Chapter 10

Chapter

Ten

Wolf’s Gate, Chester, Northwest England

F rom this heavily fortified tower within the City Walls constructed centuries prior by the Romans, the view was nothing short of spectacular. Yet rather than a queen, Evaine now felt like a prisoner. The royal progress to meet her new subjects had become the stuff of bad dreams.

Alaric had summoned another fifty warriors to accompany them around the remaining stops in Wales; in the past two weeks they had continued on from Carmarthen to Cardigan, then more inland to Machynlleth and up to Bangor. Yet even when they changed lodgings or route, notes continued to arrive wherever they were, bleak and threatening, like they were being stalked. Either that or they had a traitor within the ranks, but Alaric refused to believe a member of his household would do so. Right now, she fully trusted no one other than her mate, Blanche, and perhaps young Wesley.

Worse, when Evaine woke earlier, she’d felt wretched with a nagging headache, aching limbs, and a mild fever that flared uncomfortably if she was even in the vicinity of a fireplace. In early February, Chester was much colder than the Welsh coast, but even in chilling winds she yearned to stand outside half-naked. If anyone complained, she would snatch up their hand and bite off a finger. Perhaps the entire arm if they were particularly vexing—and that included her mate.

Then again, it was far more than minor illness or the temperature outside keeping her and Alaric awake each night. Since crossing back into England, they barely slept or ate. Several banquets and meetings had been canceled, and even more warriors summoned from the surrounding towns and villages. The dark clouds of impending battle were gathering, and every Western wolf knew it.

“My queen…”

Evaine turned to see Wesley standing in the tower room doorway, his usual high spirits and mischief severely dampened in recent times. Even Alaric had admitted to wanting a prank or jest from his squire, just for the reminder that amusement was still possible. They all desperately needed it. “Come in,” she said softly, gesturing to a wooden chair and pouring a goblet of mulled wine. “This will warm your innards.”

The squire downed her offering in one hefty swallow, coughed a few times, then made a face. “I don’t understand how people enjoy mulled wine. It tastes like someone mixed a few herbs with used bathwater.”

At the hint of the old Wesley, she grinned. “Perhaps that is the secret ingredient. Now, tell me how the others fare. Truthfully.”

“Hmmm,” said the squire, tapping his chin. “Willie has aged about a century in the past few weeks—Bardolf will be shocked when they reunite. Then again, perhaps he has a secret appreciation for newly silver fur and shadowed, bloodshot eyes.”

Evaine barely concealed a wince. The marshal had perhaps suffered worst of all as he continually amended travel plans and organized more fortified lodgings, not to mention food and supplies for a significantly larger group. “Poor Willie. He is working very hard.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but I know he and King Alaric have had words several times about ceasing the progress and returning to Blackstone Castle. My king says he cannot neglect a third of his realm for the sake of a few notes, and he’s right, but…”

Evaine nodded. They were in an exceedingly difficult position. After Chester, the planned route included Liverpool, Preston, Lancaster, a special banquet at the most northern town, Carlisle, before traveling back down to Kendal, Bradford, Manchester, Stoke-on-Trent, Birmingham, then home. Another ten days at least. And while she absolutely understood the need for the king to be seen, for her to be accepted as queen, for meetings to be held and issues resolved, living like this brought back harrowing memories of her earlier years.

Perhaps it was time to stand firm and fight. To gather as many warriors as possible, on ground they knew, and lure their enemies to them instead of always reacting.

“How is Blanche?” she said instead. “And Larkin?”

Wesley sighed rather theatrically. “Unlike everyone else, Mother is eager and ready to lead an army. Alongside her duties with you, she ensures everyone has food and blankets, mends clothing, darns hose, sharpens swords and daggers, and portions out the ale. She scolds and praises and stands no nonsense; I’m convinced at least half the warriors are in love with her, which quite roils my gut.”

Now Evaine did laugh. “That sounds like she has taken over Larkin’s travel responsibilities. What is our chamberlain doing, then? Shoeing horses? A little carpentry?”

The squire hesitated. “In truth, my queen, I don’t really know. We hardly see him. Larkin says he’s on the king’s business, and often rides out by himself. He’s done that throughout the progress. And he writes mountains of letters. Once I asked who he was writing to so often, and he said wolflings were too foolish to know. But I’m not just any wolfling. I am the king’s squire!”

Evaine’s neck prickled and she rubbed it absently. Now that Wesley mentioned it, their chamberlain was often absent. Even on the king’s business, it wasn’t fair that Blanche was doing so much. If more messengers were needed, that could certainly be arranged. There was no reason for a castle chamberlain to be doing such menial tasks personally. Unless…

She shook her head to clear the thought. No. Any evidence was coincidental or hearsay at best. No wolf could be convicted on that. “And you are an excellent squire, Wesley. A credit to your sire and mother. Tell me, where is the king? He did mention something about sword practice this morning.”

Wesley sprang to his feet. “Follow me, my queen! I’ll take you straight to him. There is a room with no furniture that he has been using. Warriors take turns being his opponent, but, oh, King Alaric bests them all. He moves as one with a sword. I mean, he was already good, but whenever he sees King Darius, he gets more lessons and now he is brilliant.”

Evaine suppressed a smile. The way Wesley worshiped Alaric was rather endearing, and she absolutely understood the sentiment. Except during her mate’s right royal arse moments, of course. “Let us go, then.”

While Wesley bounded down the tower’s spiral staircase, she was forced to move at an irritatingly sedate pace. Perhaps that should be a training method, warriors sword fighting while a gown train tangled about their legs, pointed shoes pinched their toes, and coiled braids slapped against their ears.

“It’s just down here, past the portrait gallery,” called the squire over his shoulder as he loped along a narrow hallway.

Hurrying after him as best she could, Evaine glanced up, her gaze settling on a portrait of Hugh d’Avranches, the first Norman Earl of Chester. Apparently, the humans called him Hugh the Wolf due to his ferocious fighting style, but wolves knew what he really was. If faced with their situation, Hugh would certainly charge on until the bitter end.

Ahead, Wesley abruptly halted beside a door, then bowed. “In here, my queen. Be careful, though, I can hear steel clashing.”

Not wanting to interrupt and cause an accidental injury, Evaine tentatively pushed open the door. There was only one window, but with several candelabra lit, the room was brighter than a summer’s day. The stench of tallow candles made her grimace but no one inside seemed to notice; two exhausted-looking warriors, one male and one female, sat slumped by the east wall, dripping with sweat and spotted with blood. In the center of the room, Alaric fought another male. Wesley spoke true: her mate was indeed brilliant.

It was astonishing how graceful such a large male could be. Every step Alaric took seemed purposeful, he neither stood still nor bounced on his feet. But most impressive was the way he made the sword move with such deadly force: cutting and slashing yet easily deflecting his opponent’s blade. Just when it appeared a blow might land, Alaric twisted away or sidestepped then immediately counter-attacked. When at last he dislodged the other male’s sword and it fell to the stone floor with a loud clatter, Evaine couldn’t help but applaud.

Alaric clapped the warrior on the shoulder. “Excellent work. You nearly had me there. But I must greet my queen. To the victor the spoils, madam?”

All the wolves grinned, clearly expecting a passionate kiss. Instead, Evaine scowled and wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps later, my king. After you’ve bathed.”

His brow furrowing, Alaric dismissed the warriors with a wave of his hand then closed the door, giving them privacy. “You’ve never been upset by a little sweat before. What troubles you?”

“The same that troubles you,” she grumbled. “An impending war. Deciding whether to continue the progress or return to Blackstone Castle.”

“I heartily recommend sword fighting as a brief respite from thinking about either,” he sighed, sheathing his longsword.

Evaine bit her lip as her temper flared again. No. Scolding him because she didn’t feel well was unfair. And she had information her mate needed to know. Information possibly new to him. “Wesley came to visit. I think Blanche is scraping his last nerve.”

Alaric chuckled. “I do feel for him. Adventures are not quite so amusing when your mother is there to clip your ear or cut your meat. Wolfling is such an awkward stage. They yearn for all the freedoms of full-grown wolves, yet still want to romp and provoke like cubs.”

“Wesley said mulled wine tasted like someone added herbs to used bathwater,” Evaine replied, smiling at the memory. Then she took a deep breath. “But he also said something else that gave me pause. About Larkin.”

Her mate went still. “Go on.”

“It started as Wesley muttering about his mother. But as he listed all the tasks she was doing, it sounded very much like those of a chamberlain. So I asked what Larkin was doing. And it seems he keeps going missing…on the king’s business. Writing lots of letters and delivering them. Of course, this could be completely right and proper, and we’re just seeing rats with any rustle.”

Alaric didn’t smile. “I haven’t instructed him to write anything, Peregrine, my scribe, does that. And I have sufficient messengers. Larkin certainly isn’t laboring on my behalf.”

Evaine exhaled slowly. “Then whose?”

Was Larkin a traitor?

The question pounded Alaric’s mind like a mallet. History bellowed no; Larkin had been born and cheerfully raised at Blackstone Castle. And apart from a few strange comments, such as placing flowers on Theda’s tomb in Gloucester, Alaric had no real reason to distrust the chamberlain. Yet his actions were suspicious. Evaine had been entirely correct to bring such concerns to him.

“Damn it,” he cursed. “I don’t want to think badly of anyone in my household. But the way those bloody notes kept finding us, no matter where we were…”

Evaine nodded. “It has to be someone close enough to us that they can come and go freely. Who reports only to you or me. No one would question a chamberlain, and we’ve both been far too busy to notice what one wolf does.”

“Then let him explain. Settle this once and for all,” Alaric growled as he opened the door and peered out into the hallway. “Wesley, would you fetch Larkin? Tell him I wish to discuss an important matter. Er…a possible return to Blackstone.”

Wesley bowed, his expression grave. “Yes, my king. At once.”

It seemed like they waited years for his squire’s return. Alaric’s gut churned at the implications of such betrayal; all he and Evaine could do was exchange increasingly impatient and troubled glances as time passed. Finally, Wesley came hurtling around the corner, his boots skidding and cheeks flushed pink. But one glance at his squire’s expression and Alaric’s heart sank. “What news?”

“Larkin has departed with a cart, my king,” said Wesley breathlessly. “About a half hour ago. He told a guard that you wished for fresh game, and he was going to collect it from Huntington .”

“Is that a market of some sort?” asked Evaine, her brow furrowing.

“No, it’s a small village about three miles from here, surrounded by woodland and meadows,” said Alaric, increasingly alarmed. Three miles! Who was Larkin meeting? Only a supremely confident enemy would dare to venture so close!

Evaine took his hand and squeezed it, her expression grim. “If there is to be a battle, I suppose it is a blessing that this place is fairly isolated and not overrun with humans. But if mercenaries have been creeping in…”

“Then I must cull the herd,” he replied harshly. “Wesley, come with me. Evie, I need you to command the tower. Inform Willie and Blanche and all the wolves here that if Larkin is found he must be immediately captured and imprisoned. If I gather further indisputable evidence, I shall amend the order to execute on sight.”

She glared at him. “I should accompany you. I can hunt.”

“I know. Bravely and fiercely,” Alaric replied, cupping her cheek. “Once we have information on the nature and number of the enemy, you may rip as many hearts out as you wish. But for now, I need a commander here I can trust absolutely.”

Evaine huffed out a sigh. “Very well. But do not tarry. And do not dare start a war without me.”

“I swear, my queen,” he promised, lifting her hand and kissing it. Then Alaric turned to Wesley. “Change into plain clothing and fetch your bow and arrow. We’re going hunting.”

After donning a warm cloak, Alaric marched to the rooms housing his guards. He selected four, ordering all to discard their black-and-gold livery and dress as peasants, and to pack a variety of weapons into saddlebags. At first glance, they should appear as nothing more than six friends or clerics out for a brisk ride, but they needed to be prepared for anything.

Soon, Alaric led a brisk canter to Huntington. Good fortune smiled upon them, for an hour later as they approached the woodland area, Wesley pointed out a cart traveling toward a simple stone cottage. Larkin! So bold and confident in his deceit, he’d not even bothered to cover his plaited red hair.

Concealing themselves in a thick clump of trees, the group watched Larkin’s cart pull up next to the cottage. He leaped down, then, after glancing left and right, sauntered toward the entrance. Two figures stepped out to greet him.

“Goddess,” whispered Wesley. “It’s Silas!”

Alaric cursed under his breath. Despite what he’d said to Evaine, even riding here, he’d hoped Larkin’s behavior was innocent; just unlucky coincidences and a chamberlain trying to purchase better-quality meat. Or at worst, a lust-addled bachelor foolishly abandoning his duties to rut with a pretty female. But no. Larkin was a bloody traitor. He was the reason that walking sack of shit Silas had been able to send a note, then approach and threaten, the Queen of the Western Lands. Larkin was the reason their enemy always knew where they were.

The two males were even exchanging notes right now!

“Aye, would you look at that,” said one of Alaric’s guards with a low whistle. “So brazen.”

“What orders, my king?” asked Wesley, moving restlessly in his saddle. “Attack and kill them all?”

“Not yet,” said Alaric. “First, let’s send them a gift of flaming arrows. If the cart and cottage are ablaze, we’ll soon know how many there are. Wesley, I want you to shoot. You can crouch behind that small rise there.”

His squire appeared briefly startled, then a huge grin lit up his face. After sliding from his horse, Wesley pulled his bow from its narrow wooden tube. He flexed his fingers and tested the string several times before turning back to Alaric, a look of grave concentration on his youthful face. “I’m ready, my king.”

The second guard began preparing the arrows, first wrapping a short length of linen just beneath the head, then expertly dipping it in pitch. The third guard struck a flint against a rock until it created sparks, and once they had a flame, carefully lit an arrow before passing it to Wesley.

“Off you go, boyo,” said Alaric. “Show us your arm. I know you’ve been practicing.”

His squire’s first attempt was short, landing harmlessly in mud, and Wesley’s shoulders slumped. But he swiftly tried again, the second arrow flying straight into the cart and setting a pile of straw alight. The third scorched across the cottage roof, and the fourth, a truly admirable shot, sailed directly in the large open window. There was a yelp from inside the cottage, and two more males dashed out. Ah. Five in total.

“Wesley, fire at will,” growled Alaric as he unsheathed his sword. “We’ll ride around and meet those who flee with blades. Take Silas and Larkin alive, if possible—the rest are worthless. For the West!”

“For the West!” the guards and Wesley cheered.

Anticipation coursing through his veins, Alaric urged his horse forward. He crouched low as he kicked hard, the mighty steed galloping through the trees as though equally eager to spill blood. Already three of the enemy were attempting to escape on foot, while Larkin and Silas both had horses.

“You take the runners,” called Alaric. “I’ll go after Larkin and Silas.”

Two guards nodded and expertly veered right to follow the three on foot. Alaric galloped on, and was soon nearly side by side with Larkin. The chamberlain might be competent inside a castle, but had never enjoyed riding. “Halt!”

Larkin turned his head and went ashen. “My king…”

“Traitor,” Alaric snarled, leaning left to slash at the other wolf with his sword.

The chamberlain screeched in pain as blood oozed from his side, but somehow managed to keep his seat. Then he reached down and pulled a length of heavy fabric from his saddlebag, before tossing it not at Alaric…but over the head of Alaric’s mount. Immediately blinded, the horse reared in panic, and it took every bit of Alaric’s strength and skill to hang on as his mount bucked and tossed its head. Eventually he was able to dislodge the fabric—to add insult to injury, a Beaumont flag—and calm his horse, but when he looked around, the two males he’d been pursuing were gone.

Alaric roared in frustration. So damned close but they’d slipped through his fingers. The one thought that cheered him: perhaps Larkin would succumb to his wound. Without the Book of Lore’s protection, only wolves with royal blood had immunity to everything except beheading with a blade of pure silver.

But in truth, he’d failed. Two traitors might well return to sanctuary in the Eastern Lands, or rejoin their pack of mercenaries, wherever they were. Damn them both.

Very reluctantly, Alaric turned his horse and galloped back to the burning cottage.

Wesley rode up to meet him. “My king, are you well? I thought for certain you would be thrown!”

“I’m quite well,” he replied, thoroughly irritated. “I just pray to Leto that Larkin’s side wound grows putrid. How did the others fare?”

“Three enemy hearts to burn,” said his squire. “We’ll get Larkin and Silas next time, I swear it. I should have accompanied you and fired arrows directly into their arses.”

“You’ve a great talent with the bow,” said Alaric gruffly. “That arrow in the window…I could not have done better.”

Wesley flushed bright red. “I much prefer bow to sword. I would piss my hose if I faced you in battle.”

“Fortunately we’re on the same side,” he replied, cuffing his squire on the shoulder. “Now, that weak sun is not yet high in the sky, so let’s return to the tower and I’ll dispatch new orders.”

Soon they were six again, riding in tight formation. No one had charged to assist their enemy, but any manner of creature could be lurking, just waiting for a chance to ambush them.

“Will you tell Mother?” asked Wesley unexpectedly.

Alaric raised a brow. “Do you want me to?” he countered.

“I think if there was a way you could make it clear I was far, far away from danger yet very, very brave and skilled?” asked the squire hopefully.

He laughed. “I’ll think of something. As long as you never tell the queen I was defeated by a flag . She is already vexed with me today.”

“All I remember is your excellent riding, my king. At least Queen Evaine is safe.”

“Yes,” said Alaric. “And no doubt eager to hear all the details. I’ll regale her as soon as we return.”

In the past few hours, Evaine and Blanche had nearly worn a path in the tower floor with their incessant pacing.

Evaine stared out the window overlooking the courtyard, her arms folded lest she hurl something breakable. “They should be back by now.”

Pausing in her scrubbing of the table—probably the cleanest it had been in several centuries—Blanche attempted a smile. “At least an hour there and an hour back, my queen. Slower if the guards grew weary of my Wesley’s chatter and tied him to a tree.”

“Do you think they found Larkin? Would they fight him?” The questions burst from Evaine like a flurry of Wesley’s arrows.

“Perhaps, if Larkin did go to Huntington. It’s barely a village, more a scattering of cottages, and apart from the woodlands, there is nowhere else to hide. But the king would easily defeat him; Larkin is an indoor wolf, enamored of creature comforts. He won’t even lift a paw to find his fated mate, says she is dead.”

Evaine frowned. “Dead? But that is terrible!”

“Oh no, my queen, do not pity him. Larkin’s great love story was entirely in his head. Lady Theda used him to get close to King Alaric, then afterward to serve her interests.”

“Wait,” said Evaine, her gaze narrowing. “ The Theda?”

Blanche sighed. “To hear Larkin tell the tale, he was a chivalrous knight defeated by a taller, richer dragon at Gloucester. He won’t hear a word against Lady Theda, especially not the truth: she was a scheming viper wanting only a queen’s crown. Her death is all he speaks of, and despite his lofty position as king’s chamberlain, no female will entertain his nonsense now. Well, that, and…er…”

“And what?”

The elder wolf flushed. “Beg pardon, but how poor a lover he is, my queen. Females call him Larkin Cwningen—that’s ‘rabbit’ in Welsh—because he humps away and finishes in two tail twitches.”

Evaine bit her lip, but a giggle burst forth, and soon both of them near-cried with uncontrollable laughter. “Oh my,” she wheezed, trying to regain composure. “How unfortunate.”

“It is,” said Blanche, dabbing her eyes. “Both for those robbed of pleasure and everyone else in the castle, for Larkin mopes about like a lovelorn swain. But he knows nothing of real love. It’s not worshiping from afar, but standing together and accepting all the sunshine and storms that are sent. Seeing the beauty in moments: in a smile, in a service, in being truly seen and heard. Oliver makes me howl in bed. But best of all, he tolerates my foibles just as I tolerate his. We’ve navigated this journey together, indeed, for forty years I’ve been loved as a she-wolf should be. Fiercely. Passionately. Loyally. And alongside our cubs, that is the greatest blessing.”

Evaine smiled wistfully. Alaric certainly ensured indescribable pleasure. He treated her as his equal, wasn’t threatened by her talents, and called her precious. But did he love her? With fated mates, the knowledge that you were supposed to be joined was enough for many wolves. However, Mother and Father had told each other ‘I love you’ every day, and she’d always wanted the same. Bah. Perhaps she was just being ungrateful. The Western Lands needed a strong, sure queen, not a delicate daisy. “Oliver is fortunate, having such a wise and capable mate. Speaking of mates, should we send out a search party for the king? Ride out ourselves?”

Just as Blanche was about to reply, a male guard rapped on the door. “My queen—”

“King Alaric and Wesley are back? Oh, thank Leto for that. What news? Did they capture Larkin? Is he dead? What happened?”

The guard grimaced. “They’ve not yet returned, my queen. But a sealed note arrived. The messenger said it must be placed directly into your hand, no other.”

Her heart pounding, Evaine reached for the neatly folded square of parchment that was secured with red wax. Unlike most important missives, there was no crested ring or stamp in the wax to identify the sender.

She swallowed hard. “Is the messenger waiting for a reply?”

“Yes, my queen,” said the guard.

Blanche crossed the room to stand supportively beside Evaine as she dislodged the wax with her fingernail and carefully unfolded the parchment. The note was unsigned.

Queen Evaine

The king, Wesley, and the guards found Larkin and Silas the soothsayer at a cottage in Huntington. Larkin and several mercenaries are thankfully dead, but Silas cast a spell over the king, rendering him unconscious. Wesley tried to help but was injured. The guards managed to carry them both to the safety of a stable, but mercenaries are closing in. Please come. Your touch is the only cure for our king. Wear a disguise and travel by cart, but no warriors or guards. They are watching and will know.

For the West!

Horror clawed her heart, and Evaine gasped. Was this real? A trick? Her mate had said to stay here, but the note contained so much detail. What was she to do?

“My queen?” said Blanche, taking her arm.

Evaine closed her eyes briefly, praying this would be the correct decision. “Alaric and Wesley need our help. We must wear hooded cloaks and leave now. No guards or warriors. Just us.”

The elder wolf’s eyes flared; for the first time, there was true panic there. Then Blanche seemed to collect herself and nodded briskly. “Of course. I’ll fetch cloaks. Guard, arrange a cart at once. And several blades.”

The male nodded. “Aye, mistress.”

After tearing the train from her gown and changing her shoes to sturdier leather, Evaine donned the warm cloak. Then she and Blanche hurried downstairs to the courtyard, where several grim-faced guards had a cart waiting. One pointed out the swords and daggers under the bench seat.

Another stepped forward. “My queen, are you sure about this? The note could be a trick.”

“Or true,” she replied sharply. “There is enough detail to investigate. I’ll certainly not sit idly by while my king and his squire suffer. Where is the messenger?”

“Here, madam,” said a hard-eyed wolfling as he bowed awkwardly. “I’m a stablehand. The guards paid me to take you there. I know a hidden way under the city walls—the lads and I use it all the time. You’ll be safe, I swear. But King Alaric needs you, he was going gray . And his squire has an ugly side wound.”

“Leto have mercy,” whispered Blanche, pulling up her cloak hood before grasping the reins of the cart horse. “My Wesley. I’ll sup on their hearts.”

“Willie has command of the tower,” snarled Evaine, pulling up her own hood. “Now go. Take me to the king.”

Despite the faint afternoon sunshine, the cold air soon burned her cheeks as the messenger led them down various alleyways and lanes and along sections of city wall. They weren’t ambling, but she resisted the urge to change into wolf form and charge ahead, a truly useless endeavor when she didn’t know the area. Thankfully, they soon came upon a damaged section of wall covered in canvas. The stablehand lifted it, then guided them carefully through the rubble and stone. Ahead stretched a long, unkempt-looking road seemingly following the River Dee.

“This way, madam,” called the wolfling. “It’s much faster to Huntington. Much less riders and carts to block us.”

“Stay alert, my queen,” muttered Blanche. “I’d tuck a dagger in your cloak as well.”

Evaine nodded, discreetly collecting some sheathed daggers from under the seat. After handing two to Blanche, she slipped one into her bodice and attached the second to her girdle.

Gah. In her worry, had she been a bone-headed fool and leaped straight into danger?

After what seemed like a hundred miles of travel, the stablehand at last turned down a short lane. In the distance, there were several whitewashed stone buildings guarded by a wolf in Beaumont livery, who beckoned them forward.

Evaine sat up straighter, needing to see Alaric, for only holding her mate would soothe her soul. Another liveried guard took the carthorse’s bridle, coaxing him to enter the stable. Unable to wait, Evaine jumped down from the cart, her gaze darting in all directions. “Where is the king?”

Blanche also dismounted. “And my young. Where is Wesley?”

“Did you really think they’d be here? Oh dear. Addled minds and soft hearts are the reason you’ll both die.”

Blanche gasped and Evaine spun on her heel. “ Silas ?”

The soothsayer emerged from a shadowed corner of the dusty stable holding a crossbow. “I gave you the chance to be free at Carmarthen, duchess . You were shrewish and threatening.”

“Blanche is worse. I cannot bear the sight of either,” added a peevish, petulant voice. Larkin!

Blanche laughed at the chamberlain. “Cwningen speaks!”

The chamberlain hissed and limped forward, clutching his blood-soaked side. “Silence, she-wolf! You always put yourself above me and Queen Theda, when you are common filth. I’ll enjoy watching you and the Eastern bitch burn. Give me your hands.”

“No,” snapped Evaine.

There was a faint click, then Silas pointed the crossbow directly at her. “Your hands, duchess, or I will put a bolt in your belly. A pure silver bolt.”

Goddess. Fire could kill Blanche. A silver bolt would wound Evaine, perhaps irreversibly. She would then be entirely vulnerable to beheading.

Was this how Guy Saville murdered Mother and Father? Or had he relied entirely on the Book of Lore?

Exchanging a glance with Blanche, one that warned of silence for now, Evaine held out her hands. “As you wish.”

Larkin smiled, but sweat trickled from his forehead and temples as he shackled them in chains. “At last, proper obedience. The mercenaries are coming, duchess . Your mate will be broken with your death, just as Oliver will be broken by Blanche’s, and my vengeance will be complete. Then King Guy will rule East and West, and I’ll have Blackstone Castle and all the goldmines for solace. Now, both of you, sit on that hay bale.”

Fury burned through Evaine, but she would kill this fool soon enough. It was the rest that terrified her. Where was Alaric? If she reached out through their fledgling bonded link, would he hear her? Would he find her in time?

Alaric. Help me.

Alaric!