The king was so still, he looked like a statue. She held his gaze, watching the truth settle like a shadow behind it.
‘So, that’s why you came here,’ he said, quietly. ‘My wrangler who does not care for war.’
‘I’m grateful for the opportunity, Your Majesty,’ she said, quickly.
‘Call me Alarik,’ he said, with a bristle of irritation. ‘At least when we’re alone.’
Greta’s heart hitched, but he seemed not to notice the weight of his words – that he was affording her a level of intimacy he shared with only a handful of others.
He was agitated now, distracted and restless. He set Dash back in her lap, his hands brushing against her bodice as he drew back. Her breath caught as he rolled to his feet, adjusting the collar of his ruined frock coat.
‘Thank you for your bravery tonight, Iversen,’ he said, still nursing a frown as he peered down at her. ‘And your words. All of them.’
‘You can call me Greta,’ she said, suddenly burning to hear him say her given name just once, even if it was in frustration.
But he shook his head.‘Then I might forget you’re Tor’s sister.’
Now it was Greta’s turn to frown. ‘Why do you need to remember that?’
He stared at her for a long moment, the ice in his eyes melting. ‘I just do.’
Then he left, and she felt the loss of him like a cold, sweeping wind.
CHAPTER 23
Alarik
Alarik walked six paces, then stopped. What was he doing, leaving her half frozen in that pen with one shoe and a ruined dress? It was freezing out, though he hadn’t noticed the chill himself until he’d rolled to his feet and left the warmth of their little bubble. He had stayed far longer than he’d intended to, and it still didn’t feel like long enough. He could have sat in that mucky pen all night, trading his candour for her own, listening to tales of her childhood on Carrig, and the fierceness with which she loved her little island.
His wrangler loved her home the same way he loved his – with uncompromising devotion. She lived for snowfall and cedar trees, for craggy hills and keening winds, for dark mornings and crackling fires, for beasts in all their forms, and in all people. Every morning, she rose to the challenge of this unforgiving land and embraced it with open arms. She was everything that was beautiful about Gevra. Her song gave voice to the ancient soul of this kingdom, and if fate was fair, it would have ripped the crown from Alarik’s head and placed it on hers the moment she was born.
Greta Iversen was perfect.
No wonder his beasts were so taken with her. She had a way of speaking to the heart of him, of peering right through his careful veneer and seeing the man, not the king. Not the reputation. And yet she didn’t go easy on him either. Some of the things she had told him tonight had made him uncomfortable. His insides had twisted with guilt when she spoke of her family’s hunger, of the starvation that plagued his towns and villages. His people were suffering, and he had been so focused on Vask he hadn’t even noticed.
Had his father been careless, too? For all the time he shadowed him as a boy, Alarik couldn’t recall ever hearing the great King Soren enquiring about grain stores across the country, about fishing hauls and calving seasons. Was war the only thing his father ever thought about?
Was war the only thing the Felsings were good for?
Alarik closed his eyes, losing himself in memories of beasts and bloodshed, of dead soldiers and burning pyres, of breakfasts scarfed over sprawling maps and heated strategy meetings that ran so late he often fell asleep in his father’s chair. Even during times of peace, war was never far from Soren’s mind. Sometimes it felt like it occupied a place at the dinner table, stalked the hallways at night and crawled into bed beside the king.
But there was more to Gevra than war. In the space of one conversation, Alarik felt like the blinkers had been ripped from his eyes. If his people were suffering, then it was his duty to help them. Just as it was his duty to keep his wrangler warm.
He shook off his frock coat and turned back to the pen, only to still at the lilt of that lovely voice.
‘Deep in the trees, where the red berries grow,
Lives a leopard who prowls on a bed of fresh snow,
Restless, he waits for the cold winds of fate,
To show him a path that will lead to his mate.’
She was singing again. Not for him, no, she thought he was long gone. She was singing for his beasts, and the lullaby was so soft and stirring, he pressed his forehead against the slats and closed his eyes to listen.
‘High in the hills, where the black roses bloom,
Lies a leopard who nurses a heart full of gloom.
