Page 51 of The Queen and the Half-blood
“Aye … it’s customary for a royal handfasting.”
“It’s … pleasant.”
She cast him a sidelong look, surprised. She never knew what to make of this man.
They took their places at the long table upon the high seat, waiting while everyone else filed into the hall. Cailean and Bree flanked them—Cailean seated next to Alar and Bree next to Lara. Her warder’s proximity reassured Lara a little. Bree’s quiet strength never failed to calm her.
Gil took his place upon the high seat next to his sister, while Roth sat down next to Cailean. Below them, warriors, wulvers, druids, and high-ranking servants took their places upon long benches at the trestle tables while slaves entered the spacecarrying trays of roast boar and venison. And like the eve before, Marav and Wulvers sat separately.
Lara spied Mirren then. Her handmaid had just taken her place at the table nearest the high seat.
A moment later, Torran sat down next to her.
“It’s time for a dance. It’s expected.”
“As you wish.” Alar rose to his feet and offered Lara his arm. They’d barely spoken through the feasting, for the din of conversation in the hall made it difficult to talk without shouting. However, once the feasting was done and the tables pushed back, the noise lowered. Two musicians sitting in the corner of the hall then struck up a tune on a bone whistle and a lyre.
Lara didn’t want to step out onto the floor with Alar, to have all eyes upon her as she moved around the hall in her husband’s arms. But it was tradition, just like feeding each other honey cake, as they’d done earlier.
The intimacy of breaking off a piece of cake and sliding it between Alar’s parted lips had made her cheeks burn. She’d shared the same ritual with Dunchadh years earlier and found it embarrassing then too. But now, she had to get through the dancing.
Just play the role you were taught. Smile, dance, and act the part.
The musicians were playing a slow, lilting melody, and she and Alar began a traditional Marav dance—one where the partners moved around each other in slow steps while holding eye contact. They danced to one song, and then another, finally returning to the high seat when the musicians struck up a livelier tune.
On the way back to her seat, Lara caught sight of Mirren and Torran again.
The enforcer appeared to be urging her to dance with him. Yet, the lass, her face flushed, shook her head. Torran stepped closer, murmuring something, and Mirren answered him sharply. She then spun on her heel and pushed through the crowd.
Lara watched the lass go, her chest constricting.
No, the threads of trust weren’t so easily spun. She knew that as well as her handmaid did.
Sitting down upon the high seat, she took the goblet of wine Alar passed her.
“Your eyes are shadowed,” he observed. “Am I such a bad dancer?”
His comment roused her, and she blinked. “No,” she murmured. “My mind is occupied by thoughts of our campaign,” she lied. “I find it difficult to focus on much else these days.”
“We’ll be marching north soon enough,” he replied with a half-smile. “You should enjoy the peace and comfort … while you can.”
Easy for him to say. Impossible for her though. An awkward pause followed before she cleared her throat. “You dance well … who taught you?”
His features tightened slightly. “My mother.”
“Struana?”
“Aye.”
“You took your mother’s name … rather than your father’s. That’s unusual.”
He gave a soft snort. “It was necessary … since my father was Shee.”
Of course. “Do you know his name?”
He shook his head, glancing away. He didn’t want to talk about his father; that much was clear—and understandable.
19: WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?
