5 NAME YOUR PRICE
LARA WAS WAITING in her own tent, with Bree standing next to her and her attendants gathered a few feet away, when they brought the visitor in.
The chief-enforcer and the captain escorted him. Cailean led the way into the pavilion while Roth brought up the rear. And between them was the man who’d saved Lara’s life three evenings earlier.
Lara stiffened at the sight of him, and Alar mac Struana’s lips curved. “Didn’t think you’d ever see me again?” The power in that voice, the low rasp of it, made her suppress an involuntary shiver.
“Do you know him?” Cailean asked, scowling.
“Aye,” she murmured. “This is the man who rescued me from the powries.” Meanwhile, it was hard not to stare at her visitor. In the misty clearing, illuminated only by pale corpse candles, Alar had been a shadowy figure. Now, she could see him properly.
He was dressed entirely in black, from the hooded cloak to his hunting boots.
In the glow of the nearby brazier and the lanterns that hung from the roof, the sharpness of his cheekbones was even more evident, as was the disfiguring scar that slashed down his left cheek.
His skin was unusually pale—in stark contrast to his hair, long and jet-black, which hung over his shoulders.
His woolen cloak was open, revealing a leather breastplate.
Two flames, one curving upward, the other reaching down, had been embossed upon it.
Her gaze narrowed. The Endless Flame . Wasn’t that a wulver sigil? The half-man, half-wolf creatures that inhabited the dark woods of Albia worshipped the Hearthkeeper—but Alar was no wulver.
Under the breastplate, he wore a long-sleeved tunic made of thick wool. Tooled leather bracers covered his forearms, and fitted leather breeches encased his long legs. The blades she’d seen him sheath upon his back were missing. He’d either come to her unarmed, or his escort had taken his weapons.
Even so, despite that he was at a disadvantage here, he dressed as if he was someone and walked boldly into her tent as if he were one of Lara’s overkings.
And if she were honest, she found him a little intimidating.
“Talk then,” Roth ordered.
Alar inclined his head. “What I have to say is for the High Queen’s ears only.”
Cailean made a warning noise in the back of his throat. “You don’t walk in here and make demands.”
“That’s right,” Roth agreed, his hand straying to the pommel of his sword.
Alar merely shrugged, a slight smile still playing upon his lips.
Lara’s heart started to beat faster. His arrogance was galling. Fatigue pressed down on her shoulders, and impatience shortened her temper. Nonetheless, right now, she was desperate enough to hear him out.
“Cailean … Roth … wait outside,” she said after a pause.
Both men stiffened at the command, but she gestured to her warder. “Bree will watch over me.”
“For your ears only, Your Highness,” Alar reminded her.
Lara frowned, anger spiking through her. Of course, she was grateful to this man for saving her, but ever since he’d stepped into her tent, he’d had the upper hand. She didn’t like it. “My bodyguard and one of my attendants will stay,” she told him coldly. “Or you can go.”
Their gazes fused before, eventually, he nodded.
Both her chief-enforcer and her captain reluctantly moved back. “We’ll be just outside the entrance, My Queen,” Roth said brusquely, meeting Lara’s gaze squarely for the first time in days. “Call if you need us.”
“I will.”
The two men departed, and Lara glanced over at where her attendants stood at the back of the pavilion. “Florie, Ani, and Lilith … leave us,” she said, even as her pulse continued to race. “Mirren, pour some wine.”
As her attendants did as bid, she settled herself on a wooden stool by the brazier and gestured to the unoccupied one opposite.
Her feet felt as if they had millstones chained to them, and her back now ached viciously after working in the healing tent.
She wasn’t going to conduct this meeting standing, but she didn’t want him looming over her either. “Please sit.”
Moving with the same fluid grace she’d seen when he’d come to her aid, Alar settled onto the stool.
Mirren brought over two cups of bramble wine before retreating once more. Bree, however, moved closer so she stood at her queen’s shoulder. A silent warning.
“So …” Lara took a sip of wine, feigning a calmness she didn’t feel. “How exactly can you help me?”
He mirrored her action, drinking from his cup. “I lead an army of wulvers … and should you wish it, they’re at your disposal.”
She stilled. Whatever she’d thought he might say, this wasn’t it. So, that was why he bore the wulver sigil?
“You’re the Half-blood?”
Surprised that Mirren would speak up so boldly, Lara cut her handmaid a sharp look. She was staring at their visitor as if he’d just turned into the botach before her eyes.
For a heartbeat, irritation flickered across Alar’s face before he covered it up with another sly smile. “Aye, that’s what some call me.”
Uneasiness curled up inside Lara.
The Half-blood?
She’d heard of him too. He was supposed to be an exile, of Marav mother and Shee father, who’d taken up with the wulvers.
She should have guessed it from his looks.
She’d heard the whispers but had dismissed them as fanciful.
The Half-blood, who was said to dwell somewhere in the mid-Uplands, wasn’t a threat to her, and wulvers weren’t causing her any problems either.
She had far too many other things to worry about.
There hadn’t been any stories about him being a military commander though.
“An army of wulvers,” she said finally, even as her mind raced. “How many exactly?”
“Close to a thousand at hand.”
Her heart kicked hard. By The Warrior’s Blade, his army was bigger than hers .
Her breathing quickened then, the despair that had been nipping at her heels all evening drawing back.
Such a force could turn the tide against the Shee.
With his help, she could take back Rothie, and Strath too. She’d be near Cannich then and—
Don’t get ahead of yourself.
This man had saved her life, but she didn’t know him at all. He was bold and cunning. She needed to handle him carefully. “And they’d fight for me … after all the years of persecution they suffered at my father’s hands?” she asked warily.
Alar’s grey eyes fixed upon her. “You aren’t your father.”
Once again, the gravelly timbre to his voice made a strange, unsettling sensation shiver through her.
She swallowed. No, she didn’t hold many of her father’s views. He’d persecuted wulvers, as he had many of the faerie creatures who lived in Albia. “And what do you want in return?”
Alar gave a low laugh before raising his cup to her in a vaguely mocking toast. He then lifted the cup to his lips and drained it. “You understand how the world works then?”
Yet again, the sensation that he was the one in control of this meeting, not her, washed over Lara. Was her predicament a game to him?
“Aye,” she replied, her tone cooling. “What’s your price?”
Alar leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. He then captured her gaze boldly with his. “Your hand in marriage.”
Lara stared back at him.
Your hand in marriage.
She couldn’t help it—she screwed her face up. It took all her effort not to call out to Cailean and Roth and order them to drag this dung-eater from her sight. “You ask too much.”
“Do I?”
“Aye.” Her voice was icy now, yet he seemed oblivious.
“So, victory isn’t important to you?”
“Oh, it is.”
“I’m a valuable ally.”
“I have no wish for another husband.” And even if she did, this sly man who lived amongst wulvers would be at the bottom of her list. His proposal was an insult.
He inclined his head. “King Dunchadh of Braewall was a disappointment then?”
A brittle silence fell in the pavilion. Meanwhile, Bree and Mirren’s gazes drilled into Lara. They were waiting for her to respond—and she would.
Rising to her feet, she handed her half-finished cup of wine to Mirren before smoothing her palms on the skirt of the ankle-length tunic she wore.
The garment was slit at the sides to allow her to stride out properly and to ride a horse without impediment.
However, after a long day, the pine-green wool was stained with rain, mud, and blood from the healing tent.
She didn’t feel particularly regal at present, for she was sure the rest of her clothing, and her face, were as dirty as her skirts, but she cut Alar an imperious glare, all the same. He’d never know just how much he rattled her. “Why do you want to marry me?”
“I want a better life for my brothers and sisters. Wulvers have always been gentle creatures. In the past, they’d often guide the lost and leave fish for the poor. But your people turned on them.” His eyes glinted then. “And I’m ambitious … I want to co-rule Albia with you.”
His last words hung heavily in the air.
Heat started to pulse in her belly. “What, no flattery?” Her marriage proposals so far had been tedious, but this one was a slap across the face. Unlike Niall of Braewall—her new southern overking—he hadn’t droned on about her beauty, about how he wished to protect her.
She almost wished he had.
He arched an eyebrow. “Would you like me to sweeten my words?”
“It wouldn’t matter if you did,” she shot back, her anger surfacing. “The answer is still no.”
That wiped the smile off his face. “Nearly a thousand wulvers at your command … an army that would take back, not just Doure, but all of The Uplands,” he replied, his tone cooling. “You’d throw that aside?”
“That’s right.” Gods, how she wanted that army. However, his price was too high.
“Then you’re a fool.”
Bree made a hissing noise between her teeth. Her warder stepped forward then, the scrape of a blade drawing filling the tent. “Watch yourself.”
Alar ignored her. Instead, his slate-colored eyes bored into Lara, holding her fast. “You won’t take Doure without help. You know it as well as I.”
Lara’s hands curled into fists at her sides.
Sourness flooded her mouth as despair rose like a specter once more.
Viciously, she shoved it down. “My warriors will see you out of the encampment.” She paused then before calling out, “Cailean. Roth.” Immediately, two tall, broad-shouldered figures shoved aside the tent flap and pushed inside.
Lara nodded to them, even as her pulse thundered in her ears. “We’re finished here. Take him away.”
The Half-blood stood up and held out his empty cup to Mirren. The maid approached him warily, as if she expected him to leap for her throat. Once Alar had handed over his cup, the chief-enforcer stepped forward, his hand fastening around his upper arm.
Lara thought he might try and shake off Cailean’s grip, but he didn’t.
Instead, he allowed the warrior druid to steer him toward the exit.
However, just before he reached it, he glanced over his shoulder, his gaze spearing hers once more.
A challenge glinted in his eyes. “My offer still stands,” he said softly.
“I will be waiting in the woods north of here. Send word, if you change your mind.”