8 A PROMISE MADE IN BLOOD
ALAR DUCKED INTO the tent and let the flap fall behind him. Casting a gaze around the warm interior, illuminated by a brazier and hanging lamps where pots of oil burned, he was surprised to find the High Queen alone.
Lara was sitting by the brazier, small pale hands folded demurely upon her lap. Her posture was straight, almost unnaturally so.
She was bracing herself for this meeting.
For his part, Alar hadn’t expected her to wait ten days before calling for him.
As the time had slid by, and his wulvers grew restless, he’d secretly begun to worry that Albia’s High Queen would prefer to suffer a humiliating defeat rather than shackle herself to a half-blood outcast—even one who’d promised her an army.
Of course, he’d kept his concerns to himself.
He’d assured his brothers and sisters that Queen Lara would eventually capitulate, and this evening, finally, she had.
Justice was so close, he could smell it.
“Your Highness.”
“Alar.” She rose from her seat, her lips pursing as if something unpleasant had just slithered into her tent. “Wine?”
He nodded, pretending not to notice her unwelcoming expression. “Thank you.”
He moved over to the brazier but didn’t sit down. Instead, he watched Lara cross to the low table and pour them both cups. It seemed odd to see her perform such a menial task, especially since the last time they’d met, her handmaid had served them both.
But this evening, she’d sent her attendants—even her bodyguard—away.
While the High Queen’s attention was elsewhere, he took the opportunity to take a good look at her.
She was comely—which certainly would make this task easier—with a heart-shaped face and fine features.
A fetching high-necked and fur-trimmed emerald tunic encased her supple body.
Bronze, silver, and gold arm rings decorated her bare arms, and amber combs held back thick auburn hair from her face, while the rest of her mane tumbled down the long sweep of her back.
Lara turned back to him then, terminating his scrutiny, and carried the wine across to the brazier.
He took the cup she offered him. “So, you have failed to take back Doure?”
A nerve flickered in her cheek. “Evidently.”
“None of the battering rams you’ve constructed were sturdy enough to breach the gates,” he replied. “We have one that is.”
Her pine-green eyes, fringed with thick dark-auburn lashes, widened. He noted then, for the first time, the light scattering of freckles that dusted the bridge of her nose and cheeks. “Aye?”
He nodded. “It’s not just built of oak … but of iron . We call it the Fire Wyrm … and the gates of Doure won’t withstand its might.”
“You’ve named your battering ram?”
He favored her with a slow smile, one that made a delightful blush stain her smooth cheeks. “Of course.”
Clearing her throat, Lara settled herself onto a stool, and Alar followed her lead.
They now sat facing each other with a little over four feet between them.
He held his tongue, instead taking a sip of the sweet plum wine.
He’d let the High Queen take the lead now, let her think she was the one in control of this discussion.
Of course, she wasn’t. Tonight, he had the upper hand.
Silence settled in the pavilion, broken only by the pop of embers in the brazier and the muffled rumble of the surrounding camp.
Earlier, as he’d followed the chief-enforcer and his monstrous fae hound through the tents, he’d noted the despondency among the Marav had worsened.
He’d heard the rasp of fear in the voices of those gathered at firesides, had marked their hollowed gazes and taut faces.
Aye, they were desperate. The timing was perfect.
“You know why I’ve called you here?”
He nodded.
“If I can’t take Doure, it will send a message to Mor that I’m weak … and that Duncrag is ripe for the seizing.” Her throat worked then. “This is the beginning of the end … unless …” Her voice trailed off as if she couldn’t bear to continue.
“You agree to marry me.”
The High Queen winced before lifting the cup to her lips and taking a gulp of wine, a slight tremor in her hand. She wouldn’t look at him now. “There must be another way.”
He swallowed a smile. She wanted to play, did she? “Go on.”
She shifted on her stool, still avoiding his eye. “Surely, there is something else you want … besides this? Coin … lands? Name your price.”
Alar didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a sip of wine and pretended to consider her words.
He almost felt sorry for her. Albia’s young High Queen carried much responsibility upon her shoulders.
However, he wouldn’t let the vulnerability she was doing her best to hide sway him.
“No,” he said finally. “Only becoming your husband will do. In return for my army, you must agree to be handfasted to me … to allow me to co-rule.” He had to spell it out to her. He wanted no ambiguity in this.
Her chin jerked up, her eyes glinting as anger surfaced. “You want to be High King of Albia, is that it?”
He shrugged. “The title of prince consort will do … what matters more is that you share power with me.” His heart kicked then. That wasn’t part of the plan. He’d promised his brothers and sisters that he’d negotiate hard, that he’d push for as much as he could.
He’d just made quite a concession, but the High Queen didn’t look grateful. Instead, her pretty mouth twisted. “You’re all the same.”
He inclined his head. “Who are?”
“ Men ,” she clarified, biting out the word. “There’s nothing you wouldn’t do for control.”
Alar huffed a laugh. She had no idea what he was prepared to do to achieve his ends.
“And what will you do once you’re prince consort?” Her eyebrows lowered as she glared at him. “Attempt to overthrow me?”
He snorted, both entertained and irritated by her spirited response. “I give you my word that I won’t.”
“No offense, but you’ve given me no reason to trust you.”
Alar leaned forward, ensnaring her gaze with his. “No offense, but you have no choice but to trust me.” He paused then. “I’m your bridge to victory, Lara. Without my army, you’ll never make it.”
Another silence fell in the pavilion, the brazier crackling gently between them. The High Queen’s expression was pinched now. She was looking at him as if a warty puddock had just hopped into her tent and proposed marriage.
Perhaps she would have preferred a toad to a half-blood outcast.
“I have no interest in taking Duncrag for my own,” he said finally. “You are its rightful ruler.”
She snorted. “You expect me to take you at your word?”
His gaze never wavered. “Aye, I’m not doing this for you … but for the wulvers. When we’re done, with their leader as prince consort and with victory over the Shee, they will have earned the respect they deserve in Albia.”
Her gaze narrowed once more. “And why does that matter to you so much?”
He leaned forward. “Long have my brothers and sisters been ill-treated by your people, shunned from settlements, and pushed into the fringes of Albia. They deserve better.”
That was an understatement. They deserved to stand on their own—to rule land as the Marav did. He kept these sentiments to himself though.
“But you aren’t one of them. Why take up their cause?”
He sat back. “They gave me shelter … and kindness and respect … when no one else would.”
Her fingers tightened around her cup. “How long have you lived with them?”
“Decades.”
Surprise rippled over her delicate features. “Really? You can’t be any older than thirty winters.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “You’d think that, aye … but I’m a half-blood remember. This is my seventy-second summer.”
Her face paled, panic flaring in her eyes. “Do you expect me to bind myself to a man who's literally immortal?” she rasped. “A man who’d rule for many centuries after my death?”
“I don’t have the lifespan of a Shee,” he assured her. “My blood is too diluted for that … all the same, half-bloods can often live up to three hundred years.”
She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and cut her gaze away. Alar watched her struggle.
“How did I not know this?” she asked finally.
“Likely because it never mattered to you before now.” He paused then before adding. “However, I won’t live three hundred years.” Once again, the strange urge to reassure her rose.
“And why not?”
“An aughisky stole a century from me.”
Lara jolted. “What?”
“Nearly thirty years ago, I journeyed to one of the crannogs on Loch Glass in the North. Tired after days of travel, I was resting, thinking how I could do with a sturdy pony to carry me, when I spied a fine garron grazing a few yards away … a grey pony with feathered feet, and a flowing mane and tail.” He pulled a face as he recalled the incident.
It wasn’t one he spoke about often. “Of course, I shouldn’t have acted on impulse.
The moment I swung up onto its back, my hand stuck fast to its neck, and I realized my mistake. ”
Lara shook her head, clearly thinking him a fool. The vicious water spirits lived in the sea and lochs. There were few tales of anyone surviving an encounter with one. Once you touched an aughisky, you couldn’t get free. After that, it dragged you deep into the water and feasted on you.
“I had to think fast … for an instant later, we were lurching toward the water’s edge,” he continued. “Before we reached the loch, I called out … and offered up a hundred years of my life, if it released me.”
“And it agreed?” She was incredulous, and he didn’t blame her.
“Aye … aughiskies hunger for the lives of others. But few people know that if you give up years of your life willingly, it might spare you. Such a gift will satisfy its appetite for a time. Luckily, my grandmother once mentioned this to me.”
The High Queen frowned. “That’s still a costly price when you’re Marav. Our lives are too brief as it is.”