Page 20 of The Queen and the Half-blood
“It is,” Bree replied. She hadn’t yet left the pavilion. Instead, she lingered near the doorway. “You’re wrong, Lara. Failing to take back Doure this time doesn’t mean Mor will win. Why won’t you return to Duncrag and rally yourself?”
Lara heaved in a shaky breath before glancing her way. “Rally? With what resources exactly?” Her pulse fluttered then. “We no longer can recruit warriors from The Uplands … and if I take many more warriors from The Wolds, I risk an uprising.” It was true, her overkings—King Artair of Baldeen and King Niall of Braewall, who were both as new to their roles as she was—had started to push back of late. Artair, especially, had grown difficult. The Southerners, who’d lived for centuries in relative prosperity and safety, didn’t appreciate sending their sons and daughters off to war, and when they heard of what had transpired before the walls of Doure, they’d be looking for someone to blame.
Bree scowled, heat flaring in her eyes. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
Lara glared back at her. “Aye.”
Mirren cleared her throat, shattering the tense silence that followed. “Come on, Bree,” she whispered. “Let’s go.”
And they did, although not without backward glances. Guilt tugged at Lara as she watched them leave. Mirren and Bree had become her family over the past years. They’d been through much together. They meant well, but they were just making this all the harder.
As soon as she was alone, she rose from the stool, went to the table, and poured herself a large cup of wine. She then slugged it back.
Eyes watering and throat burning, she set the cup down and crossed to the makeshift shrine in the shadowy corner of her tent. There, she knelt before reaching out and picking up the figurine of The Mother. She then bent her head, closed her eyes, and whispered a prayer. The Goddess was the bringer of change, and if there was ever a time she needed her strength, it was now.
8: A PROMISE MADE IN BLOOD
ALAR DUCKED INTO the tent and let the flap fall behind him. Casting a gaze around the warm interior, illuminated by a brazier and hanging lamps where pots of oil burned, he was surprised to find the High Queen alone.
Lara was sitting by the brazier, small pale hands folded demurely upon her lap. Her posture was straight, almost unnaturally so.
She was bracing herself for this meeting.
For his part, Alar hadn’t expected her to wait ten days before calling for him. As the time had slid by, and his wulvers grew restless, he’d secretly begun to worry that Albia’s High Queen would prefer to suffer a humiliating defeat rather than shackle herself to a half-blood outcast—even one who’d promised her an army. Of course, he’d kept his concerns to himself. He’d assured his brothers and sisters that Queen Lara would eventually capitulate, and this evening, finally, she had.
Justice was so close, he could smell it.
“Your Highness.”
“Alar.” She rose from her seat, her lips pursing as if something unpleasant had just slithered into her tent. “Wine?”
He nodded, pretending not to notice her unwelcoming expression. “Thank you.”
He moved over to the brazier but didn’t sit down. Instead, he watched Lara cross to the low table and pour them both cups.It seemed odd to see her perform such a menial task, especially since the last time they’d met, her handmaid had served them both.
But this evening, she’d sent her attendants—even her bodyguard—away.
While the High Queen’s attention was elsewhere, he took the opportunity to take a good look at her.
She was comely—which certainly would make this task easier—with a heart-shaped face and fine features. A fetching high-necked and fur-trimmed emerald tunic encased her supple body. Bronze, silver, and gold arm rings decorated her bare arms, and amber combs held back thick auburn hair from her face, while the rest of her mane tumbled down the long sweep of her back.
Lara turned back to him then, terminating his scrutiny, and carried the wine across to the brazier.
He took the cup she offered him. “So, you have failed to take back Doure?”
A nerve flickered in her cheek. “Evidently.”
“None of the battering rams you’ve constructed were sturdy enough to breach the gates,” he replied. “We have one that is.”
Her pine-green eyes, fringed with thick dark-auburn lashes, widened. He noted then, for the first time, the light scattering of freckles that dusted the bridge of her nose and cheeks. “Aye?”
He nodded. “It’s not just built of oak … but ofiron. We call it theFire Wyrm… and the gates of Doure won’t withstand its might.”
“You’venamedyour battering ram?”
He favored her with a slow smile, one that made a delightful blush stain her smooth cheeks. “Of course.”
Clearing her throat, Lara settled herself onto a stool, and Alar followed her lead. They now sat facing each other with a little over four feet between them. He held his tongue, instead taking a sip of the sweet plum wine. He’d let the High Queen takethe lead now, let her think she was the one in control of this discussion.
