She reached up to re-braid her hair and felt the swelling from the blows she had received. There was still blood on her face. She needed clean water, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask. She rolled her torn clothes into a ball and dropped them beside the bed. As she crawled under the blanket, her body shook uncontrollably. She reached out and pulled the cloak over her as well, rolling to her side and drawing her knees up, defeated.
After a time, the king cautiously entered the tent, eyeing the blood-tinted water and Norah, curled up and watching him from underneath his cloak. He took the basin out and returned with fresh water and another cloth. He lowered himself to the ground beside her and submersed the cloth. “Your face,” he said as he wrung the water out.
Slowly, she sat up, but she couldn’t look him in the eye. She reached for the cloth, but he pulled back, meaning to tend to her himself. She didn’t have the will to fight him.
Norah looked away as he brought the cloth to her brow just below the temple. It was where the first strike had caught her. She flinched at the memory. He drew the cloth over her skin with unexpected gentleness, sponging away the dried blood. She tensed as he touched her chin, turning her face toward him. He surveyed her right cheek and the split on her lip, then cleaned around them as well.
“I suppose we look the same now,” he said.
“Why are you being kind to me?” she snapped. She couldn’t bear his pity on top of it all.
“I respect my enemies.”
Anger flashed through her. “Really? Respect?” she hissed, meeting his eyes. “The North Queen—captured, humiliated, beaten…” She couldn’t help the shaking in her voice.
His nostrils flared, and he looked away. Turning back to her, he said, “I take no pleasure in seeing you this way.”
It surprised her that she believed him.
He dropped the cloth into the water and stood up. She watched him, still wary, but felt herself start to calm. Her eye trailed down to his thigh, where blood seeped through his breeches. Had he been wounded? She bit back the words that almost came out; she refused to show concern for this man. This was his fault. He was the cause of all of this.
Norah curled back on the bedroll, pulling the blanket and cloak over her again, and waited for sleep that wouldn’t come.
Mikael was angry. More than angry. He looked over the North Queen as she lay curled on the bedroll underneath his cloak. She’d run. If she’d stayed hidden, she wouldn’t have been caught and this wouldn’t have happened. He’d told her to stay put. She didn’t listen.
He stooped to pick up the washbasin and ducked out of the tent.
“Salar,” a soldier called to him, and offered to take the basin, but Mikael shook his head.
“I’ll take care of it,” he replied.
He tossed the water out and walked down to the nearby stream to get more. His leg ached, but he welcomed the pain. It distracted him from the embarrassment of his failure. She was fast. Even with her hands bound, it had taken quite some time to catch up with her. He remembered how he’d heard her scream and how it had cut off suddenly. He’d raced toward the sound, his heart pounding.
Her attackers were Horsemen. He’d seen them in the darkness; he’d seen the man on top of her. Mikael remembered the rage he’d felt when he ripped the man’s head back and dragged his blade across his neck. It was too kind a death.
When he’d pulled the body from her and killed the second man holding her, she’d struggled to get away. She was like a wounded animal, trying to flee, to fight, to stay alive. He and his commander killed the rest of the Horsemen, but not before one caught him in the thigh with a blade.
He shook his head, remembering her ferocity at the base of the stronghold. She was good in a fight. Too good. She may have actually defended herself if she hadn’t been tied. Why had he tied her? He’d been angry that she’d tried to escape again, but it was something he would have done in her place.
This queen surprised him. He rolled his shoulder and winced at the stretch of the stitches under his arm where she’d stabbed him with his dagger. She was strong. Bold. Not at all what he’d imagined her to be. He almost regretted what he would do to her. He would try to make it painless.
When he returned to the tent, she lay as he’d left her, under the blanket and his cloak. Her eyes were closed, but he doubted she was asleep. His men had found a small shirt and some extra breeches from an accompanying weapons boy, and he laid them beside her.
Mikael stood over his own bedroll and pulled off his leathers, boots, and breeches. He eyed the gash in his thigh. It was deeper than he’d thought, and he grimaced as he bound it with linen strips. He hoped the blade hadn’t been poisoned, but knowing the Horsemen, with their mixes and tonics, he wasn’t confident. No matter. He was a large man, and strong. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken a poison blade. It might make the next few days particularly painful, but he could manage pain.
Blowing out the candle, he settled onto the mat, looking up into the darkness. It took a long time for the tiredness to set in as he replayed the events over and over in his mind. When sleep did come, it came lightly, and he found himself drifting awake again. In the quiet of the night, he listened to the sound of her breathing. Her breaths were clipped and irregular—silent cries. His chest tightened. It stung him more than the Horseman’s blade.
Chapter twenty-eight
Mikael rose before dawn. He quietly gathered his leathers and boots. The queen was still asleep and wearing his shirt; he’d have to get another.
His body moved stiffly. The wound to his thigh made it difficult to walk, but as he stepped out into the morning, the cold air seemed to bring back his strength. Fresh clothing was waiting for him outside, and he pulled it on.
One of his captains approached and looked at him with a raised brow. Mikael supposed it did seem odd that he’d be dressing outside his tent.
“Salar,” the captain greeted.
“Katya,” he replied as he pulled on his boots. “What did you find out about the city?”
Katya shook her head. “We’ve found nothing.”
Mikael paused. “Nothing?”
“No, Salar.”
The king shook his head. “That was a walled city with armored, fighting men. It would have taken an army to destroy it.”
“Well, it’s as though they’ve disappeared,” she told him.
“The same is said of us. Find them. And what of the drifters we caught last night?” They’d had some spoils. Obviously, they looted the city after it had been destroyed. “Find out if they saw anything.”
Katya shook her head. “They’re all dead, Salar.”
Mikael’s brow furrowed. His men had brought four of them back to the camp alive. “What?”
She motioned to the bodies nearby. “It appears one killed the others, then himself.”
“Why?”
She shook her head again. “Maybe they feared the death you might choose for them. Or maybe they knew something they didn’t want us to find out.”
“Now what could that be?” Mikael asked under his breath. He’d have to think on it later.
“Are you well, Salar?” the captain asked, a slight concern across her brow.