Kjell was not the only Healer in Jeru. Healers who had kept the secret of their abilities for longer than he, who could wield and heal with little thought, lived among the people of Jeru. Spinners, Changers, and Tellers too. They had congregated in Nivea, near the ancient seabed, among artisans and craftsmen, just beyond the Jeru City walls. When Tiras passed the edict protecting all people, even the Gifted, they had not seen fit to venture out. Change was difficult, even for those who could change at will. Instead, Jeru came to them.
At Lark’s urging, Kjell brought Sasha to Nivea to see if the old Teller and diviner of Gifts, Gwyn, could unravel the mystery of Sasha’s past. Like before, his presence was noted immediately and looked on with some trepidation. His past had not been forgotten in Nivea, and his gift did not greatly impress.
He found Gwyn in the garden of the small home of Shenna the Healer, sitting with her face tipped to the sun, drinking in the rays as if they sang to her. And maybe they did.
“The Healer returns,” she greeted, not opening her eyes. “I knew you would.”
“You’re a Seer. I’m not especially impressed. And Shenna told you I was coming.”
“Still so prickly. In a world of Changers, it is good that some things stay the same.”
Kjell sat across from the woman, knowing what she expected. The stool had been placed there for him, he had no doubt.
“She is lovely, the woman you brought home from Quondoon. Where is she?”
“The gods save me from Seers,” he sighed, only half-serious. “She is with Shenna, in the cottage. I wanted a moment with you alone,” Kjell retorted.
“And why is that, Healer?”
“Don’t you know?” Kjell replied dourly.
“I am not all-knowing, Captain. My eyes see what they will, and I’ve never been able to choose.”
“That’s what Sasha says.”
“She is a Seer,” Gwyn said. “And she was punished for it.”
“Yes, and I healed her. She was near death. It was the first healing I have performed on a stranger.”
“The most difficult healing of all, sharing your gift with someone you’ve never met,” Gwyn remarked.
“I almost doubted it could be done.” He was comforted by the knowledge that she understood.
“Even the queen—as powerful as she is, as magnificent as her ability—is bound by certain constraints. Imagine how terrible the world would be if men were all-powerful,” Gwyn murmured. Neither of them spoke of the king who had been very powerful indeed.
“I tried to heal her twice. The first time, she was near death. The second, seriously wounded. The second time, I almost failed. It took hours and every ounce of strength I had to close her wounds.”
“You were successful?” She sounded shocked.
“Yes . . . but she still bears the scars.”
“You are a powerful Healer, indeed,” she marveled.
“I will not be able to heal her again,” he mourned. “I can feel it.”
“No. Probably not. Every gift has its limitations. We are delicate creatures, aren’t we? But our fragility makes us better people. It is good that the gift we want most is the one we aren’t given.” She paused. “A Healer cannot heal himself.”
He nodded. “Yes. I know.”
“When you heal, you give your very self away,” she explained.
“Shenna told me for every life I restore, I lose a day of my own,” he said.
“But Healers live longer than most,” she reassured. “Still . . . I’m not talking about shortening years upon the land, Healer. When you heal, especially great wounds, your life force merges with the life you save. And that person becomes part of you. A Healer cannot heal himself,” she repeated slowly. “Thus he cannot heal twice. Or very rarely.”
She smiled, her face wrinkling into a thousand lines, and Kjell resisted the urge to smooth them, simply to see if he could.
She brought his hand to her face, as if she knew he wanted to touch her and was too reticent to do so. Her skin was warm from the sun, and he held his palm there, pressed against her cheek, soothed by her presence.
“In Solemn, I healed two hundred people, most of them very ill.”
“A wonderful gift. And depending on the severity of the illness and the depth of the healing, you will not be able to give it to them again.”
“What use am I to those I love if I can’t heal them whenever they need it?” he whispered.
“The people who love you do not love you for your power, Kjell. That is their gift to you.” Gwyn patted his hand and brought it to her lap, palm up, looking at the lines there. They sat in contemplative silence for several moments.
“But that is not the only reason you’ve come, is it?” she needled.
“No.” Kjell guessed she already knew exactly why he was there.
“Then bring her to me, lad.” Gwyn grinned, swatting at his hand, a twinkle in her eye.
Kjell turned to fetch the women, but saw they were already approaching. Gwyn tipped her head toward them, as though her ears worked better than her eyes.
Sasha greeted the old Teller as she had greeted the queen, with a deep curtsy and a bowed head.
“Come, girl. I’m just an old woman. No need for that,” Gwyn protested, but Kjell could see that the greeting pleased her. “Sit beside me.”
Sasha obeyed immediately, tucking herself beside the Teller, who took her hand the way she’d taken Kjell’s.
“You’ve already seen Bartol—what can I possibly tell you that you don’t know?” Gwyn’s voice was wry.
Bartol was an entertainer, one of the Gifted who’d been a court jester before the laws had made having a gift a boon instead of a curse.
Bartol made Tiras laugh with his antics, but Kjell had mocked the man more than once for his inane talents. In his opinion, Bartol’s gift was a useless one—a weak variation of seeing that served no purpose. Bartol took great pride in telling people what they already knew, things like, “You ate lamb last Tuesday. You fear heights because you fell from a tree when you were a child. Your best mate is Garvin. Your mother was Janetta. The day of your birth there was a terrible blizzard. You’ve a mark on your arse shaped like a ship.” All of it ridiculous, all of it unhelpful.
The man had been taken a bit more seriously since the king’s edict, and Lark had asked him what he could tell them about Sasha. Bartol had immediately proclaimed Sasha the daughter of Pierce and Sareca of Kilmorda, and the queen said he spoke truth. But Bartol had known nothing beyond Sasha’s parentage, and had proceeded to rattle off a string of things Sasha could have told them herself, as well as a few things—like the color of the king’s drawers and that Princess Wren had cut a new tooth—that no one cared to know. Bartol had made Tiras laugh, and the queen had declared it a miracle, but Sasha had still insisted on dusting books and scrubbing floors. She might be the daughter of a lord, but there was nothing and no one to return to in Kilmorda. And Sasha still couldn’t remember them.
“We thought you might be able to see who Sasha is,” Kjell said.
“Who she is?” Gwyn asked frowning. “She already knows. Better than most, I would say. Who do you think you are, girl?”
“I am his,” Sasha said without hesitation, her gaze level and unflinching.
Gwyn crowed softly, as if the answer pleased her even more than the greeting, and Kjell felt his belly and his face get hot.
“No, child. He is yours,” Gwyn said, and Kjell grimaced. Gwyn ignored him, her gaze still on Sasha. “You have come a long way,” she mused.
“Yes,” Sasha answered.
“And there is a journey yet to come. Do you see it?” Gwyn pressed.
“To my home?” Sasha asked as if she already knew.
“To your home,” Gwyn confirmed.
Kjell wanted to interrupt, to protest. This was not what they’d come for. Kilmorda was in ruins. There would be no journey to the province if he could help it. But he held his tongue.
“You have the eyes of a Seer, Sasha,” Shenna said softly, inserting herself into the conversation.
“Yes. I’m not a terribly good one. It is a frustrating gift. It is a talent that rarely heals and usually frightens. It frightens me.”
“It frightens me too,” Gwyn said. “Our gifts are often burdens, aren’t they?”
Sasha wilted, her eyes on her feet, and Gwyn was silent for a long time.
“You are a Seer, but that is not your dominant gift,” Gwyn said thoughtfully.
Sasha looked surprised, even hopeful, and she waited expectantly, lifting her eyes back to the old woman.
“You magnify the gifts of others. You make them stronger. You have strengthened our Kjell many times,” Gwyn said.
“I don’t know if that is a gift, Mother Gwyn,” Sasha said slowly. “Or if that is simply . . . love.”
Kjell froze.
“But that is the best gift of all,” Gwyn said.
Kjell wanted to bolt, overwhelmed with the need to be alone and to never be alone again. He stood abruptly, and Sasha stood as well, ever his faithful shadow, gently releasing the old woman’s hand.
“We’ve made the Healer uncomfortable.” Gwyn sighed, irritated. “Go on ahead, Captain. I want to say goodbye to this girl.”
He needed no urging and turned and strode from the garden.
“Captain?” he heard Shenna call behind him. He counted the Healer as one of his friends, though she might not know it. She’d taught him a great deal about his gift. He trusted her, and he thought she’d come to trust him. Or at least respect him. He paused and waited for her to catch up to him, but he kept his back to her. She was too intuitive, and he was too disturbed.
“I offered to heal her scars. The ones on her back. She wouldn’t let me,” Shenna said, her voice troubled.
That sounded like Sasha. Still, he didn’t turn around. He needed a moment, and it didn’t seem like he was going to get one.
“How did you know about her scars?” he asked.
“They are still tender. I sensed them.”
He flinched.
“She said they are a reminder,” Shenna continued.
“Of what?” His tone was plaintive.
“That she may not be able to heal, but she can save.”
“Bloody hell,” he cursed.
“It does no good to fight what she sees. Or to fight her,” she added softly. “Mother Gwyn is the same way. It’s like throwing yourself against the rocks.”
He nodded, suddenly resigned, and stepped out of the garden gate, waiting for Sasha.
If there was to be a journey to Kilmorda, he would need to talk to his brother.
He was reminded of the days when Tiras locked himself away in dungeon rooms or sequestered himself to his chambers. Kjell had become his eyes and ears and feet and hands, keeping the kingdom afloat while continually covering for his brother, who was losing himself a little more each day. He’d dragged Lark through the halls at all hours of the night to help him, desperate for assistance, yet distrustful and derisive, convinced she was his brother’s worst mistake.
And she had saved them all.
Now he found himself walking through the halls of the castle again, seeking Sasha, wanting redemption yet unable to trust himself. He’d loved a woman once. Or thought he did. A woman who understood him well enough to play him like a harp. A woman who had brought Jeru to its knees. He’d been wrong before. He’d been foolish and afraid. Fear makes hate, and he’d hated all the wrong people. He would not be used again.
She met him at the door of her chamber, flinging it wide as if she’d watched him approach. Her color was high, her eyes bright, her lips parted like she was struggling for breath.
“You saw me coming?” he murmured, stopping in the entry, wanting her desperately while wishing he’d never come.
“I don’t see everything,” she began, and he said the words with her, matching her tone and pitch even as he added, “Yes. I know.”
“You’re creating ripples with your stony heart,” she said softly, and he wanted to smile at her word play, at the memory of her explanation of the ripples in the pond and how they often managed to reach her on the shore eventually.
She turned and walked into her room, and he followed, shutting the chamber door behind them. She perched on the edge of her bed, her hair pooling around her, reminding him of the day she stood in the rain, battered and bedraggled, clinging to her clothes while he clung to his resistance.
He loved her then. He loved her now.
He’d loved her from the moment she’d opened her eyes beneath a moonlit sky in Quondoon and greeted him like she’d been waiting forever. And he needed to tell her.
He sank to his knees before her, abandoning his resistance completely, and she drew him to her, cradling his head in her lap, and stroking his hair.
“Did you see . . . us?” he whispered, needing reassurance.
“When I see you, I rarely see myself,” she whispered. “But I hoped.”
Still kneeling in front of her, he wrapped his arms around her hips and drew her from the bed and into him, connecting them from their knees to their noses, his arms supporting her weight. For a moment she hovered slightly above him, her hands braced on his shoulders, eyes searching, wanting but waiting, until the exquisite became the excruciating, and he wound one hand in her hair, lifted his chin, and pulled her to him, mouth to mouth.
He kissed her, taking her to the floor because he was too overcome to stand, clinging to her body because he was too undone to go slow. The storm pounding in his limbs and in his belly began to build in his heart, seeping through his skin and gathering in the corners of his eyes. He wanted to weep. It was the strangest sensation, the most puzzling reaction he’d ever experienced. He wanted to lay his head on Sasha’s chest and weep.
Instead he breathed against her lips, withdrawing enough to move his mouth along the delicate bones of her collar, over the swell of her breasts, before he paused, his eyes closed, his forehead pressed to her abdomen.
He was happy. The feeling surged through him, an echo of the swelling he’d felt when Sasha had told him his kisses made her joyful. He was . . . happy. And he wasn’t killing anything. There wasn’t a sword in sight or a birdman in the sky. He was lying on a stone floor with Sasha in his arms, her hair twined around them, her hands on his face, her heart pounding beneath his cheek, and he was perfectly and completely happy.
“There once was a man named Kjell of Jeru who could pull trees from the ground with his bare hands,” he began, not even knowing exactly what he was going to say.
“So he was a very strong man?” Sasha asked, not missing a beat.
“Yes. The strongest.”
She laughed softly, the tremor making her body move against his.
“He could wrestle lions and toss bears and once killed ten birdmen with his bare hands. But the man was lonely. And his heart was dark.”
“Not so dark,” she murmured.
“Shh. It is my story.”
She pinched him and he rose up to kiss her again, punishing her mouth with his lips and his tongue, unable to help himself.
After a breathless moment he withdrew, panting, his eyes still on her mouth, even as he tried to refocus his thoughts. Sasha’s eyes pleaded and her lips begged, and he knew if he didn’t continue with his story now, there would be no more conversation.
“One day he found a beautiful girl with hair like the sunrise and skin dappled with light,” he continued softly. Sasha grew still and her hands ceased caressing his back. “The girl was kind to Kjell of Jeru, even though he was cold. She was patient with him, even though he was angry. She was soft, even though he was hard.”
Kjell made himself look at her, made himself meet her gaze. She was listening intently, her eyes so wet and deep he wanted to sink into them. Then he couldn’t look away.
“She followed him around and held his hand in the dark. She helped him find his way home and tried to slay birdmen for him. She wasn’t very good at it. But she tried.”
Ah. A smile. Good. His chest expanded again, nearly exploding, and he couldn’t breathe.
“The mighty warrior, mightiest in all the land—” He paused, unable to tell her he loved her. The words were too flimsy and too formal, too misused and too overused. So he gave her another truth. “The mighty warrior was . . . happy. And he wasn’t lonely anymore.”
Moisture trickled from the corners of her eyes and hid in her hair, and he rushed to finish, unable to bear her tears, even if they were happy ones.
“Sasha of Kilmorda, of Solemn, of Enoch, of the plains of Janda, of every place in between, will you be Sasha of Jeru?”
“Sasha of Kjell?” she asked.
“Sasha of Kjell,” he answered.
“I am yours, remember?” she reminded him, as if she’d already said yes a thousand times.
“And I am yours,” he whispered. She beamed through her tears, making his chest burn all over again. “The bans will be read. Tiras has given his blessing. And if you must go to Kilmorda, I will go with you.”
“Soon?” she asked, her lips still wet from his kisses.
“Very soon,” he agreed.
She surged up, and her lips found his again, frantic and clinging, and he answered with a desperation of his own. But he would not love her on the floor. Not the first time. He would be a good man. A wise man. A gentleman. For the first time in his life, he would be a gentle man. He would ask her to take him, but not before he gave himself away.
He pushed back to his haunches and rose to his feet, lifting her in his arms. When he laid her across the bed, she watched his hands loosen the ties of her gown, watched him remove her clothes, and when he was through, she watched him touch her. She didn’t close her eyes or drift away in sightless pleasure. She didn’t turn her head into the pillow or gaze blindly into the flickering light. With her eyes she followed his fingers and trailed his palms, observing the path he took and the reverence he administered.
Her thumbs caressed the corners of his mouth, feeling his kisses with her fingers as he pressed them onto her lips and into her skin. She didn’t look away when he shed his own clothes and wrapped her body around him. She didn’t shy from his ministrations or tremble from his weight, but pulled him close, eyes wide, lips parted, breathing him in as he sank inside her.
There were no secrets, no sorrows, nothing hidden, nothing lost. They saw not what would be or what had been, but only what was.
She saw him.
He saw her.
And they saw nothing else.