Page 39 of The Queen and the Half-blood
“You have made a grave mistake,” Artair went on. “The people of Albia won’t follow a High Queen who makes pacts with wulvers.”
“The folk of Duncrag know of my alliance.” Lara’s pulse now beat in her ears. “But I see no riots in the streets … do you?”
Best she didn’t admit that there had been unrest ever since her return home. At first, there had been grief, as news of their losses filtered through the fort. A sorrowful lament had lifted high into the damp air on the eve of her arrival. She’d stood on the walls listening to those mourning their dead.
She was responsible.
But then, once the grief had settled, and Duncrag’s residents learned of the bargain their High Queen had struck, they’d turned angry. The elders had led protests before the gates to the broch, their insults and accusations drifting over the ramparts. Fortunately, the Fort Guard had handled the situation, although the rumblings of discontent continued in the days following.
Artair lurched to his feet, the wooden stool he’d been seated upon clattering to the ground behind him.
Beside Cailean, Skaal gave a low growl. The sound rumbled dangerously in her throat.
“Careful, mac Neathan.” The chief-enforcer’s warning swiftly followed. “Consider your next words to our High Queen carefully.”
The overking’s broad chest rose and fell quickly now, expanding and contracting like forge bellows. Watching the fury smoldering in his eyes, Lara knew that only a healthy fear of her chief-enforcer stopped him from unleashing it. Even so, she didn’t want her alliance with the wulvers to ruin her relationship with her overkings. She needed to build a bridge—and quickly.
“I would have consulted you, Artair,” she said, deliberately gentling her voice. “But there was no time … surely, you understand that?”
A nerve flickered in his cheek.
“We can’t waste time arguing, not when our freedom hangs in the balance. You know the Shee have allies. I’m trying to find a way forward … but to do that, I need you at my side. We must remain united. The Wolds have already given so much … but I must ask more of you. We’re recruiting more warriors for my army … and I need Braewall and Baldeen’s cooperation.”
Her attention shifted to Niall then, who’d been silent as the exchange heated up. The younger man shifted uncomfortably upon his stool, a deep frown creasing his brow—but she seized his gaze with hers and held fast. “Can I rely on you both?”
Standing on the walls, Lara watched the overkings of Braewall and Baldeen depart. Their banners—the leaping black stag of Braewall and the iron shield of Baldeen—bristled above the procession of helmed warriors clad in leather armor who led the way down The Thoroughfare, the main road that descended from the broch at the fort’s summit.
It was a raw afternoon, and Lara’s breath steamed in front of her. A frost would settle tonight, heralding the return of the bitter season.
Jaw firming, she pulled her fur-lined mantle closer. Her gaze then swept over the wooded hills that surrounded the fort, alighting on a grassy one to the north. Even from this distance, she spied red-robed figures. There would be a full moon tonight; the sacrificers were readying themselves for the blood-letting. It was a much-needed one too. Cailean and the other enforcers who’d accompanied her to Doure had to replenish their earth magic.
They needed to be at full strength for the campaign to come.
“Do you trust the overkings, Annis?” she asked finally.
Next to her, the chief-counsellor murmured something under her breath before adding. “No … I can’t say I do.”
“I don’t either.” Her gaze returned to where Artair and Niall rode side by side, lingering upon them for a few moments. Huffing a sigh, she then turned to the white-robed woman standing beside her on the walls. Bree and Cailean had also come up here with them, yet they waited a few yards away. “Should I have stopped them from leaving?”
Annis raised a brow. “To what end?”
“I could have arrested them … on suspicion of treason … thrown them both into the dungeon and found replacements.” Frustration churned in her chest. Maybe she should have done just that.
Annis favored her with a speculative look. “Aye … you could have … but you have no proof.”
Lara’s belly tightened. “That wouldn’t have stopped my father. The slightest whiff of dissent and he’d have brought the mallet down.”
“You’re right … but do you wish to be like him?”
Lara swallowed. No, she didn’t. Few here knew of the bitterness she held toward her sire, for she’d never told anyone about how badly he’d let her down. Nonetheless, that was the closest Annis had ever come to making an outright criticism of the former High King—a man she’d served for twenty years.
Her chest tightened as she watched the receding banners. She needed Braewall and Baldeen’s resources and hated feeling so reliant on her overkings. She’d bid them both to send weapons and warriors to Duncrag before Gateway—but what if they didn’t?
No, she wasn’t like her father, but she didn’t want to be perceived as weak either. “Shouldn’t I?” she countered, deliberately challenging her chief-counsellor.
The older woman sighed, brushing a thin brown braid off her cheek. “Talorc was a strong ruler … and feared … but if Albia is in pieces, it is because of him.”
15: TRUST, ONCE BROKEN
