Page 85 of War Queen
She pursed her lips with a glare that would freeze the wind.
“Take me to him,” he told her.
Loathing shadowed her eyes. “To whom?”
“The Bear. Your guards don’t allow me to pass. Don’t make me kill them.”
She puffed a breath. “I’ll have you know there are more civilized ways.”
Soren gritted his teeth. “This is me being civilized. Now take me to him.”
“Absolutely not—”
“Woman!” He was losing his patience. He culled his irritation. That would get him nowhere with her. He drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “Please. Take me to him. Salara’s not safe, and I have to find out what’s going on.”
She stared at him a moment. “Fine,” she said finally. Then she stepped into the hall, and he followed.
He knew where the tombs were, where he had helped seal in the Bear, but he let the old woman lead him through a series of halls. When they reached the Hall of Souls, she waved the guards to step aside. They looked at Soren warily but did as they were bid and let them pass.
Bastards.
She led him down the wide, winding stair to the bottom. The glass of the high ceiling spilled light down to the floor. It had been night when he was here before, but now in the day, he realized how beautiful this place of death was.
Tombs lined the walls, generations of Northern rulers, each within a carved alcove of stone. The Northmen believed them to be watching over Mercia. Were they watching now? He almost smiled. Were their bones twisting in their beds of stone at a Shadowman among them?
He followed the woman to a side dais with a sarcophagus draped in silver-embroidered linen. It was just as he remembered. She put her hand on top.
Soren reached and pulled off the silver cloth.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Hold this,” he said, pushing the cloth into her arms.
“You have no right—”
He clasped the top of the sarcophagus.
“No, don’t!” she cried—not the cry of anger, but one of pain. A plea. “You can’t.”
He stopped, then turned to her. With the greatest effort of compassion, he said, “Alexander would want me to find out what’s happening. And see Salara safe.”
“By wreaking havoc on his place of rest? Destroying it? Disturbing his body?”
“I’m not destroying it. And you burn bodies, by the way. Moving his around a bit won’t make a difference.”
Her face still held the look of horror. He probably could have handled that a little softer.
“And when did he ever care about rest?” he added, trying to change his approach. “Nothing as it relates to Salara could ever disturb him. He would be doing this himself if he could.”
“This is the madness of grief,” she argued. “Her thinking that he comes back to her even in death! She’s not accepting that he’s gone.”
“She’s not mad,” he cut back. “Shedoessee something. Someone is toying with her. And I’m going to find out who it is.” He clutched the cover of the sarcophagus again.
“You won’t be able to open it. It took four men to put it on.”
Soren gritted his teeth again. Yes, he knew—he’d been one of them. He strained against the heavy stone and pushed the lid sideways. The stench of death filled the room, and the woman gasped. He looked into the sarcophagus, and there lay the body of the Bear, adorned in the colors of the North. His face was unrecognizable, but Soren knew the golden locks.
This was the Bear. A very dead Bear.
