Chapter 10
BILE STUNG THE back of Lara’s throat.
She’d readied herself for this moment and employed the same toughness that had gotten her through the Slighe Fraoch. But all of it fled when Alar emerged through the trees.
The air rushed out of her lungs. Dizziness barreled into her.
For a few instants, the world tilted before she yanked herself back.
Shades. She couldn’t faint.
The humiliation of crumpling onto the carpet of pine needles with Mor watching, and with the Half-blood standing a few feet in front of her, wouldn’t be borne.
She clenched her hands at her sides, her nails biting into her palms.
That was better. She was back in control now.
All the same, the sight of him—tall, lithe and leather-clad, his dark hair spilling over his shoulders, his iron-grey gaze upon her—made her pulse betray her.
Her heart was pounding now.
“Finally,” Mor spoke up then. “We meet … Alar … King of the Wulvers.”
Did Lara imagine it, or was there a sneer in her voice?
Alar, who’d been staring at Lara, his face taut, cut his attention to the Raven Queen. And as he did so, his expression veiled. “Mor.”
Their gazes met and held for a few moments before Mor inclined her head. “We have much to discuss … but first, there’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”
Lara turned to see Mor gesturing to her left. She should have known. Mor wanted to kick things off by delivering a shock. It was clever and would put the Half-blood on the back foot.
“You’ve met Fern before.” The young Shee warrior stood, arms folded across her chest. She watched Alar with a look of thinly veiled distaste. “But I believe you’ve yet to be acquainted with your father … step forward, Wynn.”
Sablebane did as ordered. In the torchlight, his handsome face was remote, his grey eyes—the same shade as his son’s, although with slitted pupils—emotionless. He regarded his son as he might a spider crawling up the wall.
Meanwhile, Alar had gone still.
He stared back at his father, his expression stony now. Neither spoke, and a strained silence followed.
Lara’s attention flicked between them. When she’d first seen Sablebane, she’d found his resemblance to Alar uncanny. They were both lean, both dark-haired, with the same arrogance and leashed power. But seeing them together, she realized they were as different as iron and Sheehallion steel.
Everything about Sablebane spoke of control.
Detachment. She found it strange that he’d ever done something so reckless as tumble a Marav lass and get her with bairn.
In contrast, his son burned with restless energy.
Thanks to his tattoo, covered now by his vest, earth magic coursed through his veins, anchoring him to Albia, with all its roughness and beauty.
It struck her then that despite his bitterness toward her people, Alar was far more Marav than Shee.
“Don’t you have anything to say to each other?” Mor asked finally.
Sablebane’s chiseled features tightened, while Alar folded his arms across his chest. He shifted focus to Mor then, meeting her gaze.
“My thanks for the family reunion,” he said, iron edging his voice. “I’m touched. However, why don’t you just tell me what you want?”
Alar didn’t speak as Mor explained about The Shattered Crown, about ‘the anchor, the bridge, and the weaver’, and how the three of them were needed to mend the tear in the veil.
His expression never changed. Only the slight narrowing or widening of his eyes betrayed his surprise at certain points in her story. Lara also sensed his growing wariness and suspicion.
As she had, he was examining every word, waiting to expose a lie.
But Mor told the tale plainly. Honestly. The starkness of it reminded Lara of everything that hung in the balance. At a certain point, Alar’s gaze flicked momentarily to her. She glimpsed the questions in his eyes, ones she wouldn’t be answering.
“Will you join us?” Mor asked once she’d finished.
“It’s convenient that I’m required at all,” he replied, brows drawing together. “What exactly does ‘the bridge’ do, beyond kneeling on a stone?”
“You form a conduit between Lara and me,” Mor said evenly. “We are three points of a triangle.”
Alar’s frown deepened. He glanced over at where Annis stood, watching the exchange. The counselor’s white robes gleamed in the torchlight. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t rituals like these require a sacrifice of some kind? Blood-letting?”
His question echoed Lara’s own from days earlier. She imagined he’d have directed his question to Gregor, but since the sacrificer was absent, Annis would suffice.
The druid grimaced. “They did in ancient times,” she replied. “When seeking favor or summoning—”
“But we’re not summoning anything,” Mor interceded, her tone surprisingly patient. “We’re sending wraiths back into The Threshold and closing the rift.”
Alar studied her. A weighty silence followed. Lara watched his face, saw him turning Mor’s words over in his mind.
“Your presence is all that’s needed, Alar,” Mor said eventually. “Your mixed heritage … the bridge between our peoples … completes the binding. That’s all.”
Alar’s scowl remained, but something in his posture shifted slightly. His shoulders lowered. What Mor said made sense—restoration didn’t require the same price as intervention. Balance could be achieved without sacrifice.
“We’re all risking our lives by making this journey,” Mor added. “The spirits will try to stop us. You’re in no more danger than the rest of us.”
He snorted softly, though his suspicion had eased somewhat. “That’s not particularly reassuring.”
Mor’s lips tugged up at the corners. “No … but I think you’d prefer the truth.” She paused then. “If you have any more questions, now would be the time to ask them.”
Another silence settled, and everyone waited.
Right now, the Half-blood had them all in his hand—and he knew it.
Lara clenched her back teeth together. How he’d be gloating. Gods, to ask anything of him was humiliating.
“I do have questions … but not for you,” Alar replied. His gaze snapped to Lara then. “I want to speak to my wife first … before I give an answer.”
Heat rolled over her. My wife.
How dare he speak about her as if she belonged to him? As if they were together.
“I have nothing to say to you,” she replied.
He looked her way then, his gaze pinning her to the spot. “If you refuse … I’ll walk away.”
Her pulse went wild. The selfish prick meant it too.
“Indulge him, Lara,” Mor said, shattering the weighty silence that followed. “Just this once.”
She cut the Shee queen a sharp look—a warning to stay out of this—even as panic clawed its way up.
Fuck.
She still bore the scars from their last conversation, still recalled his callous words. His betrayal remained etched on her skin; a tattoo she’d wear for the rest of her days. She demanded the truth, and he’d given it to her.
And she’d been plotting his downfall ever since.
She drove her fingernails harder still into her palms and sought that calm, still place. She had to find that quiet loch before wielding fire, but if she was to face the Half-blood in private, she needed the same self-control.
And so, she slowed and deepened her breathing, letting her churning emotions settle before she finally answered, “Very well.”
“Speaking to me alone isn’t necessary.”
“Actually, it is.”
They stood together in the pinewood, around ten yards from where the others waited. The faint glow of torchlight filtered through the tight press of trees. However, Lara carried her own torch.
Glaring at him, she drove the torch into the soft damp ground before folding her arms across her chest. “Spit it out then.”
She’d agreed to this under sufferance; he should tread carefully.
Aye, he should—and yet a sudden recklessness burned in his veins. He hated her coldness, especially when he recalled the heat that burned just beneath the surface.
This wasn’t the woman he remembered.
You did this.
He took a step forward, and she retreated. “Keep your distance.”
Alar heeded her. He was on borrowed time here; he had to make the most of it. “Do you believe Mor’s tale?”
“Aye.”
“Why?”
“Cailean visited The Shattered Crown around five years ago … even then, he marked something strange about the place.”
Alar inclined his head. “And that’s all it took for you to agree to this?”
Heat flickered in her eyes, and upon her right hand the Ord-ree seal—the amber stone set upon an iron ring—flared gold. That ring. It was far more than royal jewelry, but something that had the ability to regulate a gap in the veil between the living and the dead. Powerful indeed. And dangerous.
“I didn’t want to believe Mor,” she replied, her tone brisk now. “But her story rings true.” Her hand lifted then, and she stared down at the gently glowing ring. “I guess I’ve always known … but never wanted to admit it.”
Alar considered this. He wanted to disagree, to call her a fool for being taken in, for forming an alliance with the Raven Queen.
But something stopped him. He’d heard many stories about Mor, and none of them engendered trust. And yet, she’d never have approached Albia’s High Queen. Not unless she was worried. Desperate.
“It must hurt,” he said after a long pause. “Asking me for help.”
Her gaze hardened. “How I feel about this is none of your business.”
No, it wasn’t. He’d turned his back on her and her people. He had no right to answers. And yet, he couldn’t help but push. “And what if the rift can’t be shored up? What if what’s broken can never be mended?”
She stilled. He’d just reminded her of the things he’d said before they left Duncrag all those turns of the moon ago—of how there was no returning to how things were. Her father’s kingdom was fractured, and even Lara’s iron will, her fierce determination, couldn’t put it back together.
He’d just reminded himself too of how deep his betrayal of her had gone. There was no going back.
“Bastard.”
“Aye.”
“You enjoy breaking things, don’t you?”
“Sometimes.”
Loathing burned in her eyes now. “Do you want Albia to collapse?”
“Maybe it should. Maybe none of us deserve it.”
“I’ll not stand by and let the darkness swallow us,” she shot back. “Unlike you, I care about this world.”
“Do you?” He couldn’t help but take the bait.
“Or are you just wanting to put the Marav back in control again?” He flashed her a goading smile, even as a voice in the back of his head warned him against taunting her.
“Face it, Lara, you play the role of the protective High Queen … but in reality, you’re just as self-serving as the rest of us. ”
She snarled something then. His words had hit a raw nerve.
And then, a heartbeat later, the dam burst.
Dull iron flashed, and an instant later, she’d closed the gap between them. One hand fisted the collar of his leather vest.
The other held a cold thin blade to his throat.