It was a good day to die, the old warriors used to say before battle.
But for the first time in three years, Gareth found he wanted to live.
CHAPTER 14
Lord Alaric de Montrevain arrived precisely at midday, as if even his timing were calculated to demonstrate control.
Elodie watched from the solar window as the party rode through the gates—exactly five men, as stipulated, all mounted on horses dressed in their finest clothes. Alaric himself sat astride a magnificent black destrier, his silver-threaded hair catching the overcast summer day, his bearing that of a man who expected the world to arrange itself around his preferences.
He was handsome. That was the first thing she noticed, and she found it unsettling. In her mind, she’d built him into a monster—hunched, scarred, visibly cruel. Instead, he looked like someone’s distinguished uncle. Elegant. Cultured. The kind of man who’d order a second bottle of wine at dinner and tell charming stories about his travels. The kind of man who’d slit your throat and apologize for the mess.
She made her way down to the great hall, where the household had assembled to receive their guests. Gareth stood at the center of the dais, flanked by Sir Miles and Bertram, his face carved from the same grey stone as his castle. He’d dressed for the occasion—black wool over a dark grey tunic, his hair tied back, his boots polished to a shine.
He looked, Elodie realized, like a man preparing for battle.
The doors opened. Lord Alaric swept in with his men arrayed behind him, and the temperature in the hall seemed to drop several degrees.
“Gareth!” Alaric’s voice was warm, welcoming, utterly at odds with everything she knew about him. “How long has it been? Three years? Four? You look well. A bit thinner, perhaps, but the northern air agrees with you.”
Gareth didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge the greeting. Just watched with eyes cold as forge-quenched steel as Alaric approached the dais.
“Still not speaking, I see.” Alaric’s smile didn’t waver. “Such a shame. You always had such a way with words. Remember the campaigns in Scotland? You could rally the men with a single speech. Inspire them to charge against impossible odds.” His voice dropped, intimate, almost friendly. “Of course, you had a voice then. Before your... unfortunate accident.”
Elodie’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to step forward, to put herself between Gareth and the man who’d tried to murder him. But she remembered Gareth’s warning. Stay close. Do not be alone with him. If something happens, you run.
Gareth raised one hand in a single, deliberate gesture as Bertram translated. “Lord de Clare welcomes Lord Alaric to Greywatch. Refreshments will be served in the solar. The meeting may begin.”
“Ah.” Alaric’s gaze swept the hall, cataloguing exits and defenses with military precision. His eyes landed on Elodie and stayed there. “And what have we here? A new addition to your household?”
She felt the weight of his attention like a physical pressure. His eyes were blue—a clear, cold blue that reminded her of glacier ice.
“Lady Elodie,” Bertram said stiffly. “A guest of Lord de Clare.”
“A guest.” Alaric’s smile widened. “How intriguing. I’d heard rumors, of course. The whole countryside has been buzzing with tales. They say you appeared in a flash of lightning, a faerie queen. They say you’ve bewitched the Silent Reaper, taught him sorcery, made him speak through magic signs.” He stepped closer. “Tell me, my lady—are you truly one of the fair folk? Or merely a clever woman who knows an opportunity when she sees one?”
“I’m an archaeologist,” Elodie said before she could stop herself. “I study old things. Dead things. Things that should stay buried.”
The words hung in the air, their double meaning impossible to miss. Alaric’s smile flickered—just for an instant, just enough to show the predator beneath the charm.
“How fascinating. And what have you found at Greywatch worth studying?”
“Quite a lot, actually.” She held his gaze without flinching. “The foundations go back centuries. Layers upon layers of history. Remarkable what you can learn from the things people leave behind.”
Like evidence, she didn’t say. Witnesses, and like the bones of men you’ve murdered.
Gareth’s hand closed around her elbow—a warning. She stepped back, allowing Bertram to guide the visitors toward the solar.
But as Alaric passed, he leaned close enough that only she could hear. “Careful, little faerie. The clever ones always burn first.”
The meeting was a farce, and everyone knew it. Elodie stood against the wall of the solar, watching Alaric hold court from the chair that had been placed for him—watchinghim speak to Gareth with unfailing courtesy while saying nothing of substance. Border disputes were mentioned and dismissed. Old grievances were alluded to but never specified. The whole performance was designed to accomplish one thing. Demonstrating that Alaric could walk into Gareth’s home, sit in Gareth’s solar, and leave whenever he pleased.
“The situation along the northern marches grows more complicated by the day,” Alaric was saying, swirling wine in a goblet. “Brigands. Raiders. All manner of lawlessness. Perhaps we should coordinate our patrols? Pool our resources for the common defense?”
I do not trust coordinated defense,Gareth signed as Elodie translated. “Lord de Clare prefers to manage his own borders.”
“Does he.” Alaric’s tone was mild, but something calculating flickered behind his eyes. “How very... independent. Though I wonder—with your household so depleted, your resources so limited—whether you can truly afford such independence.” His gaze swept the modest furnishings, the small fire, the lack of tapestries or silver. “Greywatch seems a lonely posting for a man of your former stature.”
I prefer solitude,Gareth signed.I find company disappointing.
