Page 120 of War Queen
It carried with it the feeling of being watched.
Her laugh quieted on her lips, and she stilled. Prickles rose across her skin underneath her cloak.
Norah turned and cast her gaze around the market: the cobbled mainway with its centered merchant stalls, the side shops and their open doors.
But all around her the market bustled; sellers continued on with their wares.
“Salara,” Kiran called out from her left. “Are you all right?”
Was she all right?
Mikael appeared beside her. “Another sausage?” her offered, breaking her thought. He looked at her a moment, and then his brows stitched together. “Is something wrong?”
She glanced around one last time. There was nothing, and no one. “Um, no.” She shook her head and gave a smile. “Of course not. Just waiting on my sausage.”
He daggered one and held it out for her, and she gladly accepted. “Anything else you want to get here?” he asked.
She noticed Soren eyeing the plate of meat, but he wouldn’t eat in the market. He wouldn’t uncover his face until they were away from public view.
“No, we can go,” she said. “This was a nice break, but I’m ready.”
Mikael nodded, and they headed back to their horses outside the gates to rejoin the army and continue on their way.
Norah lay awake in the darkness. They’d stopped in Hanset for the night, the last of the Free Cities just before the Mercian border. The Fork was shortly beyond, where they’d planned to make camp, but the temperature had dipped low. The army continued on to make camp there, but Mikael suggested Norah stay at the town castle that had been converted into a merchant house and inn. She didn’t need much convincing. She hadn’t had a proper bath since she’d left Kharav, and she allowed herself a long soak in the tub—with a glass or two or three of wine—before collapsing onto the feather bed. It was more comfortable than she’d expected from an inn. Much more comfortable.
But despite the comfort and her weariness, and the effects of the wine, sleep wouldn’t come. Her thoughts turned to her grandmother. Catherine was sick. She was dying. Norah had tried to deny it, push it from her mind, as if not accepting it would make it not true. But itwastrue, and she’d have to face that truth in only a few days. At least she had Mikael with her. She didn’t know how long he’d be able to stay in Mercia. Perhaps with Katya remaining with the army in Kharav and overseeing things, he wouldn’t have to go back immediately. Unlikely, she told herself. But she still hoped for it.
Norah sat up and took the chalice from the table beside the bed and polished off the last of the wine. She thought she could chase away the swirling thoughts from her mind, but instead she brought on a swirling room as well. She wiped her face with her hands, her cheeks flush, and she let herself sink back against the pillows.
Soren had gone to check the horses, and Mikael to bring back a hot meal. Mikael wasn’t keen on her eating in the tavern on the far side of the castle. She didn’t blame him. Even from a little distance, its rowdiness carried through the air. She also wasn’t going to complain about being served a warm meal in a plush feather bed or being able to enjoy eating in the comforts of a nightgown instead of a stiff-fitted riding dress.
Muffled voices sounded in the hall—Bhastian and Kiran at their posts outside the door. Although Bhastian was captain now, he still took shifts accompanying her guard, and the men seemed to respect him even more for it. She hoped they’d get some rest; they had to be tired as well. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she let them fall. Time passed slowly. Maybe it was the wine. Everything always seemed longer with wine.
Cold air swept over her skin, and she opened her eyes. The side window was cracked open to the icy air outside.
Strange. It hadn’t been open before. Had it?
She sat up slowly and blinked, pushing back the grogginess. Had she fallen asleep?No.The sounds of the tavern still lingered in the air, and the candle that had been burning was still tall. But its flame had been snuffed—recently—its fresh smoky coils still rising in the moonlight.
From the corner of her eye, a shadow moved in the darkness.
“Mikael?” she called softly.
All was quiet.
But she wasn’t alone.
And it wasn’t Mikael.
Her mind roiled through the effects of the alcohol, struggling for clarity. Where was her knife? She had peeled off her dress in the far corner, where it still lay in a pile, before changing into her nightgown. But where had she put her calf sheath and blade?
The air stirred again.
“I know you’re there,” she said into the darkness.
A shadow stepped forward and loomed into the moonlight beaming through the window. Her pulse quickened, but she wasn’t afraid. Not of one man. She wasn’t the weak woman she once was. Knife or no, she was salara. This man would do well to take care.
Norah remembered now—her calf strapping and blade lay on the tufted bench at the end of the bed. She rose to her knees and moved to the edge. Slowly, she stepped down onto the floor, putting the bed between her and this stranger. The hooded figure waited, unmoving.
