even the best destiny could turn on an accident. Her eyes flicked to the strange, silent man in royal Aremore orange, seeking solace. But he was gone.
Just then another soldier ran up. “Lady Celeda, Mercia sends