“Where is everyone, Padrig?” Sasha asked, her eyes trained on the piles of leafy debris and the detritus of neglect in the castle courtyard. She began to walk, calling out a greeting that would never be answered.
“Where is everyone?” she repeated, her voice more strident, her horror evident.
“I’m not entirely . . . sure,” Padrig answered, his face stricken, his brow drawn. But his gaze shifted the way it had when he’d promised Sasha she would lose nothing when he restored her memories. He was telling half-truths again.
Sasha began striding toward the wide castle doors, and Kjell rushed to pursue her, throwing instructions over his shoulder to his guard.
“Search the keep, but do so in groups, just like we did in the bay. And Jerick and Isak, stay with the Spinner.”
The doors were not barred or barricaded. Kjell and Sasha raised the looped iron knockers and pulled them wide, walking inside as if they belonged, as if the silence longed to be filled. Sasha did belong, Kjell reminded himself. He could picture her there, walking down the corridors, sewing in the light of the huge glass windows, her tongue caught between her teeth, looking out at the trees and the hills, seeing a future she couldn’t have dreamed.
She belonged at Caarn.
She had reigned in the Great Room hung with lacy cobwebs and walked the endless marble floors that now coated the hem of her gown with a pale powder, the color of the white rock that formed the castle walls. The table in the king’s dining hall was set for a feast that had never happened, and Sasha approached it, fingering the coated silver and the pewter goblets. Sasha’s chair would have been at the far end, the one inset with a tree, supported by dainty legs and carved with more feminine lines.
They left one room and entered another, a gallery of sorts, draped with flags and woven tapestries. One window above an ornate wall hanging had been shattered at some point, and glass crunched beneath their feet. The beam showed signs of dampness beneath the broken pane, but the tapestries had maintained their color, if somewhat dulled by dust.
They walked through the enormous kitchens, past the cold hearths and dangling fire irons and pots and pans. Only dirt marred the surfaces. Everything was in order, as if great preparation had been made for an extended absence. From the kitchens, Sasha led the way into a garden filled with plants that needed tending and rose bushes that were thorny and cross, their bite exceeding their unkempt beauty. Lining the garden were rows of trees laden with fruit of every kind, the rotted carcasses of the fallen apples, peaches, and pears giving the space an over-ripe stench that reminded Kjell of perfumed lords at a stifling soiree.
“There was no one here to eat the fruit or tend my trees,” Sasha mourned.
Kjell plucked an apple from a branch above his head and found it covered with holes. He pitched it over the pale rock wall and reached for another that was without blemish. He bit into it and savored the burst of flavor against his tongue, but when he went to take another bite, he saw the remains of half a worm. His stomach turned, and he tossed the second apple the way of the first.
“Which fruit is forbidden?” he asked.
Sasha shook her head, not understanding. “None of them.”
“Did King Aren plant this garden for his young queen?” he asked. “Or was that simply a story? I seem to remember a forbidden tree and a devious snake in that tale.”
“You are angry,” she said, perplexed.
“I am afraid,” he admitted. “Your stories have all proven to be real.”
She turned in a circle as if she couldn’t quite match her memories with the neglect and didn’t deny his claim.
“It is different than I remember. The landscape is overgrown, the castle abandoned. There aren’t even any bones,” she whispered.
There were animal bones here and there. But there were no Volgar or human bones. Kjell had noticed as well.
They joined the others in the courtyard, noting the listless travelers and the tired guard. The sailors were already talking about returning to the ship. Captain Lortimer wanted to turn back the following day.
“There is nothing here, Captain,” he complained. “Our ship waits in the harbor. It will be close quarters, but there are sufficient supplies—especially considering what we found in Dendar Bay. Everyone wants to go home.”
Padrig returned to the courtyard, Jerick and Isak trailing him, and caught the tail end of Lortimer’s speech.
“We cannot leave. Not yet,” Padrig cried. “I know where they are. I know what has happened. They are there.” He pointed to the groves that hugged the four castle walls and peered down at them, the oddest collection of trees to ever grow side by side, few of them the same variety, none of them uniform in height or spacing.
Lortimer laughed and a few sailors joined him. But Sasha didn’t laugh.
“Like Grandfather Tree?” she asked, horror tinging her voice. The story of Grandfather Tree was one she hadn’t shared.
“No.” Padrig shook his head, adamant. “No. Grandfather went to the forest to pass from this life to the next. The Spinners of Caarn didn’t go to die. They went to hide.”
“And they’re still hiding?” Kjell pressed.
“Why?” Sasha cried.
“I don’t know, Majesty,” Padrig answered, and this time his voice rang true.
“We saw how well you communicate with the trees, Star Maker,” Lortimer mocked, slumped against the stairs leading up to the castle doors.
“I know they are there!” Padrig insisted. “We have come all this way. Surely you can give me a few days to see what can be done.”
Jerick and Isak shifted nervously, and Kjell raised his brow. Jerick moved beside him and spoke in hushed tones, his eyes on the Spinner. “The trees around the castle aren’t like the ones blocking the road, Captain. The Spinner talked to them. He pled with them. But the leaves didn’t even shiver.”
Sasha turned toward Kjell, her eyes pleading. He knew what she was going to say before the words left her mouth.
“The trees at the border moved for you, Captain. Perhaps . . . these trees will listen to you as well.”
“Tomorrow, Saoirse,” Padrig interceded. “One more day won’t matter. We will eat, and we will rest. Then we will see about the trees.”
Sasha didn’t argue, and Kjell let Padrig shuffle the weary travelers inside, promising them all would be well. When night fell, Kjell would slip out among the trees and see for himself if they could simply be asked to spin or if Padrig was in denial.
The Volgar nested like most birds, pulling bits of hair, rope, cloth, straw and mud into mounds to fall into. In the castle, the mattresses were destroyed—gutted and scored—but that was all. The Volgar were beasts, and beasts didn’t sit in chairs or toast their success. They hunted. They grazed. They slept. And when there was no blood to drink or flesh to eat, they quickly moved on.
There had been nothing to eat in the castle. Nothing to eat in all of Caarn, besides other animals. The Volgar had cleared Caarn of her livestock and wildlife and quickly moved on to richer pickings.
A consensus was drawn that they would camp together in the Great Hall for the time being, and they cleared the soaring gallery of dirt and debris, beating the rugs and restoring order to the space. There were linens in the closets and brooms and rags stored neatly in the huge palace washroom. Kjell eyed the iron basins with longing. He wanted to be clean. The kitchen and washroom both boasted odd spigots that rose like great hooks with long handles and drew the water from deep in the ground. Sasha demonstrated the spigot in the kitchen to the awestruck gathering, pumping the odd handle determinedly until water gurgled forth, filling one bucket after another, to be heated later in the huge cauldrons on the row of hearths.
“The last three cauldrons are always kept full, the water hot, so that a bath can be easily drawn. There are hearths and cauldrons in the castle laundry as well, and the servants usually bathe there.”
The sun was setting and fires were started, the travelers eager for warm baths and hot food. Fruit was plucked from the engorged trees and sliced and folded into dough prepared by the cook with flour and oil from Dendar Bay. There was no fresh meat, but there would be pies. The torches—still waiting in sconces on every wall of the castle—were lit, enlivening the spirits of the group. It wasn’t until hours later, after appetites were sated and tubs were filled, emptied, and filled again, washing the miles from the bodies of almost four dozen travelers, that Sasha emerged from the room where the women had bathed, her hair still damp, her dress rumpled but clean. After his own bath, Kjell had waited outside her door, unwilling to let down his guard, even under the lulling glow of heat and warmth, of tired voices and rock walls. The other women had come and gone, hardly noticing him they were so accustomed to his watchful presence.
“Come with me,” Sasha murmured, extending her hand to him. “There is something I must show you.” The night was deepening and everyone but the assigned watch had retired to their pallets in the Great Hall to find sleep and a bit of solitude behind closed lids. Kjell took a torch from the foyer and followed Sasha up the shadowy staircase, keeping her hand in his and his eyes peeled to the darkness of the upper floor. No one had bothered to light the upstairs.
They walked down the corridors, lighting sconces as they did, chasing the darkness and the gloom as they passed elaborate tapestries and enormous portraits. A painting, rimmed in gold and adorned in cobwebs caught his eye. Sasha, her eyes wide and dark and her brilliant hair dulled by dust, had been captured against a backdrop of green. Kjell slowed, wanting to stare, but Sasha urged him forward, unimpressed by the beauty of her portrait.
She didn’t look twice at the row of blond kings, but continued on until she stood beneath a picture of a royal family wearing crowns of gold branches and gilded leaves, gazing out of the painting in contented unity.
“Is that . . . Padrig?” Kjell asked, pointing to the bearded, blond man beside the king. The painting was dated four decades earlier, but Padrig hadn’t changed very much. He looked old even then.
“Yes. He is Aren’s uncle. Padrig was King Gideon’s younger brother. That is Briona, Gideon’s queen and Aren’s mother.” Sasha indicated the couple seated in the center of the portrait.
King Gideon and Queen Briona were stately, attractive people, painted with steady gazes and elevated chins.
“That is Aren,” Sasha pointed at the tall youth in the painting. He looked about fifteen or sixteen summers, his hair golden, his eyes blue, his features sharp, and he stood next to a girl maybe two or three summers older. The girl was also fair with pale blue eyes and a solemn expression. There was something defiant and almost familiar about the set of her jaw and her unsmiling mouth. Sasha pointed at her. “That is Aren’s older sister.”
“Why are you showing me this painting, Sasha?” Kjell asked, trying to be patient and failing, as usual.
“Because . . . her name was Koorah,” Sasha said softly.
Kjell froze, arrested by the painted face of the girl with the same name as his mother. Sasha reached for his hand again, anchoring him, but she continued, her voice adopting the sing-song quality she used whenever she told stories.
“No one talked about Koorah when I came to Caarn. She had been gone a long time.” Sasha took a deep breath, steadying herself, and he glanced down at her, noting the flush on her cheeks and the trembling of her lips. She was as stricken as he. “She would have been queen, Kjell. In Caarn, the throne passes to the oldest child, not the oldest son. She never married, but Aren says she was well-loved. There were suitors, of course, but no one turned her head or won her heart. When she was twenty-eight summers, she disappeared. Aren believed she’d fallen in love with someone unfit to be king. She boarded a ship in the Bay of Dendar, and no one ever saw her again. King Gideon and Queen Briona convinced themselves she was lost at sea. It was easier to believe her dead than to worry about her wellbeing. And everyone knew there were terrible creatures in the Jeruvian Sea,” Sasha added on a whisper.
“Koorah was my mother’s name,” Kjell murmured, his throat too constricted for greater sound.
“I know,” she answered, her voice as hushed as his. “You told me once. But I didn’t even remember my own name then. Today, when you told the trees to move and they obeyed, Padrig asked you where your mother was from.”
“And you remembered her name,” he supposed.
“Yes.” She nodded. For a moment they were quiet, contemplative. Kjell’s mind pulsed with possibilities he discarded almost as quickly as they came. But Sasha wasn’t finished.
“I remembered your mother’s name, and I remembered the story of Koorah, the Healer, who would have been queen,” she said.
“The Healer?”
“Yes, Captain, a Healer.” Sasha lifted her eyes to his, and he could only gaze back, suddenly seeing another slave woman in a foreign land. He’d never known what his mother looked like. He still didn’t, but he gave her blue eyes and golden hair like the portrait on the wall. He gave her a stubborn jaw and a mouth that looked like his.
“Koorah is not a common name,” Sasha murmured.
“No,” he agreed.
“The trees obeyed you,” Sasha reminded.
“Yes.” There was no denying it.
“She was a Healer. You are a Healer.”
He nodded again.
“If you are Lady Koorah of Caarn’s son, then . . . you are the King of Caarn.”
He began shaking his head, adamant and disbelieving. This is where they would not agree. “It could never be proven. And I don’t have any desire to be king.”
“Kell means prince in Dendar,” Sasha whispered.
“I was named after the Kjell Owl! The midwife named me,” Kjell argued.
“Is it possible . . . Koorah . . . named you?” Sasha asked.
“I know only what I was told,” he whispered, and turned away from the painting. “It makes no sense. My father—Zoltev—would have married her if she was heir to a throne. It would have been an advantageous match.”
“Maybe she never told him . . . maybe, like you, she had no desire to be queen, and maybe Zoltev was not the man she followed to Jeru.”
“Or maybe she simply loved . . . badly, and realized too late,” he acquiesced, and his eyes found Sasha’s. “We will never know.”
“No. Not for certain. But I had to show you. It would have been wrong to keep it from you.”
“Keep what from me? Her name was Koorah. It means nothing to me! She means nothing to me. There is no one here, Sasha. We are surrounded by trees and little else.” He ground his palms into his eyes. He was tired, overwrought, and the words that he uttered next were not words he was proud of. “Come back to Jeru. Come back with me, Sasha. Please.”
She bowed her head, and he felt her agony even as he cursed his own weakness. He clenched his fists and looked for something to break.
“I cannot turn my back on these people,” she said.
“What people? They are all gone!” he roared. “The king, the villagers. They are all bloody trees in a damned forest. It’s been four years, Sasha. You tell me I might be the King of Caarn? King of an empty castle and endless trees? I am a king of trees?” He was so frustrated he couldn’t spit the words out fast enough, and snatched the portrait of the family from the wall and heaved it down the hall, watching it cartwheel before it skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs, completely intact. Sasha did not protest or try to calm him, but watched him the way she always did, like she couldn’t listen hard enough, like she couldn’t possibly love him more than she already did, and that made him even angrier, because her feelings were as futile as his own.
“There is only one thing in this whole, godforsaken world that would make me want to be bloody King of Caarn. One. Thing.” He raised a finger and jabbed it toward her. “You! I would be the court jester and wear striped hose and paint on my face if it meant I could be near you. But if I am King of Caarn, then you wouldn’t be queen. You would simply be the wife of my uncle. Now that is funny! Maybe I should play the fool. This whole, bungled situation is just rich with hilarity.”
He slammed his palms against the empty space where the portrait had hung and pulled at the cloak he wore around his shoulders, a cloak that suddenly felt like an anvil around his neck. Sasha’s touch was light against his back, and he turned on her with a groan and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet. He buried his face in her hair, pressing his lips to the soft skin of her throat before finding her mouth and taking what he could before it was too late. He kissed her, imprinting the shape of her lips on his mouth, tasted her, committing her flavor to his tongue, and swallowed her sighs, taking the heat of her response into the coldest corners of his heart.
But the kiss did not douse his fury or quiet the flame of frustration in his gut. It simply accentuated the hopelessness of his desire. He pulled away slightly, and for a moment breathed her in, his eyes closed, his resolve hardening. Sasha would not turn her back on Caarn, and she would not deny him. But his need was hurting her. His presence was hurting her. Uncertainty was hurting them both. And it had to end.
Releasing her, he grabbed the torch from the sconce on the wall and strode from the corridor, not waiting to see if she followed, trusting she would. He resisted the urge to burn the picture resting precariously against the bannister, but let it be, if only for the young woman named Koorah who observed him with painted eyes.
Down the broad staircase, across the echoing foyer and through the iron doors he flew, determined to be done with it all, to end the torment of hope.
“Healer!” Padrig shouted, coming out of the darkness like a phantom. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to set fire to the forest, Spinner,” he mocked, not slowing. He’d alerted the watch, and it wouldn’t be long until the whole castle was stirring. He quickened his pace, desperate to begin without onlookers. Sasha was running behind him, her breaths harsh. He was scaring her. The thought brought him up short.
“Which one, Padrig. Which one is the king?” he asked, moderating his tone.
“Why?” Padrig gasped, his eyes glued to the flame.
“You want me to heal them. That is why I’m here. That is why you helped me. You knew this is what we would find.”
“I . . . suspected,” Padrig confessed.
“How?” Sasha asked. “How did you know, Padrig?
“Your memories, Saoirse. When I showed Lady Firi your memories, I didn’t tell you everything we saw.” Padrig turned toward Kjell, beseeching even as he raised a hand to ward Kjell off. “We saw you touching the trees, Healer. And we saw the trees becoming . . . people. Ariel of Firi didn’t understand. But I did.” He placed a trembling hand over his heart. “I did.”
“When you gave me back my memories, that one was gone,” Sasha whispered, anger and realization making her eyes glow in the dancing torchlight.
“Yes,” Padrig replied, not denying it.
“But you didn’t tell me,” Sasha said.
“You love him, Majesty. He loves you. If there was nothing to come back to in Caarn . . . I didn’t believe you would . . . come back,” Padrig offered timidly.
Instead of Padrig’s confession making him angry, it gave Kjell an odd reassurance. Padrig was a manipulator. Even the trees judged him harshly, but Kjell couldn’t see how knowing Caarn slept would have changed anything.
“Sasha. If Padrig would have told you, you would still have come. And I would have followed.” Sasha’s eyes clung to his, defeated and despairing, clearly torn between her duty and her desire to shield him. That also had not changed.
“I knew something had gone wrong. They were trees too long, Healer. They couldn’t—they can’t—spin back,” Padrig rushed to expound, obviously relieved by Kjell’s pardon. Kjell pushed the torch into the Spinner’s hands and approached the nearest tree.
“How do we know whether the tree is a Spinner or simply a tree of Caarn?” Kjell asked.
Padrig inclined his head toward the trunk. “Touch it.”
Kjell pressed his hands to the bark and immediately withdrew them. This tree was different from the trees blocking the road into the valley. The sensation was like standing on the deck of the ship again, swaying on stormy seas, his stomach tossing to and fro.
“You feel it!” Padrig crowed, jubilant. “It is not simply a tree. It is a Spinner.”
“Yes.” Kjell nodded, but he immediately stepped away. He didn’t want to touch the tree. “But I am not.”
“You are a Healer. They need healing. And you have proven you can talk to the trees.” Padrig’s eyes were bright with knowing, and Kjell wondered if his loss of temper in the gallery had been overheard by the inquisitive Star Maker.
Kjell approached the tree again, addressing it with flattened palms and a clear command. The sensation traveled up his arms, filling Kjell with nausea, but unlike the trees on the road to Caarn, the trunk didn’t quake or shift, the roots didn’t unfurl, and the leaves were silent. It didn’t seem to hear him at all. He tried again, adjusting his message, but all he got for his efforts was a whirling head and a churning belly.
“Talking to them is not enough,” he said, dropping his hands and stepping away. He breathed deeply, attempting to calm his stomach and quiet his nerves.
“You have to try to heal them, Captain,” Padrig pled. “These are not simply trees of Caarn. They are people. Some of them were children so young they’ve been trees longer than they were babes. They were hiding, and they don’t know how to stop.”
Kjell placed his hands on a different tree, one of the smallest in the grove, its bark pale and thin and remarkably smooth. The swaying sensation welled immediately, and Kjell planted his feet to keep from falling. If the smallest tree in the wood made him feel this way, he had no hope of success.
“I will help you,” Sasha said, and took one of his hands, pulling it from the trunk, just like she’d done in the unforgiving village of Solemn. She laid her other palm against the tree next to his, pressing her fingers into the smooth bark. Her eyes clung to his face, brimming with tears that began to streak her cheeks and drip from her chin.
“I need you to help me find compassion, Sasha,” he murmured. “You loved these people once.”
“I love them still. But I love you more,” she wept. “May Caarn forgive me, I love you more.”
For a moment they were silent, hands clasped, hearts heavy, trying to find the will to do what must be done.
“I believe this tree was a child,” Padrig offered, stepping beside them with the torch. “If you look closely, you can see her face.”
They peered, grateful for the distraction, for the opportunity to forget themselves and forge ahead.
“It is a child, a little girl. There are flowers in her hair. See?” Sasha whispered, tracing the eyes and the nose, barely visible in the orange glow of the torch and the shadows on the bark.
“I see,” Kjell rasped. “But if I wake her, will she be afraid? Let us heal the parents first and let them help us wake the children.”
They moved to the next tree, an umbrella tree that sheltered the smaller tree beneath its boughs.
“I know who this is,” Sasha breathed, her eyes on the hollows that created a hint of a profile. “She is Yetta, the castle chef—so dour and dramatic. She was always convinced her next meal would disappoint, and worked tirelessly to make sure that it didn’t. She knew how much I loved her tarts and would find me, wherever I was in the castle, and make me swear each batch was better than the last.”
“Yetta had a granddaughter,” Padrig said. “Let us see if we can’t wake her, and then we’ll wake the child.”
It was not like healing a human or even a horse. The tossing in Kjell’s stomach continued to intensify, as if he drew the fear that made the Spinners of Caarn hide into himself. The sound he heard was not a song but a wail, and he didn’t try to duplicate it. He absorbed it, sinking beneath the layers of bark until the wailing became a whimper and a heartbeat emerged. He willed his heart to match the rhythm until he became the tree, and the tree became a tall woman, reed thin and clothed in a dress covered with a long apron. Her arms hung at her sides, and her eyes were closed like she slept upright.
Slowly her eyes opened, and she regarded Kjell in confusion before her gaze settled on the queen.
“M-majesty?” she stuttered, her voice raspy with disuse. “Queen Saoirse? Are the Volgar gone?”
Kjell dropped his hands, turned, and lost the contents of his stomach before bracing himself against the smaller tree and immediately starting again, Sasha at his side.
Not every tree was a Spinner, not every Spinner was a tree. Some were crouching bushes and shrubs; a climbing vine of roses was a woman by the same name. Some were easier to wake than others, and some refused to be roused. When he spent too long on one tree, Sasha forced him to move on. When he became too weak, she made him rest. But he slept in the groves, not even stumbling to the castle for reprieve, saving his strength for waking the forest. When he awoke, Sasha was always there, waiting. He made sure she ate when he ate, rested when he rested, and he commanded Jerick to watch her when he couldn’t.
As Kjell continued to heal and awaken, the wailing abated and the heartbeats beneath the trunks and hidden in bristled branches became more like the melodies of human healing and less like terrified screams. Each healing was accomplished with less sickness and more song, as if the Spinners of Caarn had heard their loved ones reemerge and had begun to reemerge themselves. But the numbers were great and the press of the healed and the waiting became more trying than the healing itself.
“Healer—this is my son,” a hovering mother said, patting a white sapling.
“Healer, will you help my child?” a father begged, standing beside a flowering lilac tree.
“Healer, will you wake my husband next?” the woman named Rose implored.
His guard formed a ring around him, asking the people to stand back, to be patient, but they obeyed only when Sasha commanded them to wait beside their loved ones, in whatever form they may be. Padrig began compiling a list of citizens, and slowly, families were reunited and sent home. One by one, the copses thinned and the village of Caarn grew around them.
There were so many. One day become another. And another. And another, until only one tree remained.
“He would have wanted to be last. He would have wanted to wait until everyone else was seen to,” Padrig whispered. His eyes were bright and his compassion evident, and Kjell knew the time had come. He hadn’t rested in many hours, but he would finish before he rested again.
“This is King Aren. He is good. And kind. He loves his people.” Sasha’s voice caught and her fingers clenched, and Kjell could only hold her hand, press his palm to the tree, and let her sorrow and his resistance roll over him.
“When I was just a girl, afraid of the things I saw, hidden away in a foreign land, he was my friend. I know what it costs you to call to him . . . but he is worthy of healing.”
Kjell’s heart began to tremble and quake, making a song of its own. Groaning and deep, a healing melody rose from his chest and rippled down his arms. The sound escaped through his lips, bellowing and great, like the rumble of the skies or the falling of the rocks, and just as before, he felt the moment when the tree awoke, when the old fell away and the flesh became new. Unlike the Changers when they shifted, the Spinners were fully clothed, their apparel becoming bark and leaves, branches and blossoms.
The trunk didn’t dissolve or slip away, it simply morphed, becoming man. The leaves curled and condensed, the bark became bone and sinew, and the king, his hair white and his beard full, stood before them. He was as tall as Kjell but leaner and more angular, every plane of his body and feature of his face severe and squared, his sharp cheekbones and his beaked nose giving him the chiseled look of a man carved from wood.
Kjell fell to his knees, his strength gone, and King Aren gripped his arms, wrapping his large hands around Kjell’s shoulders to bear him up.
“Saoirse said you’d come. She said one day a Healer would come to Caarn. She didn’t know your name, but she saw your face.”
Kjell lifted his heavy head, the weight making it loll to the side, but his eyes found Sasha’s. She wept openly, as if she’d betrayed him, as if she’d traded his life for her kingdom.
“Forgive me, Captain. Forgive me,” she begged.
“There is nothing to forgive,” Kjell said. His vision narrowed, and he rested his head upon the ground, bent as if in prayer, and let the darkness sweep him away, releasing him.