Chapter 17 Alarik
Alarik
Alarik stood in the heart of the ballroom of Grinstad Palace, wearing an ivory frock coat and a menacing scowl.
Beside him, stood the dowager queen Valeska in a trailing lavender gown and a diamond-encrusted tiara.
Alarik was already regretting choosing his father’s crown for the occasion.
The gilded branches were digging into his scalp and making his head pound.
Or perhaps that was the welcome ball itself, the importance of tonight weighing heavily on his shoulders.
The first members of the Halgard delegation had already arrived in regalia that proudly displayed the exorbitant wealth of their kingdom.
The princess’s court had dressed in an array of magnificent gowns.
Autumnal hues of amber and gold and sage and ochre, their ringleted hair adorned with vines of fresh flowers.
Their guards were dressed no less finely, in fitted olive-green frock coats emblazoned with the silvered crest of Halgard and carrying ceremonial swords with ornate pommels and long, narrow blades.
They mingled gladly with the Gevran nobility, who had come in traditional outfits of leather and fur and velvet, and were clustering around the edges of the room, sampling canapes from gold-leaf platters.
There were all sorts of delicacies on offer, including mini sausages rolled in a fluffy pastry crust, cheese tartlets drizzled in honey, sage and anchovy fritters, and pork belly slathered in chilli and marmalade.
Grand ice sculptures of howling wolves marked each serving table, spouting frostfizz into tiers of goblets.
There were pillar candles everywhere and even more hanging from the ceiling, casting a romantic glow about the ballroom, which was expertly complemented by countless vases of midnight lilies.
Unlike the previous balls at Grinstad, the king’s beasts were not on display tonight.
For one thing, Alarik didn’t want to distract them from their training, and for another, he thought it wise not to frighten off the entire Halgard delegation so soon upon arrival.
Word of tonight’s ball would soon reach King Nilas, and if proceedings did not go smoothly, he might decide to rescind his offer of assistance in the oncoming war.
Only Borvil, Alarik’s beloved ice bear, had been brought inside for the occasion.
Still sleepy from hibernation, he was snoozing contentedly on the dais beside the king’s throne.
Alarik sighed as more revellers poured into the ballroom. He was already weary from small talk, his cheeks strained from forced smiling. A servant darted past with a tray of wine glasses and his fingers twitched to take one.
His mother’s hand came to his arm. ‘Not until the welcoming is done.’
‘It’s one glass.’ Then maybe six more.
‘You must be the picture of elegance and refinement tonight.’
He glared sidelong at her. She was smiling serenely, waggling her fingers at one of her many cousins, a bearded giant with a thick tangle of hair.
‘Our guests are still arriving. Try not to frighten them off with that hideous grimace, Alarik. Once the music begins, you can revel and dance all you like with your beloved.’
Alarik blew a wayward strand out of his eye. He didn’t want to revel and dance. He wanted to down three glasses of frostfizz, a fistful of canapes and take his bad mood out into the cold night air where he could be as far away from his simpering court as possible.
‘I hate pleasantries.’
‘You have made that more than clear, son.’
‘And people,’ he added, churlishly.
‘Not all people,’ she said, tossing another smile at an approaching guest.
No, he supposed not. Alarik didn’t hate his mother or his sister, who he missed desperately tonight.
If Anika were here, she’d commandeer the entire evening and do all this hideous diplomatic chit-chat for him.
Alarik hadn’t hated his father either – he had worshipped him every day until he drowned.
And every day since. He had adored Ansel, his idealistic younger brother who had been the best thing about his family, until he died.
And Alarik didn’t hate Captain Vine or his cousin, Elias.
He actively sought out their company, in fact, enjoying their verbal sparring just as much as the physical.
And his wrangler – he liked her, too.
He frowned. Why was he thinking about his wrangler?
Because you are always thinking about her.
The clarity of the thought made Alarik bristle.
He shook it off, making himself think of Elva instead.
He could see her there, across the room.
She was flitting from guest to guest, like a butterfly alighting on flowers, shaking hands and kissing cheeks wherever she went.
She wasn’t even a princess of Gevra, and she was doing a better job than he was, standing stiffly in his aching crown, offering tight smiles and curt words to everyone.
‘Elva will make a wonderful wife,’ said Queen Valeska. ‘She is artful in her ways, a true poised and practised princess.’
Alarik hummed unhappily. He didn’t want practised and poised. He wanted wild and untamed, snow-kissed and windswept. He wanted— No.
Don’t do that.
Don’t even think it.
He snatched a goblet from a passing servant and downed it in one go. The frostfizz rushed through him, cooling his blood. He set it on the tray, fighting the urge to reach for another. Not yet. It would be a long night, and the music hadn’t even started.
Pace yourself.
Alarik plastered on a kingly smile and welcomed a hundred more guests, shaking clammy hands and learning names he quickly forgot.
Tonight’s welcome ball marked a crucial step in his alliance with Halgard, but the thought of his actual wedding day curdled inside him like spoiled milk.
How had it come to this already? How much further would it go?
At night, he lay awake, staring at the stars through his window, wondering at the true cost of this alliance.
He could admit at least that a strategic marriage was the right decision for his kingdom.
It was a far more appealing solution than calling for aid, not that he hadn’t considered sending word across the Sunless Sea to the witch queens of Eana.
But even if Wren and Rose agreed to help him, Alarik could not keep their magic here forever, nor use it to sustain his own borders. And it was magic that had weakened Gevra in the first place. Magic had killed his brother and thousands of his soldiers and beasts.
No, magic was not the answer. It was not his answer.
And neither was begging. If Alarik wanted aid, he would have to offer something in return, even if that something was himself.
The stern words of his father, King Soren, rang in his head: a ruler who cannot defend their own territory does not deserve it.
The only way to defend Gevra was with an army of Halgard’s finest soldiers marching alongside his own, and enough weaver elk to trample a battalion of Queen Regna’s crimson-armoured warriors.
Marrying Princess Elva wasn’t just a wise decision, it was the only decision.
And yet … and yet.
Alarik couldn’t bring himself to welcome the sacrifice of it.
‘Enough niceties,’ he huffed, after enduring yet another limp, sweaty handshake, this time from a duke of Halgard. The ballroom was heaving now, the frostfizz flowing freely. It was time to begin the night, if only so it might end quicker. He clicked his fingers, bidding the musicians to play.
The quiet rattle of drums gave way to a soaring Gevran waltz.
Alarik spied Captain Vine lingering by the chocolate fountain.
She was in her uniform and chatting animatedly to Vesper Hale, who had come dressed in an obscenely tight black leather gown with a slit that would make even Anika blush.
By the way her hands were moving, mimicking an explosion, he guessed she was talking about fire lances.
Finally, a little entertainment.
He took an eager step towards the fountain just as his mother said quietly, ‘They played this waltz at my wedding to your father. It was our first dance.’ He turned to look at her, and the warm smile she had been wearing was gone, replaced by a haunted look he knew all too well.
She stared through him, her eyes glazing.
‘It’s been so very long now. Years have passed, and yet my heart still aches for him.
Sometimes, if I close my eyes, I swear I can feel the shadow of his arms around me. I can hear his laughter on the wind.’
Alarik swallowed thickly. Grief was a thundercloud in his chest, and he was afraid if he opened his mouth all that darkness would pour out of him and make her pain worse.
He couldn’t think of anything to say anyway, and the longer he failed to fill the silence, the more she retreated into herself, curling her arms around her body as though the melody was wounding her.
He briefly considered drawing his sword on the musicians and smashing every one of their instruments, but then he thought of his brother, Ansel, and wondered what he might do. Some gentler instinct stirred inside him, and Alarik found himself reaching out to his mother. ‘Shall we dance?’
She blinked in surprise. ‘I’m not sure I remember how,’ she said, slowly.
‘You will,’ he said. ‘And even if you don’t, I am a master of the waltz. Everyone will be looking at me anyway.’
He took her hand in his, her other rising to rest on his shoulder, and before she could recede into the tide of her grief, he swept her on to the dance floor, away from the long shadow of their past and the sadness that dwelled there.
They danced like starlings in spring, gliding and spinning in the flickering candlelight, until the other revellers fell out of their conversations to watch them, and then to join them.
‘This is wonderful!’ said Valeska, laughing as they whirled. ‘I had forgotten the joy of waltzing!’
Alarik’s gaze darted, scanning the sea of faces around them before coming to rest on the doorway.
Why hadn’t she come?
Had he not made his wishes clear to her this morning?
Or had his demand irked her, prodding at that willfulness she seemed unable to contain.
Maybe she was staying away to teach him a lesson in manners.
Or maybe he had spooked her by taking off his shirt in front of her.
Then, pressing it into her hands, marring those perfect, slender fingers with his sweat.
Could she tell in that moment that he had been imagining them not in his sparring room but upstairs in his bedroom, and that he was not the only one baring himself?
Had he frightened her with the unexpected rush of his desire?
Damn it, where was she?
‘She’s over there by the window,’ said his mother, too easily reading the anxiety in his gaze. ‘See?’
Alarik glanced over to where Princess Elva was standing in a puddle of laughter, a gaggle of Gevran noblewomen hanging on her every word.
‘Yes, I see her,’ he said, returning his gaze to the door.
‘Then who are you looking for?’ There was a frown in his mother’s words.
‘No one,’ he lied, twirling her again. And again. And again. It was not enough to spin away her curiosity.
She watched him closely now, as though she was trying to read the lines on his brow.
‘Let me tell you a secret,’ she said, after a moment.
Her smile turned small and sad, and she dropped her voice, in case someone else might overhear.
‘Even despite these long years of loss, a part of me still hopes that, even now, fate will undo its cruelty to our family and by some divine miracle, your father will come striding through that doorway, open his arms and sweep me up.’
Alarik grimaced at the words.
She went on. ‘I can’t help but notice that you are looking at that door the same way I am.’
He shook his head. He held no such delusions. Nor did he relish the thought of his father’s drowned and bloated ghost barrelling into his welcome ball and scattering everyone in an unholy panic, but he kept his voice kind, and said, ‘You mean, with hope?’
‘No,’ she said, softly. ‘With longing.’
He opened his mouth and closed it again. He spun her away, but her words lingered long after they changed partners, the music turning jaunty and light as the clock ticked ever closer to midnight.
And all the while, Alarik watched that door, willing her to come to him.