7 FIND THE HALF-BLOOD
Ten days later …
WATCHING THE REMAINS of her army retreat in the grey gloaming, Lara’s stomach dropped.
It was as if she’d just jumped feet first into a bottomless well.
The acrid odor of burnt tar mixed with the stench of offal drifted over her.
It was the smell of defeat. She could see it in the warriors’ rounded shoulders, their haggard faces.
They had nothing left to give.
A group of red-robed men and women limped into view then, climbing up from the smoking defile.
Gregor and his enforcers had done their best to keep the Gods close over the past days, braving fire, arrows, spears, and stones to do so.
But even they were beaten. The last of the pigeons and hares they’d brought from Duncrag had been sacrificed.
The sight of the chief-sacrificer shocked Lara. She’d never seen him look so downcast. The big man staggered as he made his way up the slope.
Throat constricting, her attention flicked to the walls of Doure. They were smoke-blackened now, yet stood as strong as ever. As did the gates. Over the past days, four battering rams had been built and then destroyed.
Her breathing came shallow and fast—it was hard to draw in enough air.
But underneath her despair, fury pulsed in her gut. Curse the fucking Shee for eternity. This couldn’t be the end. She wouldn’t accept it. She couldn’t let the Shee take Albia, fort by fort, until they ruled everywhere.
A glimmer caught her eye then. The ring on her right hand—the Ord-ree Seal that had once belonged to her father—had just flashed at her.
Stilling, she stared down at the chunky amber stone set on a thick iron band.
I must have been imagining things.
She was about to lift her chin once more when fire flickered in the heart of the amber.
Cold washed over her, dousing the heat of her anger. What was this?
“Come, Lara.” Bree’s voice intruded. “We must follow the others.”
“Aye.” Heart hammering, she yanked her attention from the ring and reined Bracken around before urging her into a canter.
But as she rode away from Doure, trying not to think about the flame she’d seen dance in the amber, the skin between her shoulder blades burned. She imagined the Shee standing on the walls, jeering at her.
They were stronger and quicker than her people and certainly knew how to defend a fort.
Their greatest weakness was iron—even the proximity weakened them, and the merest touch burned like fire upon their skin—yet her warriors couldn’t scale the walls to use it on them.
They also feared earth magic, which her enforcers wielded, although the warrior druids couldn’t get close enough to use it effectively.
Humiliation bit at her like cold steel then, and she forgot all about the ring.
Maybe this was the real reason her father had loathed the Shee so.
The tales went that his first wife had been stolen away by the Shee, never to be seen again, and it had left him bitter.
But Lara realized that it went deeper than that.
Her father feared the fae race that dwelled in Sheehallion.
They lived for thousands of years, whereas if one of the Marav was blessed with a century, it was considered a miracle.
The Shee were swift and, although lean in build, tall and incredibly strong.
Not only that, but they could glamor themselves, share thoughts with animals, and blend in with the shadows when they wished to.
In short, they were superior to the Marav in most ways. Talorc mac Brude had known this and had feared that they’d one day decide to take Albia for their own. And now, the thing he’d dreaded most was about to happen.
It was a bitter irony then that he’d been the one to start this.
Back at the encampment, the mood was grim, and the healing tent was fuller than ever.
Lara had ridden straight there, not allowing herself to catch anyone’s eye.
She couldn’t bear to see the disappointment, the judgment, in their gazes.
Dismounting, she’d handed the reins over to one of her guards before ducking into the pavilion.
Bree followed her inside. Every evening after battle, the High Queen continued to help tend to the injured.
The iron tang of blood assaulted her nostrils as she walked down the narrow aisle between tightly-packed pallets. The groans and whimpers of the injured and dying drove into her like blades.
This is my doing.
Indeed, these brave warriors had marched here and laid siege to Doure for her.
So many had fallen. A fresh funeral pyre had burned every night, illuminating the darkness like a beacon. Another would burn tonight too.
Moving through the tent, she spoke to some of the dying. There was little to be done for these men and women, other than to give them some water with a tincture of hemlock mixed in, just enough to sedate them and dull the pain.
“We have failed you, lass,” a warrior rasped as she took his hand.
Lara squeezed gently. His fingers were strong yet clammy. The man had taken a spear, thrown from the ramparts, to the belly. She’d administered a strong dose of hemlock for him earlier. “What is your name?” she asked gently.
“Aonghus,” he rasped.
“Well, Aonghus, you fought like a wolf … and I will never forget it.” She paused, her grip on his hand tightening further. Her heart was in her throat now. “Ever.”
Her chest clenched then. Curse it. She couldn’t let this man’s death—and those of so many others—be all for nothing. Aonghus thought he’d failed her, but it was the opposite. She’d failed them . She’d promised her people she’d take back Doure, yet she couldn’t.
Hope isn’t lost … all you must do is make a deal.
Biliousness rose in her chest.
She’d done her best not to think about the Half-blood’s offer.
None of the members of her council had brought it up since.
They’d dismissed his proposal out of hand, yet she hadn’t.
Every evening when they met to discuss how the siege was going and plan the way forward, it was as if Alar were standing in the shadows behind them, smirking, biding his time.
He’d known this moment would come.
Murmuring a soothing word to Aonghus, she released his hand and straightened up. Her attention shifted to where Bree stood in the aisle between the rows of pallets. Her friend’s face was strained, her eyes shadowed.
“Call my council,” Lara said, even as dread closed her throat. “I must speak with them now.”
“Marrying that man would be a mistake, My Queen.” Annis leaned forward and placed her hands on the table between them. “One all of us would come to regret.”
“Would we?” Lara replied, wishing her voice didn’t sound so rough. “If we want to take Doure … or indeed win the war against the Shee, we need allies.”
“You can’t trust wulvers.” Gregor’s scowl was so deep it risked cleaving his forehead in two.
“ Or the Half-blood,” Cailean growled.
“It’s a risk,” she admitted, even as dizziness assailed her. “But it’s either that or we retreat.”
“Then we retreat,” the chief-counsellor shot back. Lara had never seen Annis look so fierce. “We return to Duncrag and rebuild our strength. We take the North on our terms … no one else’s.”
Lara’s pulse started to thud in her ears.
She’d gathered her council and told them that she wished to accept the Half-blood’s proposal; however, they weren’t responding well.
Over the past three years, she’d nearly always heeded their advice—but this time, she resisted it.
They were all giving up the fight too easily, but she didn’t have that luxury.
They didn’t carry the responsibilities she did. She’d promised her people the Shee wouldn’t take The Wolds, but if she retreated, there was a real possibility they would. And soon. Defeating her could give the Shee the confidence they needed to push south again.
“Annis is right,” Roth spoke up then, breaking the brittle silence. “We don’t need the Half-blood and his flea-bitten wulvers.” He paused then. “Besides, you swore never to take another husband, remember?”
There was no mistaking the accusation in his voice.
Lara’s chin kicked up. She then cut the captain a glare. “Do you think I want this?” He stared back at her stonily, his pale-blue eyes glinting. “Trust me, Roth … I’d rather swallow nails.”
They had no idea just how much she abhorred the idea. Her chest constricted then with an emotion that felt very much like grief. She was about to lose something very precious: her autonomy. Aye, she depended heavily on her council at times—but she was her own woman.
If she accepted the Half-blood’s offer, that would end.
Silence followed her outburst.
“I will not return to Duncrag defeated,” she said finally, her gaze sweeping the taut faces of those gathered around the table. “If you don’t want me to forge an alliance with the Half-blood, give me a better solution … one that will win us Doure.”
No one answered.
Ren and Ruari, the newest members of her council, exchanged worried looks.
They hadn’t spoken up after her announcement, yet their frowns made their displeasure clear.
Meanwhile, across the table, Cailean’s blue eyes narrowed.
His jaw set in that bullish expression she’d come to know well over the years.
To his right, Bree’s face was pinched, while to his left, Gregor looked mutinous.
Annis pursed her lips unhappily and folded her arms across her ample bosom.
“So, no one here has one?” Lara threw down the challenge.
Roth muttered a curse under his breath.
“I didn’t think so.” She turned to her captain, pinning him with a hard stare. “Find the Half-blood.”
“Please reconsider, Lara.” Bree stepped close, her brow deeply furrowed.
“I know you want victory,” Cailean rumbled, his gaze shadowed. “But this is going too far.”