Page 17 of The Queen and the Half-blood
With another sigh, she sharply drew her fingers back, snapping them into a clenched fist.
The flames in the brazier flared bright once more and died, plunging the tent into darkness.
7: FIND THE HALF-BLOOD
Ten days later …
WATCHING THE REMAINS of her army retreat in the grey gloaming, Lara’s stomach dropped. It was as if she’d just jumped feet first into a bottomless well. The acrid odor of burnt tar mixed with the stench of offal drifted over her. It was the smell of defeat. She could see it in the warriors’ rounded shoulders, their haggard faces.
They had nothing left to give.
A group of red-robed men and women limped into view then, climbing up from the smoking defile. Gregor and his enforcers had done their best to keep the Gods close over the past days, braving fire, arrows, spears, and stones to do so. But even they were beaten. The last of the pigeons and hares they’d brought from Duncrag had been sacrificed.
The sight of the chief-sacrificer shocked Lara. She’d never seen him look so downcast. The big man staggered as he made his way up the slope.
Throat constricting, her attention flicked to the walls of Doure. They were smoke-blackened now, yet stood as strong as ever. As did the gates. Over the past days, four battering rams had been built and then destroyed.
Her breathing came shallow and fast—it was hard to draw in enough air.
But underneath her despair, fury pulsed in her gut. Curse the fucking Shee for eternity. This couldn’t be the end. She wouldn’t accept it. She couldn’t let the Shee take Albia, fort by fort, until they ruled everywhere.
A glimmer caught her eye then. The ring on her right hand—theOrd-ree Sealthat had once belonged to her father—had just flashed at her.
Stilling, she stared down at the chunky amber stone set on a thick iron band.
I must have been imagining things.
She was about to lift her chin once more when fire flickered in the heart of the amber.
Cold washed over her, dousing the heat of her anger. What was this?
“Come, Lara.” Bree’s voice intruded. “We must follow the others.”
“Aye.” Heart hammering, she yanked her attention from the ring and reined Bracken around before urging her into a canter.
But as she rode away from Doure, trying not to think about the flame she’d seen dance in the amber, the skin between her shoulder blades burned. She imagined the Shee standing on the walls, jeering at her.
They were stronger and quicker than her people and certainly knew how to defend a fort. Their greatest weakness was iron—even the proximity weakened them, and the merest touch burned like fire upon their skin—yet her warriors couldn’t scale the walls to use it on them. They also feared earth magic, which her enforcers wielded, although the warrior druids couldn’t get close enough to use it effectively.
Humiliation bit at her like cold steel then, and she forgot all about the ring.
Maybe this was the real reason her father had loathed the Shee so. The tales went that his first wife had been stolen awayby the Shee, never to be seen again, and it had left him bitter. But Lara realized that it went deeper than that. Her father feared the fae race that dwelled in Sheehallion. They lived for thousands of years, whereas if one of the Marav was blessed with a century, it was considered a miracle. The Shee were swift and, although lean in build, tall and incredibly strong. Not only that, but they could glamor themselves, share thoughts with animals, and blend in with the shadows when they wished to.
In short, they were superior to the Marav in most ways. Talorc mac Brude had known this and had feared that they’d one day decide to take Albia for their own. And now, the thing he’d dreaded most was about to happen.
It was a bitter irony then that he’d been the one to start this.
Back at the encampment, the mood was grim, and the healing tent was fuller than ever.
Lara had ridden straight there, not allowing herself to catch anyone’s eye. She couldn’t bear to see the disappointment, the judgment, in their gazes. Dismounting, she’d handed the reins over to one of her guards before ducking into the pavilion. Bree followed her inside. Every evening after battle, the High Queen continued to help tend to the injured.
The iron tang of blood assaulted her nostrils as she walked down the narrow aisle between tightly-packed pallets. The groans and whimpers of the injured and dying drove into her like blades.
This is my doing.
Indeed, these brave warriors had marched here and laid siege to Doure for her.
So many had fallen. A fresh funeral pyre had burned every night, illuminating the darkness like a beacon. Another would burn tonight too.
