Page 146 of War Queen
Back at the castle in her chamber, she clutched the vial of blood in her hand as that anger grew. He’d lied to her. She clenched her teeth until they hurt—so stupid—she was so stupid. All this time she’d thought it could be Alexander somehow. Of course it wasn’t Alexander. She should have known. He wore Alexander’s face, but everything about him was wrong. She should have known. Even Soren knew it wasn’t him. And Mikael. How could she not have known? How could she have been so blind?
She stood in front of the fireplace in her chamber.
Throw it in, her anger told her.
He had said he’d explain everything, if she’d only call him back. That he’d even have the audacity to ask her to invite his return…
Throw it into the fire.
He didn’t deserve to explain. He’d used her pain to get close to her. He’d used her most private thoughts, her most private weaknesses. He had usedher. He’d let her talk to him, tell him things.
Throw it in.
It was Lucien—not Alexander—who she had told that Mikael would be traveling through the western pass when he had first returned to Kharav, and Lucien had used it to advance his army and attack. Thank the gods Phillip had moved his army to stop them.
And she’d told Lucien she was traveling back to Mercia after Catherine had fallen ill. He came to her because he knew where she’d be, and because he could. But not to harm her. Why? It would have been so easy for him. What did he want?
Well, she wanted to tell him a thing or two…
She fumed with fury.
She needed answers.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she drew the blood across her palm and closed her fist over it. Then she closed her eyes and stood in her chamber in her mind.
Norah knew he was here. She could feel him.
The door of her chamber opened, but no one entered. Cautiously, she walked toward it. As she stepped into the hall, it was no longer a hall but a bright grassy knoll atop a large cliff, overlooking the sea.
And she saw him. Lucien.
He sat on a rock near the edge of the cliff, staring out over the water.
Norah walked slowly toward him. He was different now. His hair was cropped short, and he wore dark breeches and a loose-fitting gray shirt. Ink marked his skin, just above the neck of his tunic. He looked as he had the first time she saw him in the mortium.
“This is my favorite place,” he said, not turning as she approached. His voice surprised her.
“You speak? Have you been able to speak this entire time?”
He didn’t answer her.
Of course he wouldn’t. “Why?” she demanded. “Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know his sound. Only his image.”
What did that mean? “What?”
He pulled a long blade of grass from in front of him. “I didn’t know his voice, his words. I couldn’t speak as he did.”
Then it occurred to her—the limitations of the gift of sight—he could only see the memories in her mind, not hear them. Alexander’s speech was the only thing he couldn’t copy. Her blood boiled. “So to keep up your charade, you said nothing?”
“I didn’t intend to deceive you.”
“Yes, you did,” she snapped back. “Otherwise, you would have told me exactly who you were.”
He stood, and the vision of the coast fell away. “You asked me if I was Alexander, and I told you no.”
“You knew my context! I thought death changed you!”
