26. Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
The queen was still in the Mercian mortium with Alexander’s body.
It was easier than he’d expected to travel back into her mind.
She was exhausted and weakened by grief, almost to the point of delirium.
Still, Cyrus moved cautiously, taking care to shroud himself this time.
He used to always slip into others’ minds undetected.
He used to have no power of presence at all.
That was before Essandra had bonded their power. Now, he had to work to conceal himself.
He flipped through the queen’s memories like pages in a book, from one, to the next, and to the next.
He saw nothing of her youth, which was odd.
He had very few memories of his own childhood—no doubt he’d suppressed them.
He hardly remembered the queen at all. But she had nothing .
He wanted to dig deeper, but then he saw Alexander, and nothing else mattered.
The number of memories the queen had of his brother was nearly overwhelming. So crisp. So clear.
And it was surprising how much he and Alexander truly looked alike. It was like looking in a mirror. They’d been indistinguishable as children, but Cyrus had assumed that as they’d aged, and been crafted more by experience and time, that perhaps they’d look not so similar anymore.
But time had done little to differentiate them, if anything at all. Alexander didn’t have the stave markings, and his hair was better kept. Those were the only differences. He even had the same small crease in his brow above his right eye.
It was interesting—everything Cyrus saw of Alexander in the queen’s mind was only what she’d noticed, what she remembered of him. For this level of clarity, she’d have to know every line of his face, every quirk of his countenance.
Movement jarred his mind. The queen was leaving the mortium now. He silently cursed himself. He’d gotten caught up in Alexander again, and now he was running out of time. When she washed off the blood, he’d lose the connection.
Cyrus worked quickly, flicking through the memories.
He found the one of the Mercian insurrection and watched as the queen was attacked in her own castle and forced to flee.
He slowed in seeing the man protecting her—not the Shadow King but most certainly a Shadowman.
It could only be the commander. This was a formidable man.
When the time came, Cyrus would need to be wary of him.
Back in the castle now, the queen stepped toward the bath chamber, and Cyrus raced through more memories.
He needed more time.
There was just so much. Too much. He’d never get through it.
Then he saw what he was looking for.
The Shadow King.
Cyrus slowed and watched as the Shadow army marched back to the North and helped the queen win back her throne.
He saw them storm the bridge. He saw them take the capital isle. He watched as the army claimed their victory.
And then he saw Alexander.
The shock of his death should have passed by now, as Cyrus had already seen his brother’s body. But this sight was in the moment—the Mercian queen wept over him as blood puddled underneath them on the floor of the castle’s keep.
His body would have still been warm here, his life perhaps not yet entirely gone. Had he felt the pain of separation as Cyrus had? Had he felt them being torn apart?
The queen sank down onto the bed in her chamber, just letting herself lie for a moment, and Cyrus thought he might have a little more time, but as her fingers worked loose the ties down her dress, he feared his opportunity quickly slipping away.
He pressed through the memories urgently, passing letters he didn’t have time to read, maps he didn’t have time to assess.
Cyrus jerked still at another vision of the Shadow King.
He stood in the mortium next to Alexander’s body.
He was still in Mercia.
The Shadow King was still in Mercia.
Which meant he’d eventually travel back to the Shadowlands.
Cyrus needed more time. He needed to know when he’d leave. He needed to know how many men he’d take with him. He needed to know the route.
He ran quickly through options.
Any moment, she’d rise from the bed and strip the blood-soaked dress off. Any moment, she’d wash the blood from her skin…
His heart beat heavily in his chest.
The queen had seen him before.
She thought he was Alexander.
And she was delirious with exhaustion.
Before he could stop himself, he pulled back the veil that he hid behind.
And he knew she felt him the moment he did.
She opened her eyes in her mind.
Cyrus crafted a bed of flowers around her, reminiscent of a dream. Perhaps it would be easier if she thought this was a dream.
Slowly, she sat up and rose from the bed.
Then she saw him.
She smiled.
The mind was funny like that—stripping away pain sometimes, making one forget. But even in this dream of her mind, he watched as the memories came to her—as reality came to her.
Alexander was dead.
He watched as her face went from happiness to confusion to realization to devastation, then back to confusion as she stared at him.
As she walked toward him in disbelief, he pulled everything he’d seen of Alexander, every piece, every detail—the style of his hair, even his father’s armor. The armor had been the hardest part—to put it on himself, to wear it. He couldn’t stomach the head of the North bear and had to leave it off.
He waited as she drew near, his heart beating heavily in his chest. As she stepped even closer, he wavered. She’d know. She’d know he wasn’t Alexander, and for a moment he almost withdrew, until she whispered, “ Please. ” She was shaking. “ Please don’t leave ,” she begged.
He froze, and he let her come even nearer, ignoring everything telling him that he shouldn’t.
Her eyes took him in, and he focused on projecting every detail of Alexander.
“ Am I a stranger to you now? ” she asked.
She knew something was different about him, and again, he cursed himself. He shouldn’t have let her see him the first time. He should have taken more care.
“ Say something ,” she told him. “ How are you here? ”
He almost spoke but stopped. While he looked the same as Alexander, he was certain he didn’t sound like Alexander.
He didn’t even know what Alexander sounded like—and now more than ever, he wished to be able to hear memories and visions.
But he could hear only when someone spoke to him in their mind like this.
“ Say something ,” she begged.
He wanted to. But he didn’t dare. And he didn’t even know what he would say.
She reached out, and he shifted backward, having only a split moment to decide whether to let her feel him, or, rather, to make her think she felt him. He’d honed the ability to manipulate some of the senses, to a degree. Sight was the easiest. Touch was the hardest.
And in that split moment, he knew he couldn’t let her feel him. He couldn’t let it go that far. But she was already breaking, already believing, and if this got him what he needed…
As she reached for him, he didn’t move away.
She sucked in a breath, her eyes tearing, as her fingers brushed him. Her lip trembled. She pressed her hand against his chest, still testing, still not believing. Then she spread her fingers wide.
That was enough.
He caught her hand and brought it down. He wasn’t here just to give her one last connection with Alexander.
He needed information, and once she washed the blood from her skin, he’d lose her.
He needed her to let him back into her mind.
More than that, he needed her to invite him back into her mind, use his blood and make the connection.
So desperately, she wanted to believe he was Alexander—he could see it all over her face, feel it emanating from her.
He wasn’t sure how he’d get her the blood—he’d figure that out later. First, he just needed to show her what to do to call him. He pulled a vial of blood from his pocket and opened her hand. Then he smeared a streak across her palm and closed her hand in his.
The skin between her brows dimpled.
It was frustrating to be in her mind but not know what she was actually thinking. Did she understand? She stared down at her hand in his, then looked back up at him. Cyrus reached up and brushed her eyes with his fingertips, bidding them closed.
She did.
His heart raced. If he could get her a vial, she might just call him.
Cyrus stared at the plate of untouched food in front of him. He wasn’t hungry. He couldn’t think about food at all as he waited for the pull from the Mercian queen.
If it would even come.
It had taken him a number of tries with the birds, each time leaving him with a crippling ache in his head.
Simply looking through the animals’ eyes and controlling them enough to carry a vial of blood were two very different things.
He’d barely mastered the former and quickly found the latter a near impossible feat.
If they made it over the Aged Sea, he’d lose them somewhere over the Tribelands.
The few that did make it to the North were taken down by winterhawks.
Again, he tried. And again.
And then one bird did make it.
He’d lost connection shortly after it had plucked the string loose and left the small box with the vial on the queen’s terrace. He wished he could have kept it to watch, but it was all right. The bird had done what it had needed to do.
And now he waited.
A day passed, then another.
Cyrus started to wonder if he’d left it on the right terrace.
No, it was the right one, he assured himself.
“Have you heard anything?” Essandra asked.
Her question snapped him from his thoughts. Her green eyes stared back at him.
How did she know? He hadn’t told anyone about trying to get blood to the Mercian queen. He glanced around the dining table. Everan’s brow quirked.
“Have you heard anything?” she asked again. “Anything more about your brother? Or about the North?”