Page 74 of The Queen and the Half-blood
“Maybe … once,” Cailean replied tersely. “But things have clearly changed.”
Alar’s lips thinned. They had. That massive Slew that had lunged at Lara hadn’t been like any he’d ever seen. And it wasn’t entirely wraithlike either. There had been solidity to its form. His blades had collided with flesh, and the claws and teeth that had raked at him were Clag-doo-sharp.
Meanwhile, Lara unstoppered a bottle of what smelled like vinegar and herbs and poured a little onto a cloth. Her hands trembled slightly. “The Warrior’s balls,” she muttered. “When everyone finds out I wield fire, I’m done for.”
Without thinking, Alar reached out, his fingers closing around her wrist. Her pulse fluttered against his skin. “Then, theywon’tfind out.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t see how—”
“No one in here will say a word.” He raised his voice then, ensuring everyone inside the hall heard him. “None ofuswill betray you.”
The faces of those around them were strained, their gazes shadowed, yet nods followed.
Warmth kindled in Alar’s gut. Aye, they’d all stay silent about what Lara had done.
Cailean heaved himself to his feet then. “I’ll make sure Ren, Roth, and the others at the doors keep their mouths shut,” he said gruffly.
His gaze met Alar’s, and for the first time, there wasn’t any animosity in the chief-enforcer’s dark-blue eyes. A glimmer of respect replaced it.
“Thank you, Alar.” Lara’s husky voice drew his attention once more. “Although I’m not sure how long we can keep this secret.”
“Long enough for you to learn more about your gift.” He released her wrist, sitting back to give her access to his wounds.
She pulled a face. “Gift? It feels more like a curse.”
“One that saved our hides,” Bree spoke up then, her voice rough with pain. “I don’t have a problem with it.”
An uncomfortable pause followed these words. Tellingly, no one else around them chimed in. Alar’s gaze swept over their faces, marking their tensed jaws and veiled gazes. Ruari, Gregor, and Annis, especially, stared at their High Queen, as if the Ben Neeya sat amongst them and was about to reveal whose clothes she was washing—a portent of which of them was to die.
But Lara wasn’t The Washerwoman.
She was a fire-wielder. Of course, there was a reason she’d kept her ability hidden. She feared persecution. Tales of power-hungry fire-wielders, who’d incinerated whole villages when angered, had been passed down through the generations. Alar’s own mother had told him such tales before reassuring her young son that such terrifying individuals no longer existed.
But they did, and he was bound to a woman who’d just revealed a weapon that could be powerful in the right hands, and devastating in the wrong ones.
Lara leaned forward and started gently cleaning the cut on his arm. Hot, stinging pain followed, and Alar clenched his jaw tight to stop a hiss from escaping.
However, he’d been lucky not to have fared worse.
“It’s not too deep.” Lara bent close to inspect the wound on his upper arm. “You won’t need stitches. Nonetheless, we need to make sure it doesn’t fester.”
Alar grunted, setting his teeth once more as she poured her vinegar and herb tincture directly on the wound. She then did the same with the one to his thigh—the Slew’s claws had ripped straight through the leather of his breeches and raked across the flesh.
“This needs woundwort,” Lara announced then, her brow furrowing as she knelt next to him. “You have to be careful with puncture wounds.”
“Let’s hope its claws weren’t poisoned,” Alar replied.
Her frown deepened at this, and his breathing grew shallow.
He wasn’t worried for himself. He’d long ago stopped worrying about his own mortality. Pain and death weren’t things that scared him. However, he wasn’t used to anyone showing such concern over his welfare. It was touching—and unsettling.
“I’ve got some freshly made-up woundwort here,” Eldra called over, catching their conversation.
Lara nodded to the healer and moved away to retrieve some of the paste. She then spread it over the wound to his thigh, using the knife at her side to cut away the leather of his breeches surrounding it. Then, brow still furrowed, she carefully bound each wound with strips of linen.
Alar watched her work. “You have a healer’s hands,” he admitted finally.
Her chin kicked up, and the tension on her pale face eased just a little. Her eyes took on a wistful look then. “It would havebeen my choice … to become a healer,” she admitted with a rueful half-smile. “If I hadn’t been the High King’s daughter.”
