Page 42 of Wolf Duke

In truth, the house was delightful, two levels fashioned of white stone with large timber-framed windows, and built on a rise so the views were sweeping. The bedchamber reserved for royal visits was on the upper floor, spacious yet cozy, and boasted a splendidly large and soft bed which was entirely welcome after all their wagon travel. Carmarthen was different to most of their stops, though, for the local castle here was actually a human stronghold and wolves in the area tended to stay well away from it. Instead, they gathered at various manor houses, the females descending on solars to drink wine, eat honey cakes, listen to music, and discuss any matters they didn’t wish males or curious cubs to hear.

“And how does the king find our town this visit?” asked an elder eagerly.

Evaine almost blushed. She was still a little tender from their exertions in the wagon. “I know he has an even greater fondness for it.”

There was a collective sigh, and similar to all previous stops, she was forced to conceal her reaction as the she-wolves began openly discussing Alaric’s attributes: his smile, the sheen of his hair, the gold of his eyes, how tall and broad of shoulder he was, even the firmness of his arse. Wolves were frank about such matters and while Alaric tended to shrug it away, she might have to challenge someone to a duel…or at least bare some queenly fangs and claws. Those broad shoulders and firm arse belonged entirely to her!

“I’m going to bang some heads together,” Blanche muttered beside her.

“Perhaps some music?” said Evaine, a little desperately as her claws dug into her palms. A certain blond female sitting in the corner and waxing lyrical about her king’s lips would soon be losing a large clump of hair. “I do adore the harp…or the flute…”

A trifle grudgingly, the elder of the manor called for music. Soon, the glorious low tones of the harp filled the solar, and even more glorious, a chorus of voices in accompaniment. One thing Evaine had noticed throughout their travels: the Welsh loved to sing and were breathtakingly talented. While she didn’t yet understand many Welsh words, there was a cadence to the ancient language, the way soft sounds flowed into one another and even harsh sounds were melodic, that made English seem just a bit awkward. It was the same when Alaric spoke on the most mundane matters, his words had a lilt that made them seem sensual. On several occasions she’d been so distracted by his accent that she’d completely forgotten the topic of conversation.

“Beg pardon, my queen.”

Gritting her teeth at the interruption, Evaine turned to the hovering servant. “Yes?”

“Would you come and greet a group of peasants outside? They do not wish to intrude on manor land, but would like to make their bows and curtsies to the new queen.”

Evaine frowned inwardly. It was an odd request; in planning for the progress, she and Alaric had specifically instructed that there be a large number of informal gatherings so all wolves were welcome. Naturally, the royal guards insisted any potential weapons be set down first, but certainly no one had been refused entry because they weren’t landowners, wealthy or noble. Goddess, her own beloved mother had worked in a tavern! “Right now?”

“The family do not have much time, my queen, but they beg you to grace them with your presence,” said the servant smoothly. Almost too smoothly.

The back of her neck prickled. Could this somehow be related to the note? Perhaps this was the opportunity to discover the identity of their “friend” and get answers once and for all.

“Very well,” said Evaine, before turning to Blanche. “I’m going to greet some subjects outside, but will return shortly.”

The elder wolf hesitated. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

Evaine shook her head. “Stay here and enjoy the music. I won’t linger, I swear.”

Soon, the servant guided Evaine outside to a well-tended enclosed garden. On the other side of the fence, a small group waited, cheering loudly as Evaine approached.

“Evaine is queen. Long may she reign!” called one male, and the two neatly-dressed cubs next to him waved madly.

Charmed, Evaine walked to the fence. Their awe was palpable as they expressed their best wishes, and she enquired after the male’s mate and admired the cubs’ wooden toys. Just as she was about to scold herself for being so foolish, a silver-haired male joined the group, wearing the dark robe of a soothsayer.

“My queen,” he said with a low bow. “I am honored to be near you. Might I offer a blessing?”

Every instinct Evaine possessed bellowed no. But due to their connection to Leto, it would be frowned upon by all if she refused a soothsayer, so Evaine moved along the fence line until she faced him directly. “Good afternoon.”

“Your hand?” he continued, his tone pleasant but his gaze piercing. Ugh.

“I have but a few moments,” Evaine replied, reluctantly holding out her hand. Now that the friendly little pack had departed, the garden didn’t seem nearly so lovely, just cold and isolated. And where were her two guards?

True alarm jangled through her body, but before she could turn and leave, the soothsayer grasped her hand. His palm was damp, his grip far too firm, then he leaned close. “My name is Silas. You are in grave danger, my queen. I hoped we might meet at St. Briavels, but alas, you chose to ignore my generous offer. I know all. I know the truth about Queen Theda’s death, and that the same fate will befall you. The king is a killer.”

What?

“Only Leto knows all. How dare you,” Evaine snapped, both shocked and furious at his words. Yet she couldn’t free her hand from the soothsayer’s now-painful grip.

“I dare, because you must be told. Queen Theda did not fall down stairs—she was pushed. Murdered. A good female, cruelly treated by a cold male with a hot temper. You’ve seen the king’s rage. Lord and Lady Oxford experienced it, did they not? He nearly strangled them both.”

Even as she reeled at the accusations and his startlingly intimate knowledge of the humans’ visit, Evaine managed to glare at Silas. “A good female? Theda was a scheming liar who tricked her way onto the throne. And you seem no better, fleeing Blackstone so swiftly after her death.”

The elder’s gaze shifted left and right before settling on her once more. “Those who carry words of divine wisdom are often called to walk a new path. But beware of the king, or you will end up on the floor with a face the color of wine.”

Somehow, she laughed. “I have naught to fear from King Alaric. But you do. When he finds you…”