Page 43 of Wolf Duke

“Ah, I understand now,” said Silas softly. “You’re as mad as he is. I was wrong to appeal to a rational mind when you do not possess one. But it matters not. King Alaric…no, I’ll not call him king. The Duke of Blackstone is weak and will soon be removed from power. I see battle. I see death. I see your sister Isabel, on her knees sobbing—”

“Stop,” snarled Evaine, bracing her feet before twisting her wrist and tearing it from his grasp. “Leave these lands and never return. You are banished. If you are ever seen again, telling such evil lies, I will personally rip your heart out.”

“It is too late,” the soothsayer replied, bowing once more, his eyes aglow. “A mighty boulder is rolling down a hill and cannot be halted. Soon there will come a reckoning between yourself and King Guy.”

“The usurper? No. There is only one true King of the Eastern Lands,” said Evaine, her claws extending. “Lucan de Wynter. My brother will return.”

“Your brother is dead. King Guy has waited a long time to see you fall, and fall you shall. With the Book of Lore at his command, the throne of the Western Lands will be his as well. Enjoy the rest of your progress…Duchess.”

And with that, Silas strolled away as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

Her limbs trembling, Evaine collapsed onto a nearby garden bench, sucking in gulps of air as rage and fear twisted inside her belly. A part of her had always known that one day she would meet Guy Saville again. But was she ready to face that vile murderer in battle? And how would Alaric react, knowing the missing soothsayer who may have witnessed or even caused Theda’s death had returned?

“Goddess,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself and rocking on the bench. Right now it felt like she might never be warm again.

“My queen! Are you well?”

She glanced up to see the two missing guards sprint around the side of the manor house and hurry to where she sat. “Where were you?” Evaine cried. “Did you see that soothsayer? Did you stop him?”

One of the guards dropped to his knee, his expression confused. “Forgive us. We didn’t see a soothsayer, but a servant claimed there was a male at the gate with a dagger, threatening harm. We thought you were safely upstairs listening to music with Mistress Blanche, so went to investigate. When we returned, that servant was nowhere to be found.”

Evaine took several deep breaths, attempting to calm her jangled nerves. “Take me to where the king is holding his meeting. I must speak with him at once.”

This meeting had dragged entirely too long, and he was entirely too far away from Evaine. Everything was colder and duller without his mate, including activities he’d previously tolerated or even enjoyed.

Alaric drummed his fingers impatiently on the heavy oak table in front of him and glared at the dozen male noble wolves who were currently arguing over a particularly foolish potential amendment to the Western Charter: whether soothsayer robes should continue to be black, or change to brown. How was this even an issue, let alone a topic worthy of debate? Listening to passionate declarations about fabric color was a truly torturous process—he was quite certain Evaine wasn’t suffering so much with the she-wolves.

“Black!” he barked eventually. “The robes will remain black by royal decree. Now, are there any other matters of business, or can we adjourn?”

For a short while there was blessed silence, and Alaric almost stood and departed the damp and rather cool stone hall they were meeting in. It would probably be warmer to meet outside; this hall had just two fireplaces which wasn’t nearly enough for the size of the room, and most of the nobles kept moving restlessly and pulling their cloaks tighter.

Unfortunately, one of the wolves to Alaric’s left—a landowner near Witney, very close to the border with both the Eastern and Southern Lands—cleared his throat. “My king, if I might have the floor?”

Alaric sighed at the wolf’s tentative voice. Several present had used a similar tone today and while it was entirely his own fault, it still stung how fast his longstanding reputation for cool, calm diplomacy had been ruined by his actions toward the Oxfords. “Yes. Speak.”

The wolf actually gulped as he rose to his feet. “My king. Fellow brethren. I know this remains a very sore wound in our history, however before I came here, I received yet another petition from an Eastern Lands emissary. They are requesting the resumption of trade and diplomatic ties with the Western Lands…”

A loud chorus of “NO” erupted until Alaric held up a hand. “Let him finish.”

His face glistening with sweat, the landowner cleared his throat. “It has been ten years. While it brought us all great joy to learn Princess Evaine had survived her long ordeal, and to receive her as King Alaric’s fated mate and our anointed queen…er…we have heard nothing of Prince Lucan. Not even a whisper. Is it time to accept Lord Guy Saville’s claim by force and victory? The humans accepted Henry as their king after he killed Richard at Bosworth Field, and that was mere months ago.”

Pure fury surged through Alaric, and he clenched his fists lest he hurl the oak table into the neighboring county. After what his precious Evaine had suffered, what her two missing sisters and brother continued to suffer…the murders of Hugo and Magdalena, and the constant threat of mercenaries hunting in Guy Saville’s name for a bounty he would pay…there would be ice castles in the Persian desert before Alaric Dafydd Beaumont would break bread with anyone from that court.

“No,” Alaric said slowly and clearly, so there was no chance of misunderstanding. “As long as I’m alive, the only claim to the Eastern throne my court and all my councils will recognize is that of King Lucan de Wynter. There is no comparison between Guy Saville and Henry Tudor. The usurper repaid generous favor with treachery and murder. The human king at least has a few drops of royal blood, but far more importantly, will wed a princess of the blood to secure his throne. Saville has neither.”

“My king—”

“If King Lucan has in fact risen to the stars without an heir, then I would recognize Princess Isabel as Queen Regnant and her future line. After that, Princess Cecily and her future line. All before Guy Saville. In truth…I would recognize a half-eaten boar’s tongue before Guy bloody Saville.”

Complete silence filled the hall, and to his great dismay, Alaric realized his voice had been getting louder and louder, his last few words actually echoing around the room. Goddess. He may as well cease all diplomatic tasks immediately—he no longer possessed the skill or patience.

His longtime scribe, Peregrine, a plump, bald elder wolf with a grizzled gray beard and the most exquisite penmanship imaginable, looked up from his ink and parchment. “I believe King Alaric has made his thoughts on this matter very clear. On several occasions. If anyone requires assistance with their memory, say aye, and I’ll engrave it on your forehead.”

Alaric almost laughed. Indeed, there was a smattering of chuckles around the hall and it offered the chance to compose himself. While his opinion on Guy Saville would never change, and, he was quite certain, Evaine would concur, there was no need to roar at the messenger. That landowner clearly didn’t want to bring the petition any more than Alaric wished to receive it.

“Forgive the thunderstorm,” said Alaric ruefully, inclining his head in apology. “I am too long apart from my mate and quite out of sorts—”

“Alaric. Alaric, can you hear me?”