Chapter 11 Alarik
Alarik
Alarik was getting dressed in his bedchamber when he heard the drums again. He stilled, sure he was imagining the thrum in the wind, just like before. Only this time, Nova was growling, and Luna had woken from sleep with her hackles raised.
The king bit off a curse as he fled his dressing room with his shirt half buttoned.
The drums were getting louder, matching the thunder of his pulse.
He grabbed his sword on instinct and ran to the balcony, steeling himself for the sight of Queen Regna’s soldiers storming the mountains around Grinstad.
But that was not what awaited the king of Gevra as he leaped on to his balcony. The drums were real, but they were not the steel war barrels of Vask. They were made of vellum and oak. They cast a soft and steady rhythm, like a hum coming up from the earth.
Not a threat, but a greeting.
The twenty-strong troop that carried them were dressed in fitted uniforms of olive green, trimmed in silver.
They wore tall helmets that obscured their faces, but Alarik knew those colours just as he knew the flag they carried.
He recognized the outline of dark green mountains cresting under a full moon.
These soldiers had come from Halgard.
Understanding curdled in Alarik’s gut. He looked past the procession and saw the royal carriage at the end, a large wooden coach pulled not by horses but four towering weaver elk, their jutting gold antlers glimmering in the sunlight.
He knew precisely who was sitting in that carriage. Not just a princess, but the fruits of his mother’s plotting these past few weeks.
‘No,’ he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut, wishing he could blink it all away.
A knock sounded on his bedroom door and Johan burst inside, without waiting for permission.
‘Your Majesty!’ he huffed. ‘Your presence is requested in the entrance hall. The princess of Halgard has …’ He trailed off at the sight of Alarik standing on his balcony, wearing a look of such horror, it stopped Johan in his tracks. ‘Ah … you’ve already … figured that out …’
Despite the dull roar of his panic, Alarik had the good sense to step in from his balcony before Princess Elva of Halgard peered out through the drapes in her carriage and noticed the king, half dressed and scowling at her arrival.
Back in his bedchamber, Alarik paced the floor, raking his hands through his hair.
How long had it been since he first met with his mother in her tower?
When had he made her that vague promise he never intended to keep?
Weeks had passed with little thought of anything but warfare, and now it was too late to stop this madness.
The princess was already here. With her drums and her elk. Her expectations of marriage.
Freezing hell.
He groaned into his hands, trying to find a way to undo the machinations of his mother’s grand scheme, but it had already gone too far.
The Halgard delegation was inside his gates.
He couldn’t turn them away. Any move to reverse their course would be seen as a terrible diplomatic sleight at best, and at worst, an act of war.
Alarik had enough war on his hands already.
Johan cleared his throat. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, daring to step closer. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
Alarik shook his head mournfully. ‘Where is my mother?’
‘She’s in the entrance hall, preparing to welcome the princess.’
‘Of course she is,’ Alarik muttered. He released a long string of swear words.
Then briefly considered locking his door and crawling back into bed for the rest of the week.
But that was the action of a boy, not a man.
Certainly not a king. No, he must make the best of this unfortunate situation.
Halgard was a valuable ally, and even if he had no intention of marrying its princess, he intended to keep their loyalty.
Somehow.
‘Go,’ he said, waving Johan off. ‘I’ll be down shortly.’
Alarik finished getting dressed, choosing a pair of fitted black trousers and a plain black frock coat to mourn the death of his own free will.
Vine was waiting for him at the end of the hallway, looking impeccable in her uniform, and with her hands dug into her pockets. She frowned as she looked him over. ‘Whose funeral is it?’
‘Yours, if you piss me off today.’
‘Did you even brush your hair?’
He glared at her.
She flashed him a smile. ‘Oh, cheer up. Today might be fun.’
‘For whom?’ he groused, stalking past her. ‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be?’
‘No way,’ she said, matching him stride for stride. ‘I wouldn’t miss this for all the frostfizz in Grinstad.’
Alarik rolled his eyes but refrained from biting back. Despite his anger, he was glad not to have to face this particularly excruciating moment alone.
When he reached the top of the stairs that led down to the entrance hall, he paused to take in the bustle below. The Halgard delegation, which included a host of soldiers and courtiers, were milling about the atrium, admiring the tapestries and cautiously observing the beasts.
Alarik heard the trill of his mother’s laughter wafting through the air and thought for a moment he was hallucinating. The sound was so foreign to him now, he almost didn’t recognize it.
‘At least one of you is enjoying this,’ remarked Vine.
Alarik surrendered a sigh. Given the choice, he would always place his mother’s happiness above his own.
It was just a shame that her joy this morning had to come at the expense of his.
There was no sign of Lief anywhere. For all he knew, the meddlesome little turd was erecting a wedding chapel somewhere.
The dowager queen was dressed in a velvet gown of midnight blue, the silver-fur sleeves catching the light as she moved to embrace Princess Elva, who stepped through the doors of the palace with such confidence it looked like she had been living there her whole life.
‘Holy snow,’ muttered Vine, sweeping her gaze over the foreign princess.
Alarik glanced sidelong at his captain. ‘You’re drooling, Vine.’
She folded her arms. ‘This might be the only time in my life that I’ve ever felt jealous of you.’
Alarik snorted. Whatever spell had fallen over Vine had entirely evaded the king.
He didn’t care how beautiful the princess was, how easily she glided into his palace or how effortlessly she commanded each conversation she stepped into, greeting his servants with the same warmth she had afforded to his mother.
For more than a year now, the door to Alarik’s heart had been bolted shut.
He intended to keep it that way. There was no princess on this continent, or any other, that could ever hope to open it.
He tucked his hands behind his back as he drifted downstairs, all the while assessing Princess Elva.
She was certainly attractive, possessing the kind of beauty that reminded him of oil paintings from previous centuries.
She was tall, almost as tall as he was, in fact, with thick golden hair arranged into a crown of intricate braids threaded with silver ribbon.
On top, she wore a simple silver diadem.
Her gown was pale green. It tapered at the waist and had long, billowing sleeves that made her look ethereal. Her face was sun-kissed, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones to match the arch of her brows. She had bright teeth and brown eyes, the crinkles around them hinting at a merry disposition.
Princess Elva looked up from her conversation with Queen Valeska just as Alarik stepped off the stairwell, as though she had been subtly tracking his descent the entire time.
They locked eyes across the bustling atrium, and a hush came over the hall, soldiers and servants drawing breath as they gazed upon this fateful moment – a meeting, not just of two future lovers, but of two kingdoms.
Alarik offered a small, practised smile as he came towards her.
Princess Elva returned it, striding to meet him.
She raised her hand, and he took it, barely brushing his lips against the back of it.
Her gaze met his, and he startled a little.
For what he saw there was not warmth or excitement, as he was expecting, but rather a strange sort of amusement, as though they had found themselves in the same game.
‘You are most welcome to Grinstad, Princess Elva,’ he lied, effortlessly.
She quirked a brow. ‘It is a pleasure to be here among your people, King Alarik.’
He sensed a lie in her words, too, but that perfect smile never wavered.
Valeska drifted over, taking Alarik by the arm. ‘My son, Alarik. Isn’t he handsome, Elva?’
Alarik winced. ‘Mother.’
‘I dare say I’ve never seen a more handsome Gevran,’ said Elva, with a smirk.
Valeska looked to Alarik, eyes shining. ‘And isn’t Elva a beauty?’
‘A rare treasure indeed,’ said Alarik.
Queen Valeska beamed. ‘You two must take tea together. After such a long journey, Princess Elva must be starving.’
‘Famished,’ the princess confirmed.
‘I’ll have Nanna take care of your retinue,’ said Valeska, sweeping away.
‘Come,’ said Alarik, offering his arm to Elva in a bid to outrun all the eyes trained on them. She took it eagerly, and they hurried out of the atrium without so much as a backward glance.
‘You should know I have no plans to fall in love with you,’ Princess Elva said between sips of cinnamon and apple tea. ‘And I won’t be persuaded otherwise.’
Alarik’s brows rose, her candour so refreshingly unexpected that he almost laughed. ‘Trust me, Princess, I have no plans to seduce you.’
‘Good. Because you will not succeed.’
‘Consider my ego sufficiently dented.’
‘You’re not my type,’ she amended, a touch more tactfully. ‘No offence.’