Chapter 36 NO GOING BACK
WHAT ARE YOU doing?
Urging Bracken down the rocky hill toward where a burn sparkled in the silvery autumn light, Lara berated herself. Had she lost her wits? She’d had her chance to send Alar away. Their alliance had ended. The deed was done. But instead, she’d asked him to accompany them south.
Of course, she knew why.
She loved him.
Her pulse quickened, memories of that betrayal haunting her once more. The shock that had punched into her stomach, the slowly dawning realization that she’d been played. His face as he’d stood in the rain before her. Unrepentant. Scornful. Those memories were etched upon her forever.
Queasiness rolled over her then. Could she ever forgive that?
Don’t think about him, she told herself firmly. You’re alive. The rift is closed. Focus on what you’ve achieved.
An exhausted yet companionable silence had settled between the small group as they left the Darkmere behind them.
They were all drained, all happy to travel without making conversation.
Lara rode alone, deliberately so; she needed time to sort her thoughts out.
Half a furlong ahead, Alar led their band, Reedav’s long stride easily outpacing everyone else, while the others traveled in twos and threes behind him.
Despite that they were in the far north and winter now breathed down their necks, the sun held a surprising amount of warmth this morning.
It soaked into her back and warmed her limbs.
After days of fever, weakness, and a muddled brain, it was a relief to feel like herself again. The clouds had literally parted.
And despite that Alar kept intruding on her thoughts, relief glowed deep in her chest.
We did it.
After so many disappointments and defeats, something had finally gone right.
Spirits still dwelled in Albia—as they always had—but its people would no longer dread the night.
Nor would malevolent wraiths hunt them. Lara could now focus on other things.
On dealing with her overkings properly. On uniting the south of Albia, at least.
And what about the borderlands? The wulvers and the Circines could prove a thorn in her side.
She pursed her lips, irritated that she couldn’t just let herself enjoy this moment. One problem at a time.
Her gaze traveled forward once more, settling again on Alar’s back.
She could spend the day ruminating, or she could face him. What was it to be?
Making her choice, she urged Bracken forward then, into a rapid canter. The mare leaped the burn at the bottom of the hill and raced up the other side, drawing alongside Alar and his stag.
He glanced her way. “Lara.”
“Alar.”
He looked rough, as if he’d been trampled by a clutch of trows.
A bruise marked one cheekbone, and his eyes were hollowed.
Crusting scratches marred his shoulders and arms. His long black hair spilled in a tangled mane down his back.
His right arm was in a sling, and his left hand thickly bound with a bandage.
“How’s the shoulder?” It was an inane thing to ask, but she was suddenly nervous.
He grimaced, giving Lara her answer. His gaze then roamed over her face. “And how are you?”
“Better,” she admitted.
His brow furrowed. “So, the fire-madness … has it gone?”
Uneasiness shifted in her belly. She’d tried not to think about that. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “Maybe … we know so little about the effects of fire magic on the wielder.”
“Don’t use it then,” he said, alarm flaring in his eyes. “There’s no need.”
“I don’t intend to,” she replied huskily. “Although my reign so far hasn’t been easy … fire was a useful weapon in a tight spot.”
“Then let me stay by your side … to help protect you.”
Lara’s heart started to pound. “Why would you—”
“We can’t go back to how things were.” His voice lowered, urgency in it now. “I can’t be your husband any longer … but I could be your warder, like Bree.”
They’d slowed to a trot now, the wind whipping against their faces. “I spoke impulsively by the lakeside,” she said after a few moments, still reeling from his offer. It nearly made her lose her train of thought, or the reason she’d approached him. “Maybe you should go.”
He gave her a long look. “Is that what you want?”
Misery twisted hard in Lara’s chest—and a longing so sharp that she gasped. “I’m in love with you, Alar mac Struana.” She choked the words out. “Gods, I wish I wasn’t. I should hate you. Why don’t I?”
Reedav slowed to a walk, and Bracken followed suit. The Whistle whined around them. Neither noticed. Instead, their gazes locked in a silent duel.
He gave her a tight smile. “I don’t know.”
Lara’s fingers clenched around the reins. Gods. She was suffering, yet he just gave her a glib three-word answer.
“I’ve done terrible things … have given you little reason to love me,” he continued, his gaze fusing with hers.
“Although it’s something I’ll cherish until I take my last breath.
” A pause followed. A heartbeat. “So, no … I don’t understand what you see in me …
but I know exactly why I love you.” Dizziness swept over her, yet he wasn’t done.
“You give me hope. Before I met you, I was a bitter bastard … searching for justice in a world where there is none. But just a few days in your company showed me there’s light in the darkness.
Beauty. You made me see it … and once you did, there was no going back.
For that, I’ll be eternally in your debt. ”
Lara cut her gaze away then. Her throat ached, and her vision blurred. She didn’t want to break down in front of him. That would be the last straw. And so, she dug her heels into Bracken’s flanks.
The mare lurched forward into a canter.
Moments later, she was racing ahead of him. To her relief, Alar let her go. And as she rode, tears started to roll down her cheeks.
They rode into Crask in the late afternoon.
Even from a distance, Lara saw things had changed. The sod roofs no longer sagged. The wattle and daub walls glowed gold in the lowering sun instead of a dull dirty-brown. The loch sparkled, no longer lying flat and black like something waiting to swallow you whole.
The air felt different. Lighter.
Then the bairns came running.
They poured out from between the roundhouses, shrieking and laughing, their bare feet slapping on the wooden walkways. Then they ran alongside the horses as Lara and her escort approached, calling out questions that tumbled over each other.
“Did you fight monsters?”
“Did you make the ghosts go away?”
Lara’s throat went tight as she looked down at their faces—flushed with excitement, eyes bright, questions spilling from their lips—and something knotted deep in her chest unraveled.
These children weren’t hollow-eyed anymore. They weren’t clinging to their mothers’ skirts, too frightened to play.
They were alive again.
Connor appeared at the end of the walkway, Orla at his side. And when Lara saw what the chieftain’s wife held against her chest, her breathing caught.
The infant she carried was moving and wriggling.
A happy gurgle reached her ears, and Lara’s face split into a wide grin.
The silent baby who had haunted her all the way north—that tiny, still thing wrapped against her mother’s chest—was laughing.
“My Queen!” Connor’s voice carried over the excited chatter. “The sun has shone since Gateway. The nights are quiet … the wraiths have disappeared.”
“The danger has passed.” Lara slid off Bracken’s back, her legs nearly buckling. Gods, she was tired. After three days riding, sleeping rough, her body screamed for a proper bed.
But she was smiling—she couldn’t help it.
More people emerged from the roundhouses now, crannog-dwellers she recognized from days earlier. They’d once looked at her with a blend of hope and fear, wondering if she’d succeed or if they’d all die slowly as the world rotted around them, but they were all smiling now.
“You did it!” A woman called out, clutching her husband's arm.
Others took up the cry, and suddenly, excited chatter surrounded her. Relief and joy spilled over.
“The Loch-Bhàn are gone—”
“Haven’t seen a boggart in days—”
“My nets are full again … the fish came back—”
Lara’s vision blurred. She blinked hard. Not now. Don’t start weeping.
A flash of crimson robes caught her eye. Mairead. The sacrificer grinned, waving to her.
And then she saw two familiar figures pushing through the crowd. Duana and Eithne. The sisters looked different. There was color in their cheeks and light in their eyes now; they weren’t just surviving anymore.
“My Queen!” Duana reached her first, nearly tripping in her eagerness. Her gaze went to the scabbed scratch on Lara’s upper arm. “Are you hurt? Is everyone—”
“We’re all fine.” Lara caught the lass’s hands and squeezed. “It’s a relief to be back though.”
Eithne smiled shyly then. “We haven’t been idle since you left. We’ve been helping in the kitchens. I’ve been learning how to smoke eels.”
“Come, My Queen!” Orla called out, beckoning to Lara. “We thought you’d return today … and have been preparing a feast in your honor. We’ve got ducks spit-roasting inside, bread straight from the ovens … and fresh goat’s cheese.”
“And ale,” Connor added with a grin, winking at Roth. “Lots of ale.”
The crowd began to move, drawing Lara along with them. Hands touched her arms, her back—not grabbing, just making contact. It was as if they wanted to reassure themselves that the High Queen was real, that she’d returned to them.
“Look at the chief-enforcer’s tattoos,” one of the bairns whispered.
“Is that really a fae hound?” another gasped. “I’ve never seen one.”
“The man riding the red stag … how does he control it?”
As the chatter continued, Lara glanced back over her shoulder.
Her companions were dismounting, surrounded by crannog-dwellers eager to help with the horses. Bree was laughing at something someone said. Cailean looked bemused but pleased. Roth was already being handed a cup of something.
And Alar.
He still sat astride Reedav, watching. His face was tired, lined with pain he’d done his best to hide during the journey south. He watched the crannog-dwellers surround their High Queen—watched the people reach for her with joy and relief—and his lips curved into a half-smile.
Their eyes met across the crowd and held for a heartbeat.
Warmth suffused Lara’s chest. Aye, she’d done this. They’d done this. Together.
Then someone tugged her arm, and she turned away and let herself be pulled along by the tide.
They led her to the largest of the roundhouses, the chieftain’s residence. Inside, torches blazed in every bracket. Logs of pine roared in the hearth. As promised, ducks spit-roasted over glowing embers. Fat dripped, creating a fug of smoke, but no one seemed to care.
The rich aroma of roasting duck hit Lara as she made her way toward the hearth. Her stomach growled so loud that Eithne heard it and giggled.
“The ducks will be ready soon,” someone assured her.
“Sit, My Queen, please.” Orla motioned to a stool.
“Try a honey cake,” a lass thrust a wooden trencher toward her. “They’re still warm.”
Women surrounded her, eager to share, to give, to make their High Queen proud.
Lara let them fuss, let them pour ale into a cup. And as they did, she couldn’t stop smiling.
This was why she’d gone north—why she’d faced the Slew, the frost spirits, and the rift itself.
For moments like this.
She took a bite of cake that oozed with honey. “Gods,” she mumbled. “This is incredible.”
“My Queen.” Connor appeared next to his wife. “We’ve prepared the east roundhouse for you and your companions. There’s clean clothing for you all … as well as water for washing.”
“Thank you.” She swallowed her mouthful of cake and licked her fingers, suddenly aware of how she must look. Filthy. Exhausted. Probably smelling like horse and sweat.
She glanced around the hall at the happy faces, at the feast the people of Crask were preparing for her and her companions.
“Actually,” she said, turning back to Connor, “Could I ask one small thing?”
“Anything, My Queen.”
“A bath?” The word came out hopeful, almost pleading. “An iron tub if you have one. Hot water. And soap.”
Connor flashed her an easy grin. “I’ve already got lads heating the water. Orla insisted.”
Orla appeared beside him, the babe’s tiny fingers grasping at her long braids. “I thought you’d want to wash before the feasting,” she said, her lips curving. “The tub is in your alcove … it should be ready now.”
Lara could have kissed her.
Leaning her head back against the rolled edge of the iron tub, Lara heaved a deep sigh.
The water was perfect. Heat seeped into her limbs, soaking away days of grueling travel.
The scent of rosemary soap enveloped her.
Orla had made it herself. The sharp, woody scent tickled Lara’s nostrils. Fresh. Like crushed pine needles.
The smell reminded her of Alar.
Lara’s eyes snapped open, her contentment puncturing.
You can’t ignore him forever.
Her pulse fluttered. No, she’d have to acknowledge what lay between them. She’d have to make a decision about the future. Like a coward, she’d told herself it could wait until Crask—but now, they’d arrived. Her time was running out.
And there was no running from this.
Her gaze went to the heavy curtain that shielded her small alcove from the rest of the space. Unlike their last stay at Crask, tonight, each of them had an alcove. Only Skaal would sleep by the hearth.
Alar’s alcove was directly opposite hers. He, like the others, didn’t have a bathtub to soak in. However, Orla had provided everyone with hot water, soap, drying sheets, and the clothes—now freshly laundered—they’d arrived in days earlier.
Picking up the soap, Lara started to wash. The bitter yet clean scent wrapped around her, coating the back of her throat.
Soft feminine laughter intruded then, making her tense.
Cailean and Bree had taken the alcove next to hers. The couple had spent little time alone over the past turn of the moon. Moments of intimacy had been rare. No doubt, they wished to enjoy their privacy; even so, Lara’s brow furrowed.
She understood their eagerness. But when Cailean’s throaty groan filtered through the wall, she stilled. Fingers tightening around the slippery bar of soap.
Irritation bubbled up. Surely, they weren’t going to—
A muffled cry followed, and then another deep male moan. Thick stacked stone divided the alcoves, yet that didn’t stop noise from traveling.
Lara muttered an oath. She wasn’t a prude, but she didn’t need to hear her friends fucking.
“Aye … harder!” Bree whimpered.
Gods.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she slid under the hot water.