Page 62 of The Queen and the Half-blood
The events of the past day had unsettled him. He had to find some detachment. Some distance.
He’d told himself he’d be careful with Lara, wary of what he told her, what he revealed about his past. But, already, he’d said too much. His lovely young wife had a way of prying things out of him. Before he knew it, he’d told her about how he’d gotten the scar on his face. He never toldanyonethat story.
Her vulnerability had done something to him. Her last husband had damaged her. And she tried to hide it, but she was lonely. She longed to let someone in—even the likes of him. Alar had been ready to do his duty and fuck her—and enjoy it too—but he hadn’t been prepared for how it had made him feel.
He’d lost control. That couldn’t happen again. Now that their union had been consummated, he wouldn’t touch her again for a while.
And there was that strange incident with the fire. When she’d climaxed the first time, he’d been sure the flames in the hearth and in the cressets burning on the walls had flared bright. It reminded him of the fire he’d seen spark in her ring.
Curious.
There was definitely more to Lara mac Talorc than met the eye.
Jaw set, Alar headed off down The Thoroughfare. Along the way, he passed local women, wearing simple sleeveless tunics with woolen shawls to ward off the chill, who carried wicker baskets under their arms as they shopped.
Heads turned as he walked by. He caught the blend of fascination and distrust in the women’s gazes—not that different from the way his wife looked at him.
After last night though, he’d sensed a change in Lara. There had been a camaraderie between them as they rode side by side through the fort that morning. She’d defended the wulvers’ presence here, and he’d stepped in when she needed support. She was still wary, but she was opening to him—like a timid flower opening to the early spring sun. She wanted to trust someone, even him.
She should be more careful … and so should I.
Alar continued walking, aware of the gazes that tracked him.
He’d given a few speeches during their walk through the fort that morning. The residents of Duncrag still didn’t know what to make of the Half-blood. Nonetheless, they hadn’t expected to see him out alone later in the day.
They all minded him though.
Deep in thought, Alar kept moving. He descended from the top level, through to where his brothers and sisters were housed. The aroma of smoking fish greeted him, a welcoming and familiar smell. Spying their leader, the wulvers called out to him. He waved back but didn’t slow his stride.
Restlessness churned through him, as did the urge to break into a run. He wanted to get out of this stinking fort, to race over the fresh green hills outside Duncrag—sprint until exhaustion beat him down. Until thoughts of Lara no longer unsettled him.
Instead, he kept walking. And before he knew it, his feet had carried him down to the middens. Halting on the edge of them, he screwed up his face at the foul smells drifting across from the pits.
The skin on his back started to prickle then. Glancing over his shoulder, he spied two black-clad enforcers following him at a discreet distance. He’d been so lost in his brooding that he hadn’t noticed them earlier. Cailean obviously thought he needed watching.
Irritated, Alar cut his gaze away, his attention traveling to where the Shee captives shoved piles of foul matter into barrows before wheeling them over to the pits.
And then, acting on instinct, he started walking toward them.
The stench grew eyewatering as he approached, and he took care to breathe through his mouth. His step slowed then. What was he doing?
A handful of enforcers oversaw the captives, their hands resting casually on the hilts of the swords at their hips. Blue-clad bards stood behind them, their voices merging into a low dirge that made the hair on the back of Alar’s arms tingle.
Unlike for the Shee—who worked with pinched faces, their shoulders rounded—the earth magic surrounding them didn’t press down on him like a smothering blanket. All the same, the odor of pine and ash that now blended with the reek of the cesspits put him on edge. He’d lived apart from the Marav and their druids for decades; it would take time to grow accustomed to their ways again.
Halting a few yards back, Alar did his best to ignore both the stench and the earth magic, his gaze traveling to where a Shee female with long braided black hair shoveled muck into a barrow.
Like the others, she wore a leather collar around her throat—rather than an iron one like slaves wore—with a rope attached.The ropes tied to each captive snaked along the ground and were secured to a heavy iron stake that had been driven into the ground.
The enforcers weren’t taking any chances with these prisoners.
Standing in the shadow of a large conical-roofed storehouse, he folded his arms across his chest, observing the female.
She was tall, as most Shee females were—nearly his height—and as slender as a blade, although having fought her, he knew she was much stronger than she looked. She’d moved with a fluidity the Marav lacked, her thin steel longsword a blur in the darkness.
As skilled as Alar was, it had been an effort to best her.
Feeling his gaze upon her, Fern Sablebane straightened up, her grey eyes, with their slitted pupils, narrowing when she saw him. Her proud features tightened, and her mouth puckered as if she’d just tasted something foul.
