“Only if they know you’re going.”
Both lasses slowed their pace, and when Alar looked back, he saw them exchanging worried looks.
Halting, Alar turned to them. “I’ve given you little reason to trust me,” he said, keeping his voice low. “But you must now.” He paused then. “Ask yourselves. Whom do you fear more … me or Beathan?”
That decided it. Duana’s lips pursed, while Eithne swallowed audibly. Without another word, they followed him down to the entrance hall.
The hearths burning on the other side glowed through the thick curtain that shielded this narrow area from the main hall. The rough voices of men and higher-pitched responses of women, accompanied by the lower, growling tones of wulvers, drifted out.
Alar stilled a moment. They were arguing.
He tensed, wondering if he should move closer and discover what the problem was. He stopped himself though. There was no time to linger. The affairs of Dulross were no longer his concern. He’d given his brothers and sisters their freedom, but they had to find their own way now, without him.
His gaze swept the shadowy entrance hall.
Fortunately, there were no guards in here, although there would be a couple just outside these thick oak and iron doors. Duana and Eithne needed disguises.
Plucking two cloaks down from pegs on the wall—mantles that belonged to warriors arguing just a few yards away—Alar handed them to the sisters. He then took one for himself.
Their blue eyes were huge on pale faces. They were both looking at him as if he were mad.
It probably seemed that way.
“Pull your hoods up over your faces,” he ordered, keeping his voice low. “Don’t talk to anyone. And if I say ‘run’ … do it.”
“Where are we going?” Duana asked.
“I’m taking you to the High Queen.” He paused then, urgency tightening his gut. They had to move. “Come on, it’s time.”
He waited until both women had donned the voluminous cloaks and yanked the cowls up to hide their faces.
Only then did he pull open the doors.
Outside, two hulking Circines warriors flanked the entrance. Torchlight played across the woad tattoos that curled down their bare arms.
“Alar,” one greeted him gruffly.
“Evening,” he replied.
“Off somewhere?”
“I have a meeting in the lower town.”
“And these two?”
“My slaves.”
The big man’s heavy brow furrowed. As far as any of them knew, the Half-blood didn’t keep any slaves. However, things could have changed.
“It’s after curfew,” the other warrior said then.
“Aye … we’ll be careful.”
Neither of the men answered, and Alar walked on. He made his way across the dirt-packed yard in front of the broch toward the closed gates. The scuff of the women’s soft-soled boots behind him reassured him that Duana and Eithne were following. He deliberately didn’t hurry his pace; if anything, he walked a little slower than usual.
The guards behind him were watching.
Fortunately, he found four of his wulver brothers guarding the gates.
