If only she knew. He hadn’t seen half enough of his wrangler lately. Or at least, she hadn’t seen much of him. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was avoiding him, spending her mornings in the mews with that bloody falconer instead of meeting him at the edge of the forest with a smile and a muffin to share. She was locking up far later than usual, too. Not that that deterred Alarik. He still walked the forest most nights just to hear her sing, and lingered by Saga’s cage in the mornings, watching over Boo and Dash with a kind of parental pride that vaguely unnerved him.
‘It’s a shame we can’t wish for Lief to blow away.’ Elva’s groan jostled him from his thoughts. ‘Look over there. He’s coming right at us, like a busy little tornado.’
Alarik swore as he glanced over his shoulder. ‘If this fountain wasn’t frozen, I’d drown myself in it.’
‘Go on without me,’ said Elva, leaping to her feet. ‘There’s no need for both of us to suffer over napkin choices. I’ll distract him.’
Alarik tossed her a grateful smile as he darted around the fountain, making for the elderberry trees on the other side of the lake. He could hear Lief calling after him and knew how ridiculous he looked – the fearsome king of Gevra running away from his mother’s steward like a frightened rabbit. But it was either this or threatening Lief at sword-point, and he didn’t want to upset his mother on today of all days.
Safely hidden among the trees, Alarik slumped on to a stone bench to catch his breath and think a little of his father.King Soren was rarely far from his mind, but today, on the anniversary of his death, he was closer than ever.
Here, among his father’s beloved elderberries, Alarik looked towards the statue he had erected in his honour. It was a life-size rendering of King Soren, carved in pristine white stone and set on a base of driftwood – the last remnants of the royal warship that had gone down during a violent sea storm eight years ago, leaving no survivors. The plaque read:
In memory of King Soren,
Fierce as a wolf,
Strong as an ox,
Wise as an owl.
Alarik looked up at his father’s marbled likeness and felt the nearness of his loss like a punch in the gut. He wondered what Soren would make of him now; if he would be angry at Alarik for fighting in a foreign war that had decimated his troops. Would he blame him for Ansel’s death? And for Anika’s reluctance to return home? Would he look upon him with pride or shame? Alarik was so lost in his worries he didn’t hear the crunch of footsteps behind him or the quiet huff of laughter as a snowball came soaring through the trees.
When it whacked him in the side of the head, he jerked his chin, his eyes snapping open. His hand flew to his sword hilt as he leaped to his feet, but when he spotted his wrangler retreating through the trees, his anger turned to surprise.
She was laughing so hard she had to stop to catch her breath. She bent double, bracing her hand against a tree trunk. Big mistake. He grabbed a fistful of snow and bolted through the trees, coming down on her like a blizzard. When she looked over her shoulder, the snowball was already flying. It hit her in the face, and she staggered backwards, losing her balance.
She fell in a heap, releasing a strangled cry. ‘I surrender!’
‘Gevrans don’t surrender.’ He smirked as he stood over her, readying another fistful of snow. ‘I really should make you eat this one.’
She stared up at him with round, innocent eyes. ‘It wasn’t even me. It was Borvil!’
‘Iversen.’ He came to his knees, pinning her hips between his legs. ‘Do you think I fell down in the last snowstorm?’
She trapped her laughter on her hand, but it streamed from her eyes, and the sight was so lovely, Alarik had to chew the smile from his mouth.
She raised her hands. ‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘But blame Elva. I passed her by the fountain, and she said you needed cheering up.’
‘So, you decided to attack me?’
She wriggled underneath him, the heat of her body rolling against his hips. ‘Isn’t war your love language?’
War andthis.Her.
Shit.
He stifled a groan.
‘And anyway, that was a warm greeting by Gevran standards,’ she added.
‘What a good little Gevran you are, Iversen,’ he said, straining to keep his voice even. ‘Shouldn’t you be training my beasts?’
She hesitated,guilt flickering in her eyes. ‘I wanted to check on the one in the mountain …’
He frowned. ‘I don’t want you going into those mountains.’
‘But the beast—’
