Page 146 of Shadow Queen
“So, of course, the North loved him,” Soren added.
“But he was a cruel king,” Mikael said. “He had men slay each other for entertainment, among other things you don’t want to know about. I suppose you could call the new king a usurper, but he put an end to a lot of their savagery.”
She supposed there could be good usurpers. “Who is this new king?”
Mikael frowned as he shook his head. “They call him Cyrus. Other than that, I don’t know.”
“So, this man usurped the Raelean throne, and now he’s overthrown the kingdom of Serra? The slavers’ kingdom?” she asked.
Mikael nodded. “And apparently, he’s set all the slaves free.”
Salara-Mae’s eyes widened. “All of them? The entire kingdom?” She looked at Norah with a raised brow. “He should like Kharav, then, given that Salara has freed all our slaves,” she added sarcastically.
Norah had freedsomeslaves, primarily those around the castle who stayed now as paid servants, much to Salara-Mae’s horror and protest. But she hadn’t freed as many as she would have liked, certainly not all across the kingdom. Kharav had thousands of slaves. It would require a significant change in Kharavian culture to do away with slavery all together, one that she didn’t have the power to drive. Not yet, anyway. Mikael was already pressed with unhappy nobles. He wouldn’t risk giving them yet another grievance, and one that would affect their economies on top of that.
But perhaps this usurper might bring a conversation on the idea. And action started with conversation. “Sounds like a rather decent man,” Norah said, then popped a small potato into her mouth and smiled innocently at Salara-Mae.
Soren snorted. “Depends on what you consider decent. Impaling all the slavers on their ships and anchoring them in the harbors for all to see? Flaying them alive? Then yes, he sounds decent.”
Ah, there was the Soren she knew—the Soren she kind of missed. “Is that what it says in the letter?”
“And other things,” he answered.
“Don’t read it,” Mikael said to her, purely intending to shield her from its contents.
“What does all this mean?” she asked. “Should we be worried about anything?”
“Why would we be?” Mikael said, and took another drink from his chalice.
That didn’t comfort her.
Chapter forty-four
Mikaelsuckedinthecool morning air. He normally savored this time of day. Early mornings brought a peace with them. But not today. A weight sat heavy in his stomach, and a pain daggered his chest. Nothing could bring peace to him now for what lay ahead.
He found Soren in the stable, as he suspected he might. The commander’s destrier stood in the mainway with leads fastened from its halter to the wall on either side, keeping the animal still as Soren replaced its shoes.
“We’ve farriers for that,” Mikael said, even though he knew Soren preferred doing it himself. He needed something to say, words to speak, something to fill the suffocating air.
“I prefer to do it myself,” his commander replied, not looking up.
Mikael waited for him to drive the last nail and release the hoof—an agonizing wait, but a wait that wasn’t long enough.
Soren stood when he finished and patted the beast on the shoulder. When their eyes met, he stopped. He shifted back slightly as his face sobered. He knew.
“It’s time, brother,” Mikael said quietly. “She’s at the safe house, on the hillside.” He couldn’t manage anything else.
Soren stood, silent and unmoving, and for a moment Mikael thought he might refuse—now that he’d had time to think, and now that the time was upon him. But he only nodded solemnly and then pulled off the leather apron and stalled the horse before heading toward the castle.
Soren arrived at the hillside house, his chest tight, his throat dry. Salara’s mare stood out front. Alone. There were no guards. They couldn’t risk suspicion. Mikael had personally brought her, then departed, but Soren knew he wouldn’t have gone far.
His heart pulsed heavily in his ears. He felt calmer in battle, he mused. But then, he wasn’t afraid of battle.
Tension gripped his shoulders. He hoped she would find him… tolerable. He’d washed and trimmed his beard short like Mikael’s. He swore under his breath—he should have worn a shirt. He knew she didn’t like his markings, and everything they stood for. It was too late now. He wished he would have thought of it sooner.
Soren let himself into the house, looking for Salara. All was quiet. He ventured into the sitting room and saw her at the window. She was looking out across the cliffs. She wore a simple riding dress—a gray split-front gown with breeches underneath. The creak of the floor under his weight made her jump, and she turned to face him. He hadn’t meant to startle her.
They stared at each other in silence. Soren moved slowly, not sure how to engage her. He noted the knife sheathed at her waist, the one he had returned to her.
