Page 21 of The Queen and the Half-blood
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 hadnoidea what he was prepared to do to achieve his ends.
“And what will youdoonce 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 choicebutto 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?”
