for you: the king will see you, and surrender to you, she says.”
They wasted no time on further questions or mourning, but followed fast at Celeda’s side, into the keep tower and through narrow stone corridors warm from fire and men. Hal was breathless as they entered the castle’s great hall to the sound of barking dogs echoing off the low ceilings. Benches were tipped to their sides and shoved back, and Rovassos slumped atop the high table in chain mail, his sword beside him and two rangy hunting hounds circling his feet, howling, growling, upset at his lack of response. Hal pitied the old man, even knowing it was weakness inside her to do so.
At the end of the table stood a battered Aumerle, and Hal clenched her jaw. Bolinbroke no longer belonged to him! It was hers again—her mother’s, at least. Unable to stop herself, Hal marched to him and shoved him over. Aumerle stumbled, shocked, and barely caught himself at the edge of the table.
“Calepia!” snapped her mother.
“I’m sorry,” Aumerle said to Hal, his eyes heavy, his entire body drooping.
Hal snorted, retreating to her mother’s side, and Hotspur’s. She could not forget the sickening feeling of his hand on hers, when he had offered her marriage last year as an avenue to regain her Bolinbroke lands. This was so much better.
Rovassos King lifted his head to watch. Pink rimmed his pale blue eyes. He leaned back on one hand, even in this state the perfect pose of defeated king.
“Sit,” snapped Vindomata of Mercia to the dogs. They startled, and one sat while the other raised its hackles further.
The king waved his hand wearily. “Take them out, Aumerle.”
Hal tried to calm her rough breathing as she watched Aumerle grab the dogs by their collars and drag them away, handing them off to soldiers in Persy green. He returned to his position behind his king.
“I have come, Rovassos, for what I am owed,” said Celeda.
“A swift death?” he countered.
Vindomata snarled and put her fist to the hilt of her sword. Dried blood streaked her white cheek, smearing back into her hair. She’d removed her heaviest armor and stood like a vicious wolf, ready to feast. Just like her niece Hotspur—they were older and younger versions of each other, red-haired beasts of war. “None of your bluster, old man. Give her the ring.”
The command rang against the high stone rafters of the great hall. Orange banners hung, striping the dark walls with loyalty to Aremoria.
Hal’s legs trembled. Blood rushed in her ears and she missed Rovassos’s following words, though saw his lips move through graying vision. She’d known Celeda returned to take all of Aremoria, not only Bolinbroke. She’d known, and yet—
Celeda said, “You have nothing behind you, Rovassos, no army willing to defend you against us; your choices have marred the glory of Aremoria’s throne. I am as much Segovax’s heir as you, and I have been welcomed. I have been greeted with flowers and cheering. Your lords and commanders understand you are weak.”
“All this because I gave Bolinbroke to a loyal man? I treated your child as my own,” Rovassos said.
“You stole my home!” Hal cried.
Vindomata put up a hand to halt Hal’s outburst, then tilted her chin toward the side entrance: Mata Blunt entered through it, behind her two men in purple propping Caratica Persy between them. Caratica bared her teeth in a wild grimace of pain. There was no color in her face, and streaks of ashy tears painted her cheeks. Hotspur did not go to her mother, but remained at Hal’s side as a chair was dragged forward and Caratica put into it, though she growled her pain through panting breath.
“We all are here now,” Vindomata said firmly. “Have your say, Rovassos.”
Caratica hissed a dismissal to the healers and guards, and when the heavy wooden door slammed closed it was only the king, his lover, and six women: Celeda Bolinbroke, Vindomata of Mercia, Caratica de Persy, Mata Blunt, Hal, and Hotspur.
“This is how kings die,” Rovassos muttered. “Shall I tell you, niece, so you will see it coming? Betrayed, all. Either by our bodies, our hearts, or our friends.”
“So the circle comes around for betrayers,” Celeda said, her voice thick. “I loved you once, Uncle, and you betrayed me first.”
“Tit, tat, who murdered my favorite brother? Who?”
“Not me!” Celeda snapped.
From her seat, Caratica said, pained, “It does not matter, Celeda. You have won. We have won.”
“Look at my daughter,” said Celeda, and Hal stiffened at