Page 89 of War Queen
Calla’s face twisted. “He said it looked like they’d been removed.”
Men were disgusting animals. “He said this dog was carrying the box?”
She nodded.
“You believe him?”
No one has lied to us, Cohen said.
Cohen’s read on people was absolute. Soren nodded. It was a dog then. But how had the blood vial been delivered to Salara’s chamber? A dog wouldn’t have been able to do that. So much remained unanswered. But they had a start.
“Find that dog,” he told him. “And we’ll find its master.”
“Caspian Frey. Come forward.”
Norah stood in the throne room filled with the nobles of Mercia. Her grandmother and the members of her newly formed council stood in front, watching the appointment of their new lord justice. It had been six weeks since she’d retaken her kingdom.
Six weeks since Alexander had died.
It felt even longer that she’d been without Mikael. She needed to get back to him. And this was the first step.
But all morning, she’d felt in a daze, like this reality wasn’t real. Like she was there, but she wasn’t. Why was it so hard? This was the right thing to do. It was the obvious thing to do. It’s what would get her back to Mikael. And it was Caspian—a man she trusted with her life and her kingdom.
Caspian stepped forward, coming in front of her.
“Kneel,” she told him.
He dropped to his knees and held out his hands, palms up, as Alexander had once knelt in front of her.
“Caspian Frey.” Her voice broke as she spoke. “I appoint you…”
A knot formed in her throat. This shouldn’t be this hard. It was the right decision. She had no doubt. She tried to start again. “I appoint you…”
Why couldn’t she speak? Why couldn’t she breathe?
“Norah,” Caspian whispered as she stood frozen.
But she couldn’t answer. She couldn’t move.
“Norah,” he whispered again, and she looked down and locked eyes with his. “I’m not here to replace him,” he said softly. “I’m here to join him by your side.” He nodded his reassurance, and she found herself nodding in return. The gods bless this man—the only man who could get her through this.
“I appoint you,” she continued, “lord justice of Mercia”—those words were the hardest—“high commander, proxy of the queen, and protector of the North and her people.”
The priest held a bowl of oil beside her, and she dipped her fingers into it. Slowly, she drew her fingertips along his palms, as she had done with Alexander. “May your hands be my hands.”
As she ran her thumb across his lips, her hands shook. “May your words be my words.”
She reached and scribed a line on his breastplate with her fingers, just above the winterhawk. The same winterhawk that had marked Alexander’s breastplate. But she couldn’t say the words.
Caspian reached up and covered her hand with his against his chest. “Take your time,” he said quietly. “There’s no hurry. Although”—he grimaced—“it would be unfortunate, at this point, if you were having second thoughts and would rather choose someone different.”
She didn’t know why she laughed. But she did. It helped curb the threatening tears. She shook her head. “No. No one different.”
He let out a breath. “Good,” he said, nodding. “I don’t consider myself a prideful man, but having come this far, it would be slightly embarrassing.”
She laughed again. This was the justice she needed. She squeezed his hand and pulled hers free, then finished her mark across his breastplate. “May your heart be my heart.”
And it was done.
