Many of the gazes were veiled, others curious.
Their return to Duncrag had brought an uproar, but these days, tempers were cooling.
Tales were still being told in ale-halls nightly about their ‘adventures’ in the North. About what the High Queen and the Half-blood had done. Even before their return to Duncrag, the people here had known something had changed. The Slew stopped hunting at night, and the host of malicious spirits that made them dread each dusk had disappeared.
One of the men nodded as he walked by. A lass then blushed and curtseyed.
Alar acknowledged them both, and as he did so, the lingering tension from his exchange with Gil unraveled.
He’d remained for a short while in the archive, listening as Gil read out his notes about the events that had unfolded at Dulross in early winter. He’d corrected a few things, and although his mood had improved by this time, he’d been relieved to take his leave. Gil was right. His shadows didn’t own him. But that didn’t mean he wanted to relive his mistakes either.
Weaving his way through the crowd, he scanned the sea of bobbing heads for a mane of auburn hair. Eventually, he spied his wife.
And as Torran had suggested, Lara, Bree, and Mirren were standing in a huddle at a fabric stall. A knot of the Fort Guard—leather-clad warriors wearing iron helms—waited a few feet back, hands on the pommels of their swords. Alar was pleased to note their vigilance. They could take nothing for granted these days, especially peace. Lara’s overkings still had to be dealt with, and he wouldn’t put it past either of the shitweasels to attempt an assassination. The guards at the gates into the fort questioned everyone coming and going now.
For the first time this year, Lara wore a light woolen cloak rather than her heavy fur-lined one. Dark-green like her eyes. Her hair, unbound but pulled back at the side with amber clips, tumbled down her back. However, she still carried a sheathed dagger at her hip, an incongruous sight against her fine tunic. His wife never went anywhere without it.
She laughed then at something Mirren had just said, the musical sound rising above the chatter of the surrounding crowd.
Alar’s breathing quickened.
There were few sounds as lovely as Lara’s laughter.
When they’d first met, he hadn’t heard it often. But over the past moons, it had become increasingly more common. He welcomed it. His wife was sunlight, warming him on days when his mood grew bleak or regret twisted like a blade.
And after his session with Gil, he needed her.
“A productive morning?” he greeted the women, slipping in between Lara and Mirren.
“Aye … very,” Lara replied with a smile. “Although there are always difficult choices to be made.”
Bree rolled her eyes at this, flashing Alar a pained look. He swallowed a grin in response, remembering that shehatedshopping.
“We can’t decide whether we like the plum or teal fabric,” Mirren added. “What do you think?” The Steward of Duncrag rested a hand upon the swell of her belly. Torran’s wife was a few moons along in her pregnancy now.
Alar’s gaze traveled over the two bolts of cloth the merchant had laid out. “Why not get both?”
Lara huffed before digging him playfully in the ribs with her elbow. “That’s not helpful.”
“The plum is nice.”
“Nice?”The merchant flashed him an affronted look. “It is the finest weave you’ll find anywhere in Albia.”
“We’ll get that one then,” Lara replied, digging into her purse. “Package up ten yards, please.”
The merchant nodded before deftly scooping up the bolt of cloth. “Right away, My Queen.”
Alar turned to the waiting guards. “Bring the High Queen’s purchase back to the broch.”
The warriors nodded, allowing Lara and Alar to move off, with Bree and Mirren bringing up the rear. As he walked, Alar kept a protective arm around her waist.
“Missed me, husband?” she teased, glancing up at him.
“Aye,” he replied honestly.
“How did your lesson with Gil go?”
“Well, enough.” He paused then before admitting. “I read one of your great-great-grandfather’s poems aloud.”
