10 SPOILS OF WAR
WATCHING ALAR DRAW near, Lara tensed.
What are you up to?
She was aware that everyone present was observing their interaction.
Warmth flushed over her chest and crept up her neck. Humiliation. All her life, she’d had little privacy. It was part of being born into Albia’s ruling family, and for the most part, she’d accepted it. Her life wasn’t her own. She belonged to her subjects.
But now, she didn’t want to be the center of attention. This arrangement was demeaning enough without Alar putting on a show for them all.
Lara silently bristled as he approached. Two could play this game. She’d made him a promise, but they weren’t yet handfasted. Things could change before then, and she certainly wasn’t in any hurry to set the date. The Half-blood might come to regret looking so smug.
Stopping before her, he held out a hand. “My Queen.” A challenge glinted in those iron-grey eyes.
“Alar,” she replied coolly before taking his hand.
Like the eve before, she noted the warmth and strength in those lean fingers. Moving nearer, he helped her down from her mount before placing a solicitous hand upon her back to guide her up the steps to the broch.
The gesture was innocuous enough, yet Lara stiffened at the contact. Despite the layers of clothing she wore, she felt the heat of his palm against her spine. It was a possessive gesture. Once again, the Half-blood knew he had an audience and was playing up to it.
The urge to tell him to stand back surged up then, but she choked it down. She’d dismissed her council’s advice to make a pact with this man; there was little point in making a scene now. As High Queen, she had to give the outward appearance of dignity, even if she was seething inside.
So, she mounted the steps. The open doorway yawned before her, torchlight flickering beyond.
She was vaguely aware of Bree moving to her left side, while Alar remained on her right.
Glancing her warder’s way, she marked the rigid set of Bree’s jaw.
She wondered then, how it must feel to see so many Shee dead.
She might have even recognized some of them.
Lara’s chest tightened. She was sorry her friend had to witness this, but it couldn’t be helped. Bree had chosen her side.
Stepping inside the broch’s entrance hall, she came to an abrupt halt.
It was clear the Shee had been living here.
Her people’s brochs were windowless structures of stacked-stone, but the new residents of this one had counteracted the darkness with banks of candles lining the walls and lanterns that hung from the rafters.
Unlike her broch, there were no rushes on the floor; instead, the sandstone pavers beneath their feet had been scrubbed and polished until they shone.
Lara sniffed. The air was fresh and scented with rose, despite the fatty odor of burning tallow.
“I never thought a Marav broch would smell like Caisteal Gealaich,” Bree murmured.
Lara marked the sharp look Alar cut Bree then—of course, he didn’t know about her origins.
Skirting around the body of a female Shee warrior who lay face-down near where the doors to the main hall were open, they passed within.
And just like the entrance hall, this much larger space glowed with light.
The lanterns that swung from the high ceiling shone like corpse candles, and pine logs smoldered in the hearths on the far side of the space.
Everything was brighter, cleaner, and less cluttered than Lara’s own broch—but that wasn’t what drew her attention now.
There were more dead in here, mostly Shee with a few wulvers and Marav warriors among them, their blood pooling on the pavers.
The metallic stench of death made her gorge rise. Breathing shallowly now, she picked her way across the floor, her gaze traveling over the faces of the fallen. Cailean had told her she’d recognize the Shee commander, but she hadn’t so far.
However, when she caught a flash of white-blond hair upon the dais at the far end of the hall, her step slowed. And when she heard Bree’s sharp intake of breath next to her, her suspicion was confirmed.
She stopped before the high seat. The male sprawled on his back upon it was tall and lean, like many of his race, with chiseled features, yet his handsome face was contorted in a terrible grimace.
A fine longsword, its steel blade gleaming in the light of the bank of candles behind him, lay next to his limp fingers.
A dark puddle of blood had pooled under him. His throat gaped.
Lara’s lips thinned as she surveyed the injury. Fitting, considering how her mother had died.
“Do you know him?”
She glanced over at where Alar was watching her intently.
“Aye,” she murmured. “Our paths have crossed before … unfortunately.”
“Frostshard fought like a cornered wolf.”
Lara looked over her shoulder to meet Cailean’s eye. “Did you kill him?”
“Aye.”
She shifted her attention back to Gavyn Frostshard. It seemed Mor had forgiven him for failing to abduct Lara and her mother. She’d put him in charge of one of her outposts, but he’d failed his queen again—for the last time.
“How many captives are there?” she demanded, shaking herself free of memories of her mother on that fateful day—her blind panic and all-consuming terror. Frostshard’s companion had slit her throat.
“Around thirty, My Queen,” Roth spoke up from behind her. “Shall we put them to the sword?”
Lara stilled as she considered the question.
Her father would have answered ‘aye’ without any hesitation.
But she wasn’t quite as bloodthirsty. Perhaps those Shee who hadn’t fallen during the siege and the battle that followed would wish for death, but she wouldn’t be giving it to them—not yet anyway.
“No,” she replied, turning to her captain.
“They’ll return south with us … as spoils of war. ”
Lara sank down into the hot water with a deep sigh.
By the Gods, she’d never take a hot bath for granted again.
Steam enveloped her as she closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the rolled rim of the iron tub.
Four husky male slaves had lugged the iron tub up to the alcove she had temporarily made her own before a procession of servants hauling buckets of hot water followed.
She’d deliberately not taken the commander’s quarters—she had no wish to crawl into the same sleeping nook that Gavyn Frostshard had used, even if Mirren had dragged the old furs out and replaced them with fresh ones.
Eyes still closed, she listened to the muffled sounds of her attendants moving about the alcove.
The peace in here, after the chaos and filth of battle, was a balm on her soul.
“Go down and fetch some drying sheets, Florie.” As usual, Mirren was ordering the others about.
“Ani and Lilith … bring up more pails of hot water, while I see about finding some drinkable wine for our queen.” The handmaid approached the tub then.
“Will you be all right on your own for a short while?”
Lara cracked open an eye. “Of course … I’ve got guards outside my quarters.”
Mirren headed toward the heavy hanging that divided the alcove from the landing beyond. “I won’t be long.”
Moments later, all four lasses departed, leaving Lara alone.
Alone . She didn’t close her eyes again.
Instead, she reveled in the strangeness of it.
A queen’s time was never her own. To have some solitude was an even greater luxury than a bath.
Picking up a cake of fine lavender soap, she lathered a soft cloth and began to wash.
The gentle splashes filled the alcove, as did the pungent, woodsy scent—so different from the sweetness of rose.
Her wrist started to sting then, and she examined the fresh scab. It was healing well enough, although she’d taken care to hide it from Mirren when she helped ready her for the bath.
Turning her wrist over, she tried to banish the wound—and the blood oath—from her mind. She didn’t want to think about her impending handfasting. She wished to enjoy some peace.
She sighed then, letting the tension of the past days ebb from her.
She’d done it. Taking back Doure had required a sacrifice on her part—one she didn’t wish to dwell on—but her council, and her people, would come to realize she’d made the right choice.
Mor would think twice before pushing south now.
Lara’s eyes fluttered shut once more. This space, high up in the broch, was an oasis of calm.
Outside, her army of Marav and wulvers were repairing the gates and ensuring the fort was secure, while the servants she’d brought from Duncrag were making themselves at home in the kitchens and preparing a feast for the evening.
She and Alar would break bread together for the first time.
The reminder punctured her bath-time bliss like a thorn, and her eyes snapped open.
Curse it, the prick kept intruding. She wasn’t allowed any respite, it seemed.
She wasn’t looking forward to having everyone’s eyes upon her while she sat with her betrothed upon the high seat. Nonetheless, it was necessary after the bargain she’d struck.
“Enough,” she muttered. “Don’t let him ruin your bath.”
Soaping up her hair, she massaged her scalp before ducking under the water to rinse it. Then, wringing the water out of her hair, she pinned it to the crown of her head and leaned back against the rim once more. Drowsiness settled over her. That’s better.
“Shades, it’s chaotic out there.”
Mirren shoved aside the hanging and entered the alcove. She carried a tray with a ewer and a pewter goblet, her cheeks flushed from the climb from the lower levels of the broch.
Bree followed at her heels. “That’s right … you can’t walk two paces without running into a wulver.”
Florie entered then, a large basket of linen in her arms. “Aye,” the lass muttered. “They’re everywhere!”
Setting the tray down near where Lara still reclined up to the neck in the tub, Mirren shuddered, a hand lifting to the small dull-grey protection amulet that hung around her neck. The Hag’s staff.