‘I’m going to find Mother and Eda,’ Lyndal said, squeezing Blake’s hand before letting go.
‘I’ll be there in a moment,’ Blake said. She looked up at Harlan and let out a long breath. ‘I really thought that was the end.’
He nodded. ‘Me too.’
She reached out, fingers brushing the back of his hand. ‘How am I supposed to adequately express the level of gratitude I feel right now? I still have no idea what I did to deserve my own personal defender.’ Her hand fell away. ‘Do I just thank you and go about my day?’
‘Thank Queen Fayre. She saved us both.’ Harlan pushed hair back from Blake’s pale face. ‘Today has proven something I’ve long suspected.’
She closed her eyes at his touch. ‘What’s that?’
‘There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you alive.’ His eyes went to the wall, where his father was watching them.
Blake followed the direction of his gaze and let out a breath. ‘I should go.’
‘I’m going to send you food—proper food.’
Sadness passed over her face. ‘It’s what you do.’ She looked away. ‘Nothing’s changed between us, has it?’
‘Did you want it to change?’
Her eyes returned to him. ‘Yes. I prayed every day for the strength to turn it off. Please God, release us both from this strange hell.’
He knew she was not talking about the lockdown.
‘Commander!’ Shapur’s voice cut through the borough. ‘Throne room—now.’
Harlan and Blake stared at one another.
‘Go,’ she said when he did not move. ‘We’ll be fine.’
‘What about Eda?’
Blake shrugged. ‘I’ll carry her. You must know by now that I draw strength from you.’ Hugging herself against the cold, she turned away.
‘You’re wrong,’ he said. ‘It’s me who draws strength from you.’
She looked back, some of that old light in her eyes. ‘Stand tall and strong in that room, defender. I want to see you back on that wall.’
Chapter 43
Harlan had expected to be brought before Prince Borin. Instead, Queen Fayre was seated on the throne where her husband had once sat. She filled the space much better than her son. Her long back rested comfortably on the plush fabric, one elegant hand draping the arm while the other turned an arrow. It was the one defenders had taken from the king’s neck.
‘Made of Serbian spruce, I believe,’ she observed.
Harlan nodded. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘Certainly not grown in the merchant borough. And the fletching…’ She ran her finger along it. ‘Feathers from a ruddy shelduck. Also not found locally.’
‘Made from imported materials,’ Harlan said.
She continued to study it. ‘Imported by a fletcher?’
‘That’s one possibility.’
She nodded slowly. ‘So it is plausible that a merchant purchased these materials, produced an arrow, and killed my husband during the unveiling?’
Harlan glanced over at his father, who stood to the side intently watching the exchange. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
