“Speaking of which.” The archivist gestured then to a leather-bound volume that sat at his worktable a few yards away. “I’m writing about The Brooch of Albia at the moment.”
Alar nodded. “How is your transcribing going?”
Gil pulled a face. “Slowly … there are a lot of blank pages to fill.”
Alar’s gaze lingered on the book. It would be the first to ever grace the archives of Duncrag. Gil had told him that such objects existed in Sheehallion, where they’d bind stacks of written parchment with glue and then make a cover out of leather. “You’re writing everything we’ve told you down?”
Gil nodded. Of late, his role had widened to scribe as well as archivist. He’d spent much time with both Lara and Alar over the winter, taking notes as they recounted the events of the past years. Recording it all would take him a long while. Fortunately, Gil had the patience for such tasks.
“I’m up to the Circines and wulver clash,” Gil admitted then. “But I need to check I’ve got things right.” He paused, a groove appearing between tawny eyebrows. “Can I read it to you?”
Alar stiffened. He didn’t want to relive it all, to be reminded of his mistakes. But Gil was only doing his job. After a moment, he gave a stiff nod.
“Iron, stop flagellating yourself over it,” Gil muttered. “You aren’t responsible.”
“What if I am?” Alar snapped, pushing himself up from the table.
Few people knew how to get under his skin, but Gil did. Bree’s brother was too sharp for his liking. He noticed things others missed. In truth, they were alike in many ways, and that galled Alar even more.
“Maybe you should pay greater attention to the poem you just read to me,” Gil replied, his gaze steady. “You are more than the sum of your mistakes … we all are.”
Alar’s pulse thumped in his ears as he stared down at him.
Gil stood up too then. The two men were of a similar height, and their gazes locked in silent combat for a few moments before the archivist shrugged. “Aye, you encouraged the wulvers to want more for themselves … but you didn’t put daggers in their hands. Nor did you put them at odds with the Circines.” He paused then, his hazel eyes shadowing. “Your brother Dolph was grieving, and he lashed out. He didn’t want to take responsibility for the part he played in things … but he wasn’t blameless. Your shadows don’t own you … but neither do his. Remember that.”
Alar stared back at him. Anger still burned under his ribs, yet Gil’s words calmed his pounding heart. Lara had told him similar things, yet in truth, he’d humored her.He’d wrapped self-recrimination around himself in a tight cocoon.
But Gil had just pierced it.
Huffing out a sigh, he raked a hand through his hair. “Smug bastard. I hate that you’re always right.”
Alar emerged into bright sunlight, blinking.
Even with cressets, torches, braziers, and hearths blazing, the windowless interior of the broch was dark. But today, the contrast made his eyes water. It was a sparkling spring day. The sun was high in a deep blue sky. After another long and bitter winter, he welcomed the warmth upon his face. Noon drew near, and the aroma of baking bread drifted out from the nearby bakehouse.
Walking across the wide yard before the broch, Alar spied Cailean and Torran standing together near the gates. Skaal sat behind the chief-enforcer, scratching behind her ear.
He lifted a hand to acknowledge the enforcers, and they nodded back.
Both men smiled.
Seeing him, Skaal smoothly rose to her feet and padded over, pushing her nose into Alar’s chest. He stroked her massive head before glancing back at Cailean and Torran. “Have you seen Lara?”
“The High Queen is out at the market,” the chief-enforcer replied, gesturing to the open gates behind him. “Bree’s with her.”
“As is Mirren,” Torran added, grimacing. “Which means they’ll be a while.”
Alar huffed a laugh. Of course. Duncrag held a weekly market, but the first of the new moon was the biggest.Merchants came from all over The Wolds, although ever since Braewall and Baldeen claimed independence, the market hadn’t been quite as busy. Nonetheless, Lara rarely missed it.
“The noon meal isn’t far off … I’ll see if they’ll be joining us,” Alar replied.
“Good luck,” Torran quipped, “But if they’ve found a cloth merchant, you won’t drag them back into the broch for a while.”
Alar moved on. “We’ll see.”
Passing through the great stone arch, he walked out onto The Thoroughfare. As expected, a heaving crowd—mostly women with shopping baskets slung over their arms—greeted him. This high in the fort, the air wasn’t too bad, and this morning, the aroma of freshly-baked mutton pies and grilled garlic sausages made his belly rumble.
He wove his way through the press, noting that the crowd parted easily for him. Of course, he was a distinctive sight: clad in black with his long dark hair, scars, and the grips of his fighting daggers protruding above his shoulders. A cloak rippled out behind him as he walked.
