18 THE THREADS OF TRUST
LARA APPROACHED THE riverbank barefoot and clad in flowing blue.
Her auburn hair was unbound and tumbling over her shoulders, gold shimmered upon her earlobes and arms, and a torque glinted at her throat.
She looked untamed, as if a wood nymph had just strolled from the trees rather than the Queen of Albia.
Alar tracked her progress along the mossy bank, toward the flat stone where he waited for her. Like his bride-to-be, he didn’t wear boots or shoes. The Marav always handfasted barefoot, for they believed it brought them closer to the Gods.
Alar wouldn’t have cared either way. When he’d visited Lara’s tent outside Doure, he’d seen her tiny shrine to The Five in the corner. It meant nothing to him. These gods had forsaken him a long time ago, and in turn, he’d turned to the Hearthkeeper.
The Lethe flowed by, whispering around clumps of rushes.
A large crowd had gathered here. Every druid in Duncrag, resplendent in their different colored robes, as well as the highest ranking of the fort’s inhabitants: elders and headmen.
A pack of wulvers, Lyall and Dolph among them, looked on from the fringes of the crowd.
They were here to witness this, to ensure their leader did marry the Marav High Queen.
But Alar paid none of the crowd any mind.
Lara held his attention.
He shouldn’t stare at her like this. It was a habit he’d gotten into in Doure, one that he found hard to break.
The truth was, he’d seen few things as lovely as the High Queen of Albia.
Lara was young and fresh, untainted by bitterness.
She was also determined to do whatever it took to serve this realm, even if it meant shackling herself to a twisted creature such as him.
And he was twisted.
If she knew how much, she’d never have made an alliance with him.
He didn’t deserve such a woman. He shouldn’t have put her in such a position. He should have offered her his army of wulvers out of loyalty to the realm, but he hadn’t.
Instead, he’d greedily take her as his own.
She was the key he’d spent decades searching for.
The chief-counsellor, a heavy-set woman clad in flowing white with a thick mane of brown braids and a stern face, stepped up to the stone, waiting as Lara closed the remaining gap.
His bride-to-be wore a composed expression, one she’d likely learned to put in place from an early age. A king’s daughter knew how to behave when the eyes of all were upon her. Nonetheless, he guessed she wasn’t so calm on the inside.
They’d locked horns the night before. When she’d produced that document for him to sign at the supper table, fury had knifed through him. He’d been the one to suggest it, but she could have warned him before waving it in his face, before revealing to everyone that he couldn’t read.
His illiteracy had bothered him little over the years—none of the wulvers knew their letters or numbers either—but seated in the hall of Duncrag, next to the haughty young woman who’d soon become his wife, it had suddenly mattered.
It pissed him off that it did.
They’d clashed on the walls too, especially after she told him about the peace envoy she’d sent north. When her anger spiked, he could have sworn the amber ring on her right hand flickered, as if a flame had ignited in its depths.
How strange.
He couldn’t dwell on that at present—not with his bride-to-be just a few yards away.
The High Queen’s druids and warriors were staring at him now. These people had never accepted him, but soon, they’d have a Half-blood prince consort.
Lara stepped up before him and halted.
The chief-counsellor cleared her throat. “Ready, My Queen?” There was a sharpness in the woman’s voice. Annis mac Gord was looking for a sign that the High Queen wished to call this whole thing off.
But she wouldn’t.
She couldn’t.
The blood oath would hold her to her promise.
Lara nodded, a nerve flickering in her cheek.
“Very well … face each other, and clasp hands.”
Alar and Lara swiveled so they were before each other, and then Alar took the initiative, reaching out and taking her hand. It was ice-cold, and as his thumb brushed over the soft skin of the underside of her wrist, he felt the flutter of her pulse.
The chief-counsellor began to wrap a length of pine-green ribbon around their clasped hands.
“Alar mac Struana, Commander of the wulvers, I join you with Lara mac Talorc, High Queen of Albia.” She paused then, her gaze flicking between them.
“May The Mother light your paths. May The Warrior protect you. May The Maiden grant you a bounteous family. May The Hag bless you both with long, healthy lives … and may The Reaper stay far from your door.”
Alar’s pulse quickened. He’d made his pact with Lara without giving any thought to the ceremony that would bind them. It was nothing but a means to an end. He’d planned to get through it as quickly as possible. But the words that the druid spoke, in her low, solemn voice, made him uneasy.
He was making a mockery of this ceremony, of the promises he’d made, and for an instant, he was sorry.
“Alar, repeat these vows after me,” the chief-counsellor instructed. “I, Alar mac Struana, Commander of the wulvers, pledge to protect you, Lara mac Talorc, High Queen of Albia, with my body and my life.”
Alar did as bidden, speaking the words slowly and deliberately, as if they meant something to him.
And when it was Lara’s turn, she held his gaze, her voice husky yet steady.
“I, Lara, mac Talorc, High Queen of Albia, pledge to honor you, Alar mac Struana, Commander of the wulvers … with my body and my life.”
They stared at each other then, as if seeing each other properly for the first time. The moment drew out until the druid’s voice intruded. “You are now wed.” She unwrapped the length of ribbon from around their hands before retreating a few steps. “You may kiss your bride.”
Lara’s face blanched at this, and something deep inside him clenched.
Did she dread his touch so much?
Sidestepping his reaction, he moved close to his bride, cupped her face with his hands, and lowered his mouth to hers.
Lara didn’t glance her husband’s way as they rode, side by side, up The Thoroughfare. A crowd had gathered by the roadside, curious gazes tracking the newlyweds. There was no cheering or fanfare though.
No one threw rose petals or called out well-wishes. Many brows were furrowed.
Although their reaction didn’t bode well, Lara was relieved that no one was making a fuss. She was also thankful the ceremony was over, for she’d been dreading the kiss. Fortunately, he’d kept it brief and chaste. Perfunctory.
That was good. Once today was done with, they could focus on what really mattered: taking back The Uplands.
The wedding party reached the top of the fort, riding into the yard before the broch and dismounting from their horses.
Alar swung down from his horse first and helped her down from hers.
His behavior was expected, a gesture she’d already seen from him in Doure.
Nonetheless, his hand on her back made her mouth go dry and her pulse race.
It was a reminder of what was to come.
Within the broch, the hall had been decorated for their arrival, with boughs of fragrant pine and trailing streamers of ivy. Banks of candles flickered against the walls.
“It smells like a forest in here,” Alar noted as they crossed the floor, covered in fresh rushes and dried lavender and rosemary.
“Aye … it’s customary for a royal handfasting.”
“It’s … pleasant.”
She cast him a sidelong look, surprised. She never knew what to make of this man.
They took their places at the long table upon the high seat, waiting while everyone else filed into the hall. Cailean and Bree flanked them—Cailean seated next to Alar and Bree next to Lara. Her warder’s proximity reassured Lara a little. Bree’s quiet strength never failed to calm her.
Gil took his place upon the high seat next to his sister, while Roth sat down next to Cailean.
Below them, warriors, wulvers, druids, and high-ranking servants took their places upon long benches at the trestle tables while slaves entered the space carrying trays of roast boar and venison.
And like the eve before, Marav and Wulvers sat separately.
Lara spied Mirren then. Her handmaid had just taken her place at the table nearest the high seat.
A moment later, Torran sat down next to her.
“It’s time for a dance. It’s expected.”
“As you wish.” Alar rose to his feet and offered Lara his arm.
They’d barely spoken through the feasting, for the din of conversation in the hall made it difficult to talk without shouting.
However, once the feasting was done and the tables pushed back, the noise lowered.
Two musicians sitting in the corner of the hall then struck up a tune on a bone whistle and a lyre.
Lara didn’t want to step out onto the floor with Alar, to have all eyes upon her as she moved around the hall in her husband’s arms. But it was tradition, just like feeding each other honey cake, as they’d done earlier.
The intimacy of breaking off a piece of cake and sliding it between Alar’s parted lips had made her cheeks burn. She’d shared the same ritual with Dunchadh years earlier and found it embarrassing then too. But now, she had to get through the dancing.
Just play the role you were taught. Smile, dance, and act the part.
The musicians were playing a slow, lilting melody, and she and Alar began a traditional Marav dance—one where the partners moved around each other in slow steps while holding eye contact.
They danced to one song, and then another, finally returning to the high seat when the musicians struck up a livelier tune.
On the way back to her seat, Lara caught sight of Mirren and Torran again.
The enforcer appeared to be urging her to dance with him. Yet, the lass, her face flushed, shook her head. Torran stepped closer, murmuring something, and Mirren answered him sharply. She then spun on her heel and pushed through the crowd.
Lara watched the lass go, her chest constricting.
No, the threads of trust weren’t so easily spun. She knew that as well as her handmaid did.
Sitting down upon the high seat, she took the goblet of wine Alar passed her.
“Your eyes are shadowed,” he observed. “Am I such a bad dancer?”
His comment roused her, and she blinked. “No,” she murmured. “My mind is occupied by thoughts of our campaign,” she lied. “I find it difficult to focus on much else these days.”
“We’ll be marching north soon enough,” he replied with a half-smile. “You should enjoy the peace and comfort … while you can.”
Easy for him to say. Impossible for her though. An awkward pause followed before she cleared her throat. “You dance well … who taught you?”
His features tightened slightly. “My mother.”
“Struana?”
“Aye.”
“You took your mother’s name … rather than your father’s. That’s unusual.”
He gave a soft snort. “It was necessary … since my father was Shee.”
Of course. “Do you know his name?”
He shook his head, glancing away. He didn’t want to talk about his father; that much was clear—and understandable.