Page 108 of The Queen and the Half-blood
“I wouldn’t underestimate her, if I were you,” Alar said quietly. “The High Queen has a will of iron.” He paused for a heartbeat then. “She’s also a fire-wielder.”
Beathan’s blue eyes snapped wide, his arrogance faltering. “What?”
“Her abilities are still new to her, yet she protected the entire encampment from the Slew twice on the way here. She could cause a lot of damage.”
Nausea crept up his throat then. There it was: his wife’s secret handed over to her enemies. Such knowledge was valuable. Even so, his final betrayal of her twisted his guts.
Were there no depths to which he wouldn’t sink?
The chieftain continued to sneer, although his gaze wasn’t quite so confident. “Lucky for us, the gates are iron, not wood then,” he replied. “Although we’ll make sure not to have any braziers burning on the walls tonight.”
Alar nodded. “That would be wise.” He paused then, his stomach tightening once more. News of Lara’s secret would soon spread now. How long would it take before the rumors reached Duncrag? “I’d also have plenty of buckets of water drawn from the wells … we may need them.”
Beathan’s mouth thinned, although he nodded. Dulross’s walls were made of both stone and timber. Fire could prove their undoing. The chieftain glanced west then, the tension in his face easing a little. “It may not come to that,” he murmured. “Look.”
Turning, Alar’s attention settled upon the bank of dark clouds sitting over the tips of the southern Goatfells. The Sharp Billed Wind was blowing from that direction too, its icy teeth cutting into their flesh. Rain was on its way.
“The Hag is with us,” Beathan added, his tone smug now.
Alar didn’t reply. He wouldn’t credit The Five with any good fortune that came their way.
Nonetheless, it did look as if fate had turned against Lara mac Talorc.
It had the dayhe’dwalked into her life. She just hadn’t known it until now. Once again, remorse knifed through him. And once again, he shoved it aside. He wouldn’t take that road.
“Ah … here she is.”
Beathan’s voice drew his attention once more, and when he looked south, he saw it—a white wolf’s head against a field of black, snapping in the wind. It struck him as an irony then, that the Albian ruling family had the wolf as its sigil. A dark column marched into view, spears bristling against the pale sky.
Alar’s pulse quickened. Suddenly, the image of Lara’s face that morning in the tent when she’d gazed up at him from the furs—the trust in her gaze—flashed before his eyes, unbidden.
At that moment, he’d been about to spill his guts to her, to confess all.
Thank the Hearthkeeper, they’d been interrupted. He’d been on the brink of ruining everything. Afterward, as he’d watched her kneel before the sack of rotting severed heads, he’d pulled himself together.
You can’t let her get to you. The woman had enchanted him, like a beautiful yet deadly bavaan—dancing in the moonlight before draining him of blood. He’d had a narrow escape.
Alar clenched his hands by his sides.Remember what matters. The wulvers will sing of this day for generations to come. You made it happen.
Heat ignited in his belly. The Marav deserved this. They’d made him an outcast and hunted his wulver kin ruthlessly. He’d lain awake at night many times over the years, imagining this moment. It had kept him going through harsh winters and long, bitter, lonely nights. Even when Talorc mac Brude pushed thewulvers deeper into the northern forests. Even when the Marav cut down his brothers and sisters.
It had been his fuel. His sustenance. And it would keep him on the right path now.
40: BETRAYAL
LARA DREW UP her horse and stared at the high walls of Dulross. The fort rose proudly before her, framed by the jagged edge of The Goatfells. The mountains thrust upward, streaked in green, ochre, and slate-grey against a darkening sky.
Banners flew from the walls, snapping in the chill wind. The weather was turning again, and ominous clouds drifted in from the west. Rain wasn’t far away. But despite the dull light, the banners were clear. Circine and wulver. A white eagle against woad-blue. The Eternal Flame against black.
“Those shit-weasels,” Cailean growled from next to her. “Beathan mac Glen is with them.”
Lara didn’t answer. Bitterness flooded her mouth.
Betrayed by the wulvers, whom she’d defended and believed in.
Betrayed by her husband, whom she’d foolishly fallen for.
And now betrayed by the Circines, whom she’d hoped to ally herself with. What was one more betrayal, heaped on all the others?
