Page 49 of The Queen and the Half-blood
“Gold it is,” Lara replied listlessly, passing the maid the box. “Go ahead and pick out some earrings for me then.”
Mirren’s brow furrowed. “You don’t want to choose them?”
Lara sighed. “I don’t care what I wear tomorrow … it’s not going to make the day any easier.” She looked away then, seeking solace in the warmth of the flickering hearth. “Or thenight.”
Her handmaid didn’t answer. However, a moment later, a small hand rested on her forearm. “Are you afraid?”
“A little,” she admitted, even as her pulse leaped into a canter.Liar.She wasterrifiedof Alar touching her.
“Dunchadh … was he—”
“A foul brute … aye, he was.” She started to sweat then. She wasn’t sure she could discuss her late husband without losing her composure.
As if sensing this, Mirren didn’t press further. But as silence swelled between them, the need to confide in someone started to throb under her breastbone. Sometimes, she felt so alone. It was exhausting, keeping everything to herself.
“I knew that Dunchadh had buried three wives … just not how he treated them,” she said, wishing her voice didn’t sound so brittle. “But on our wedding night … I learned.”
Another pause followed before Mirren gently squeezed Lara’s arm. It was a kind gesture, although one that made tears burn behind her eyelids. The Mother give her strength, she didn’t want to start weeping.
“No matter what happens tomorrow, or in the days to come, I am here,” she said, her voice low and firm. “Whenever you need an ear, I will listen.” She paused then, her lips curving. “And remember that Bree and Cailean are here for you too. You need never be alone with your worries.”
Lara swallowed, trying to loosen her tight throat. “What if I’ve ruined our friendship? They opposed my decision to make this pact with the Half-blood. Maybe they think I should suffer for it.”
Mirren shook her head. “You don’t give them enough credit. They will always stand by you … as will I.”
18: THE THREADS OF TRUST
LARA APPROACHED THEriverbank barefoot and clad in flowing blue. Her auburn hair was unbound and tumbling over her shoulders, gold shimmered upon her earlobes and arms, and a torque glinted at her throat. She looked untamed, as if a wood nymph had just strolled from the trees rather than the Queen of Albia.
Alar tracked her progress along the mossy bank, toward the flat stone where he waited for her. Like his bride-to-be, he didn’t wear boots or shoes. The Marav always handfasted barefoot, for they believed it brought them closer to the Gods.
Alar wouldn’t have cared either way. When he’d visited Lara’s tent outside Doure, he’d seen her tiny shrine to The Five in the corner. It meant nothing to him. These gods had forsaken him a long time ago, and in turn, he’d turned to the Hearthkeeper.
The Lethe flowed by, whispering around clumps of rushes. A large crowd had gathered here. Every druid in Duncrag, resplendent in their different colored robes, as well as the highest ranking of the fort’s inhabitants: elders and headmen. A pack of wulvers, Lyall and Dolph among them, looked on from the fringes of the crowd. They were here to witness this, to ensure their leader did marry the Marav High Queen.
But Alar paid none of the crowd any mind.
Lara held his attention.
He shouldn’t stare at her like this. It was a habit he’d gotten into in Doure, one that he found hard to break. The truth was, he’d seen few things as lovely as the High Queen of Albia.Lara was young and fresh, untainted by bitterness. She was also determined to do whatever it took to serve this realm, even if it meant shackling herself to a twisted creature such as him.
And hewastwisted.
If she knew how much, she’d never have made an alliance with him.
He didn’t deserve such a woman. He shouldn’t have put her in such a position. He should have offered her his army of wulvers out of loyalty to the realm, but he hadn’t.
Instead, he’d greedily take her as his own.
She was the key he’d spent decades searching for.
The chief-counsellor, a heavy-set woman clad in flowing white with a thick mane of brown braids and a stern face, stepped up to the stone, waiting as Lara closed the remaining gap.
His bride-to-be wore a composed expression, one she’d likely learned to put in place from an early age. A king’s daughter knew how to behave when the eyes of all were upon her. Nonetheless, he guessed she wasn’t so calm on the inside.
They’d locked horns the night before. When she’d produced that document for him to sign at the supper table, fury had knifed through him. He’d been the one to suggest it, but she could have warned him before waving it in his face, before revealing to everyone that he couldn’t read.
His illiteracy had bothered him little over the years—none of the wulvers knew their letters or numbers either—but seated in the hall of Duncrag, next to the haughty young woman who’d soon become his wife, it had suddenly mattered.
