Page 91 of The Queen and the Half-blood
Their gaze drew out before Lara raised her chin. It was a look he’d come to know well over the turns of the last few moons. His wife was digging her heels in. The tension under his ribs sharpened then. The Hearthkeeper smite him, he wished she weren’t so brave. So determined and defiant.
“You say there’s no going back to how things were … and maybe you’re right.” Her voice was low and steady. “But I will still fight to stop the Shee taking my homeland … or die trying.”
33: LIAR
A MURKY DUSK slid into a drizzly night. They waited, but the Slew didn’t appear.
Relief settled over the encampment, although it didn’t last long, for as corpse candles flickered amongst the trees, a grief-filled wail split the air.
The Weeper had returned.
The sound raked its claws through Alar, each scream winding him tighter.
Fuck it. He needed some time alone. Some time to breathe.
“I’ll let Bree accompany you back to the tent,” he said to Lara, as her warder approached them. “I’ll join you for supper later.”
Lara nodded, giving him a smile that made his insides knot. “I’ll see you later then.”
He watched her and Bree leave, heading toward the royal pavilion in the heart of the camp. And then, when the women had disappeared, he turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction.
The scent of burning pine from the numerous cookfires drifted through the damp air. Making his way through tightly-packed clusters of hide tents, Alar traveled toward the northern edge of the sprawling encampment, where his wulvers had pitched their tents.
And as he walked, he gave himself a talking to.
Idiot. Get a leash on yourself.
He’d told himself he’d keep Lara at a distance, but with every furlong north, he was weakening. The truth was, he liked her far too much.
Lengthening his stride, he headed to the largest of the wulver pavilions, where his captains resided. He ducked through the tent flap to find Lyall and Dolph perched on stools, sharing cups of wine. A low brazier glowed between them, where trout fillets sizzled upon an iron plate. Usually, Alar liked the aroma of grilling fish, but this evening, it made him queasy.
“Nothing to report?” he greeted them, more brusquely than usual.
The wulvers’ gazes snapped his way.
“Not yet,” Lyall replied.
“You look like you could do with a drink?” Dolph gestured to the jug on a low table nearby. “Help yourself.”
Alar shook his head. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest.
“Ashes, you’ve got a face on you tonight.” Lyall stretched out his long, muscular legs, clad in leather trews, and crossed them at the ankle. “What’s wrong? Is your young wife harder to handle than you thought?”
Dolph snorted. “He’s already proven that. He started making concessions and promises to the woman before he even married her, remember?”
Alar stilled. His brother’s jibe cut a little too close to the bone.
Both wulvers observed him keenly, their golden eyes glinting in the light of the brazier.
“It’s good to be free of Duncrag,” Dolph admitted then, leaning forward and flipping the fish. “I’ve missed the wind and rain on my face … the freedom of wide skies and rolling hills.”
Uneasiness rippled through Alar at these words.
“You should be in a celebratory mood, brother.” Lyall raised his cup of wine to him. “Everything is going to plan, is it not?”
There was no mistaking the challenge in his voice.
“Aye,” Alar replied. “I’d tell you if there was anything to worry about.”
