“I wouldn’t rule such a strike out.” Alar raised his goblet to his lips and drained the rest of his wine. It burned a trail down his throat and warmed his belly. “But that doesn’t solve our problems with the spirits. And remember too that the Shee will be watching us.”
Beathan’s lip curled, while around him, some of his warriors snorted derisively. “Watchingis all those goat-eyed fuckers do,” he slurred, holding his cup up for a slave to refill. “The Raven Queen got what she wanted … Cannich and the far north … but she doesn’t have the guts to take anything else.” He paused then, his dark-blue eyes glassy with drink. “If we push hard enough, she’ll yield.”
Misty rain coated Alar’s face as he stepped outdoors. Summer lay behind them now, and the weather had turned cold and wet. Damp air caressed his bare arms as he walked across the yard, his boots squelching in the mud, nodding to thewulvers who stood guard at the gates. He then climbed the stone steps up to the walls.
None of the Four Winds were blowing tonight, which made a welcome change, and the braziers that burned up here lit up the darkness with their ruddy glow. The broch’s perimeter walls, high above the rest of the fort, were his favorite place to come when he needed to be alone. The broch was too noisy—and as airless as a barrow. Out here, he breathed easier.
Not many ventured out after dark these days—only those charged with protecting the fort. And when the Slew hunted, they too retreated to safety.
But although Alar was wary of the wraiths that stalked the darkness, he wasn’t afraid of them. The night had always been his time. His routine was different these days though, now he’d fallen into the Marav way of living.
Alar walked along the wall, moving past hill-tribe warriors. Like him, they wore sleeveless leather vests and fitted breeches, although woad tattoos covered their brawny arms. They nodded to him as he passed, and he responded in kind. However, he didn’t exchange words with any of them.
He’d come up here looking for solitude.
Finding a quiet spot on the eastern wall, far from others, he halted. He then looked down at where sod-roofed houses tumbled down the hillside. Fires burned on the walls at each of Dulross’s three levels, making the fort glow gently in the darkness.
Alar’s gaze slid over the rooftops and probed beyond. Longing rose within him then, for the dark forests that had been his home for so long. He had an untamed heart and was his happiest stalking through the pines and sleeping rough on the mossy banks of a burn.
A smile tugged at his lips as he remembered how simple life had once been. He’d chafed at it in the past, believing he and his brothers and sisters deserved better. But these days, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe when all this was done, when he tired of sitting on his carven chair next to the Circines chieftain, he’d disappear into the wilds again. He’d leave Beathan mac Glen, Lyall, and Dolph, and the chieftains of the other hill-tribes to rule.
Moving forward, he leaned against the stacked-stone wall that ran around the broch.
His wulvers would be disappointed if they knew he entertained such thoughts, but he did.
Taking Doure and Dulross had been all about justice for him. The wulvers had rescued him, had given him back his dignity and self-worth. He owed them everything, and so he’d dedicated his life to giving them freedom, to showing the other inhabitants of Albia that they underestimated them at their peril.
The Marav—Lowlanders and Uplanders alike—now minded them.
That satisfied Alar, for the Shee had never persecuted his brothers and sisters. However, Lyall and Dolph appeared to want more these days. Previously, they’d owned nothing, yet like Beathan, they were enjoying having their own territory. But were Dulross, Doure, and the borderlands enough?
Alar’s mood darkened again, his stomach tightening. Once, he and his brothers hungered for the same things. These days, there was a widening chasm between them.
But there was another reason—one they never spoke about. It was a subject he refused to discuss.
Lara.
Alar rationed thoughts of her, like a pauper doling out crumbs of bread to last the week. It wasn’t wise to let hisestranged wife intrude. Not after what he’d done to her. He’d told himself that as he’d walked away from Lara before the gates of Dulross nearly a year earlier.
He shouldn’t have gone down to speak to her, but he had.
He’d regretted doing so the moment they’d begun talking. She’d shown remarkable self-control, facing the man she’d given so much to before he betrayed her. Her dignity and strength made everything he’d worked for seem petty in comparison.
And that had angered him.
He’d clung to that anger, cloaked himself in it, as he’d returned to the fort.
But the woman was a splinter that had worked its way deep under his skin. No amount of probing or cutting could release him from her.
Reaching out, Alar placed his hands on the rough, wet surface of the ramparts, gripping tight.
A noise roused him then. Something scraping against stone.
Jerking from his thoughts, he turned, drawing his twin blades from where they were always sheathed on his back.
And in the flickering light of the nearby brazier, he saw it.
A hunched form crouched on the top of the encircling wall. Watching him.
