Chapter 25 Alarik
Alarik
‘Be honest with me,’ said Princess Elva, as she peered over the frozen lake at Grinstad Palace. ‘How many hours a day do you spend out here gazing at your reflection?’
Alarik snorted. ‘Why would I use the lake when I have fifty-seven perfectly good mirrors in my bedchamber?’
She arched a brow. ‘Well, I wouldn’t know …’
‘Are you propositioning me, Princess?’
‘You wish.’ She jostled him in the shoulder, and he smirked, enjoying the camaraderie that had blossomed between them these past few weeks.
They had grown closer since Queen Regna’s attack on their beasts.
Princess Elva had taken the destruction of her weaver elk as a personal attack, and after sending word home to her father, King Nilas had been able to procure a further six hundred elk and three times as many soldiers, ready for war.
They were due to arrive in Gevra any day now.
The wedding, of course, would come after, though they did their best not to speak of it in their daily meetings.
Alarik knew it could be worse. Marriage was hardly a death sentence.
Elva was clever and funny and kind. So what if he didn’t love her?
And so what if she didn’t love him? She could tolerate him well enough, and she could have her freedom.
To do whatever she liked, to love whoever she chose.
A royal marriage was first and foremost an alliance, and it was the alliance that Gevra needed right now. It was as simple as that.
Alarik had risen early that morning, meaning to walk alone among the elderberry trees, and despite his ruffle of frustration at finding the princess already outside, he was glad now of her company. It distracted him from the relentless hum of his own thoughts.
‘Do you have a copper?’ Elva pouted, as she searched the pockets of her ivory fur coat. ‘I want to make a wish in the fountain.’
‘It’s my fountain. The wishes are free.’ He nudged her towards it. ‘Although the water is frozen so it might take a while to come true.’
‘I’m not known for my patience,’ she sighed.
Alarik jammed his foot into the ice, making it crack. ‘Patience is overrated.’
Elva perched on the lip of the fountain, watching him.
The morning sun gilded the bright strands of her hair and made her brown eyes shine.
It occurred to Alarik, not for the first time, that she really was a beauty.
She had the kind of face kings and queens went to war over, and yet when he looked at her, he found himself yearning for a different, wilder kind of beauty, for wind-nipped cheeks and blue-grey eyes, for flyaway strands of copper hair, for muddy clothes and scuffed boots and—
‘What are you thinking about?’ said Elva. ‘Your eyes have gone all misty.’
‘War,’ said Alarik, stepping back from the fountain and digging his hands into the pockets of his long grey coat.
‘You old romantic, you.’
If only she knew. He hadn’t seen half enough of his wrangler lately.
Or at least, she hadn’t seen much of him.
If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was avoiding him, spending her mornings in the mews with that bloody falconer instead of meeting him at the edge of the forest with a smile and a muffin to share.
She was locking up far later than usual, too.
Not that that deterred Alarik. He still walked the forest most nights just to hear her sing, and lingered by Saga’s cage in the mornings, watching over Boo and Dash with a kind of parental pride that vaguely unnerved him.
‘It’s a shame we can’t wish for Lief to blow away.’ Elva’s groan jostled him from his thoughts. ‘Look over there. He’s coming right at us, like a busy little tornado.’
Alarik swore as he glanced over his shoulder. ‘If this fountain wasn’t frozen, I’d drown myself in it.’
‘Go on without me,’ said Elva, leaping to her feet. ‘There’s no need for both of us to suffer over napkin choices. I’ll distract him.’
Alarik tossed her a grateful smile as he darted around the fountain, making for the elderberry trees on the other side of the lake.
He could hear Lief calling after him and knew how ridiculous he looked – the fearsome king of Gevra running away from his mother’s steward like a frightened rabbit.
But it was either this or threatening Lief at sword-point, and he didn’t want to upset his mother on today of all days.
Safely hidden among the trees, Alarik slumped on to a stone bench to catch his breath and think a little of his father. King Soren was rarely far from his mind, but today, on the anniversary of his death, he was closer than ever.
Here, among his father’s beloved elderberries, Alarik looked towards the statue he had erected in his honour.
It was a life-size rendering of King Soren, carved in pristine white stone and set on a base of driftwood – the last remnants of the royal warship that had gone down during a violent sea storm eight years ago, leaving no survivors. The plaque read:
In memory of King Soren,
Fierce as a wolf,
Strong as an ox,
Wise as an owl.
Alarik looked up at his father’s marbled likeness and felt the nearness of his loss like a punch in the gut.
He wondered what Soren would make of him now; if he would be angry at Alarik for fighting in a foreign war that had decimated his troops.
Would he blame him for Ansel’s death? And for Anika’s reluctance to return home?
Would he look upon him with pride or shame?
Alarik was so lost in his worries he didn’t hear the crunch of footsteps behind him or the quiet huff of laughter as a snowball came soaring through the trees.
When it whacked him in the side of the head, he jerked his chin, his eyes snapping open. His hand flew to his sword hilt as he leaped to his feet, but when he spotted his wrangler retreating through the trees, his anger turned to surprise.
She was laughing so hard she had to stop to catch her breath.
She bent double, bracing her hand against a tree trunk.
Big mistake. He grabbed a fistful of snow and bolted through the trees, coming down on her like a blizzard.
When she looked over her shoulder, the snowball was already flying.
It hit her in the face, and she staggered backwards, losing her balance.
She fell in a heap, releasing a strangled cry. ‘I surrender!’
‘Gevrans don’t surrender.’ He smirked as he stood over her, readying another fistful of snow. ‘I really should make you eat this one.’
She stared up at him with round, innocent eyes. ‘It wasn’t even me. It was Borvil!’
‘Iversen.’ He came to his knees, pinning her hips between his legs. ‘Do you think I fell down in the last snowstorm?’
She trapped her laughter on her hand, but it streamed from her eyes, and the sight was so lovely, Alarik had to chew the smile from his mouth.
She raised her hands. ‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘But blame Elva. I passed her by the fountain, and she said you needed cheering up.’
‘So, you decided to attack me?’
She wriggled underneath him, the heat of her body rolling against his hips. ‘Isn’t war your love language?’
War and this. Her.
Shit.
He stifled a groan.
‘And anyway, that was a warm greeting by Gevran standards,’ she added.
‘What a good little Gevran you are, Iversen,’ he said, straining to keep his voice even. ‘Shouldn’t you be training my beasts?’
She hesitated, guilt flickering in her eyes. ‘I wanted to check on the one in the mountain …’
He frowned. ‘I don’t want you going into those mountains.’
‘But the beast—’
‘Is buried so deep, we can’t get to it anyway,’ he said. ‘And those old mining tunnels below ground are unsafe. Not to mention far too narrow for my soldiers.’
‘Elias seemed to do all right.’
Alarik frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
Her eyes went wide.
‘Iversen?’ he pressed. ‘Have you been sneaking around with my spymaster?’
Why did that thought bother him so acutely?
Of course, he knew why.
She shook her head. ‘No. I … I’m just … I’m worried about the creature. It’s in distress.’
‘Forget about the creature,’ said Alarik, sterner now.
In truth, these past few weeks, it was becoming harder to shove aside his own curiosity about the beast. There was a part of him that longed to discover its identity, to see if the dragon from his father’s bedtime stories might be real.
But with war prowling ever closer, it was not a risk he was willing to take.
He would sooner face down Regna and all her troops than a temperamental, fire-breathing dragon hell-bent on revenge.
No matter the wrangler’s confidence in being able to subdue it.
It was not worth the gamble.
She glared up at him. ‘It’s frightened.’
‘Not as frightened as you’ll be when that tunnel caves in on you. And that’s if it doesn’t eat you first.’ He grimaced at the thought.
She squirmed between his legs, trying to get free. Heat roared through him at the unexpected friction. He slammed the snowball into his own face to cool himself down.
‘What are you doing?’ she cried, grabbing his wrist. ‘You’ll hurt yourself!’
Alarik was already hurting himself. Being this close to her – no, on top of her – was like leaping into a bonfire.
‘Now, we’re even.’ He rolled back to his feet and helped her up. ‘Sorry for hitting you in the face.’
She shrugged, dusting herself off. ‘I’m the one who started it. Your bride-to-be is far too persuasive.’
‘One of her many talents.’
‘I’m sure,’ she said, looking away.
‘I enjoyed it,’ he said, sensing the strange shift in her mood. ‘It cheered me up.’
She canted her head, gazing at him in confusion. ‘Do you really need cheering up, Your Majesty?’
‘Alarik,’ he corrected her.
She swallowed. ‘Why do you need cheering up, Alarik?’
He hesitated, not wishing to make her feel awkward but wanting to answer her earnestly. Because she had asked for it, and the truth was, there was very little he wouldn’t give her. ‘Today is the anniversary of my father’s death.’
Horror dawned across her face, her eyes growing so wide he could see his reflection in them. ‘Oh no.’ She covered her face. ‘I’m so sorry. How thoughtless of me …’ She whimpered into her hands. ‘I can’t believe I just threw a snowball at your head.’
‘And right in front of my father’s statue.’ He clucked his tongue. ‘Talk about dishonour.’
‘No!’ she cried. ‘I am a terrible person.’
Alarik couldn’t contain his laughter. ‘Calm down, Iversen. It’s not like you stabbed me.’
‘I’d stab myself right now if I could,’ she muttered into her hands. She peeked at him through her fingers. ‘I’m going to run away now. Please may I run away?’
‘No, you may not.’
She groaned. ‘I can’t believe I did that.’
‘You really are so unruly.’ The more she fretted, the harder Alarik laughed. This little interlude had done wonders to brighten his mood. He hadn’t realized just how badly he had been missing her company; her smile, her wit, her gentle recklessness. ‘What am I going to do with you?’
‘Please don’t send me away!’
‘You’re the one trying to flee!’
He took her hands and gently tugged them away from her face, repeating a gesture that had become all too familiar between them.
Whenever she tried to hide herself from him, he yearned to look at her even more, to feast on whatever emotion was brewing the storm in her eyes.
But when he uncovered her face this time, she was crying.
His gut twisted, and before he could stop himself, he was cradling her face and swiping the tears from her cheeks. ‘Why are you crying, wildling?’
‘Because I’m an awful person!’
‘Well, you’re certainly dramatic.’ He chuckled, softly. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen your eyes so blue.’
She sniffed. ‘They only go blue when I cry.’
Another twist in his gut. ‘Then I prefer the storm.’
Give me back the storm.
He wanted her smiling. Or scowling. Or singing. Or bossing him about. Or talking about his beasts with the kind of enthusiasm that made her words trip and her cheeks flush. He couldn’t stand the sight of her crying.
‘Listen, Iversen. I need your help,’ he said, in a low, urgent voice.
She stilled, blinking up at him.
‘It requires the utmost stealth.’
‘What do you need?’ Her tears forgotten, she squared her shoulders.
Alarik bit back his smile. ‘I intend to launch a covert assault on my mother’s steward.’
She gasped in horror. A marginal improvement on devastation, but not quite what he was going for.
‘Relax, I’m not going to murder him. This is a brand-new coat.
Do you know how hard it is to get bloodstains out?
’ He knelt to gather another fistful of snow.
‘I just want to lightly pummel him. Now that I know how good your throwing arm is, I insist you help me. Unless you want to spend the rest of your morning helping me pour over napkin swatches.’
‘I’d rather eat an elderberry tree.’ She blew out a breath, grinning as she knelt beside him, making two snowballs of her own and carefully shoving them into her pockets. ‘This is the kind of war I can get behind.’
‘I’ll make a soldier of you yet.’
‘Don’t hold your breath.’ She winked as she slipped a ball into his pocket.
The storm had returned to her eyes. It nearly made him throw caution to the wind and kiss her right there beneath the elderberry trees.
But he knew if he got a taste of her lips, he would never stop seeking them, and the spiral of his need would consume him, destroying his friendship with Tor, his alliance with Halgard, and most importantly of all, the bond he had found with his wrangler.
A bond that nourished a most vital part of his soul.
After all, how could she ever love a war-hungry brute like him?
Armed to the teeth with snowballs, they stalked out of the orchard and made for the fountain, where Lief was still boring the life out of Elva.
‘Ready?’ said Alarik, taking aim.
His wrangler was already running, her laughter flying out behind her as the first snowball flew. Alarik bolted after her, both of them tearing across the lawn like a pair of naughty children, leaving all thoughts of war and grief behind them.