He was spared from watching Sasha greet her husband. Spared from their reunion. When consciousness found him once more, he was in a chamber, stretched across the wide bed, his boots removed, his weapons placed carefully aside. He wondered briefly how many men it had taken to carry him from the woods and marveled that he hadn’t been left to recover under the trees. He felt bruised in layers—his skin was even sore to the touch—the ache deep, dark and multi-colored. The last time he’d healed a multitude, he’d slept for several days and awakened with his head in Sasha’s lap. This time he awoke alone, sore and soul-weary.
His beard was back, but she was gone.
He eased himself up, knowing movement would be the surest way to loosen his stiff muscles. A jug of wine and a heavy goblet sat atop the small table near his head. He didn’t bother with the goblet but took the jug with two hands and tipped it back, washing away the desert in his throat and the cobwebs in his head. It had a mild blackberry flavor with notes of cedar and pine, but like the wine in Quondoon, it was weak, a wine for slaking one’s thirst rather than escaping one’s reality. He could have used a little of both at the moment.
A pitcher of water and a shallow basin adorned the narrow chest along the opposite wall, placed directly beneath an oval mirror that reflected the light from the rear-facing window. He rose gingerly, walking to the glass and confronting his blood-shot eyes and shaggy hair. He was a man of thirty summers, and the hair at his temples was newly shot with white. He didn’t worry that his efforts had aged him, but they had clearly taken their toll. He wore the gaunt mien of a battle-weary warrior, the growth on his jaw doing little to disguise the hollows in his cheeks or the circles beneath his pale gaze.
His blade had been sharpened and a wedge of soap—cedar and pine again—was placed on a neatly folded cloth. Beside it lay a brush for his teeth, another for his hair. It was all very considerate and impersonal. He shrugged off his tunic, grimacing a little at his weakened state. Every muscle and ridge on his upper body was starkly defined, carved out by complete physical depletion. He’d scrubbed the sleep from his eyes and the film from his teeth and had begun to loosen his drawers when a soft rap sounded on his door.
A head peeped inside, not waiting for him to grant entry, eyes trained to the bed, clearly expecting him to still be sleeping. She was blond, her hair woven neatly in a braided circle around her head. He remembered her vaguely from the forest—she’d been a peach tree, heavy with fruit. She gaped at his naked chest, and her jaw dropped slightly, but she didn’t retreat.
“You’re awake, Captain!” she chirruped. “We’re bringing water for a bath. All your clothing has been washed and dried. You’ll find it in the chest there. I’ll fetch your supper. The queen said you’d be very hungry when you finally woke.”
The queen had thought of everything. He wondered if this girl had been instructed to follow him around and see to his every need the way Sasha had once tried to do. An image of Sasha in Enoch, clothed only in moonlight, flashed through his head and made him flinch.
“Are you all right, Captain?” the blond inquired hesitantly.
“Fine,” he answered, and picked up his blade, preparing to scrape away his beard.
“I can do that, sir,” she offered.
“Did the queen demand it?”
She blushed. “No, Captain.”
He dismissed her, certain that she would find a listening ear and report on the boorishness of the Healer from Jeru. When the water and the large tub were brought into his quarters, he made use of them before he ate everything on the heaping platter delivered and placed beside the empty jug of wine. It had been refilled. A pang of guilt pierced his chest. So much of the limited supply had been allotted him—there were now several hundred people to feed within the environs of the castle—but he ate with gratitude and gusto, promising himself he wouldn’t take more than his share again.
He detected the sounds of a castle reawakened, the murmur of voices, the patter of shoes against stone, the clang and racket of industry. When he could find no reason to tarry, he left his chamber, resolving to find his men and move his things back into the garrison. He would not be waited on by the queen’s handmaidens.
The floors gleamed and the wood glowed. The dust was gone, the tapestries beaten into brilliance, and the spiders made homeless. Every corner and crevice had been cleaned and scrubbed; even the air boasted a fresh scent and soft laughter. The healed had been busy.
Kjell trusted that Jerick had carried out his commands, keeping one of his men assigned to Sasha at all times. He found himself listening for her even as he avoided the places he thought she’d be—the wide halls and the great rooms, the kitchens and the library, the galleries and the porticos. But he hadn’t thought to avoid the king.
Aren was surrounded by men—a steward who took endless notation as the king spoke, clearly compiling lists and taking direction, and several others who appeared to be listening intently and offering opinions when asked. They were surveying the outbuildings and had just exited the stables where the horses brought from Jeru were housed. Padrig huddled at the elbow of the king and was the first to draw attention to Kjell who had tried unsuccessfully to slink into the shadows.
The men began to bow in reverent gratitude, and the king, his crown sitting comfortably on his white hair, inclined his head as well.
“I trust your strength has been restored, Kjell of Jeru?”
Kjell nodded. “Yes. I took far more than my share. The supplies brought from Jeru won’t last long with our numbers.”
“They will be more than sufficient,” the king answered graciously.
“The countryside has been stripped of livestock and wildlife. There is nothing to eat, Majesty,” Kjell contended.
“We brought seeds, Captain,” Padrig reminded him. “Fortunately, all the seeds were on Lortimer’s ship. There will be plenty to eat.”
“Seeds?” Kjell asked, incredulous. The people would be dead before seeds would be of any use.
“Ah. He doesn’t understand,” the king said slyly. “Come, Captain. You will enjoy this, I think. Today we plant.”
Kjell trailed after the eager Spinners to the fields west of the castle, wishing he could see Jerick and inquire after the welfare of the queen. He shoved the thought away. You will not be able to sleep outside my door.
“Your Earth Mover was most helpful,” the king said. “We have spent the morning clearing rocks, but we have many hands and he’s saved us weeks of labor.”
“My . . . Earth Mover?” Kjell asked.
“Jedah,” Padrig supplied. “He turned the soil and prepared the ground for planting. In one day he accomplished the work of a team of laborers. He is in the southern fields today. Tomorrow he will travel to the east, the next day to the north. The growers will follow behind.”
The king took a kernel of corn from his pocket and walked to a furrow. Bending his long back, he pushed the kernel into the dirt and covered it gently. Without explanation, he placed his hand against the freshly-churned soil, curling his fingers into the dark softness, his palm down and his fingers cupped. Slowly, as if he measured the height of a child from toe to crown, he coaxed a green shoot from the ground and made it climb, reaching for the sun, the stem plumping and the leaves unfurling. Around Kjell, other spinners began to do the same, the plants flowering and flourishing around him. They sowed the seeds only to cover them and immediately call them forth. Corn, carrots, and tomatoes so red and fat the vines couldn’t hold them. They pulled bounty from the earth the way Padrig had pulled stars from the heavens.
Children poked the knotted roots of potatoes into mounds and patted them down. A woman walked behind them, placing her hands atop the rises. Green foliage would spill from the mounds, and she would move on to the next one. Several children followed behind her, digging into the earth she’d just touched, uncovering fully grown potatoes like they’d been there all along.
Ten spinners stood in a fallow field, and within the hour, had coaxed forth rows of waving wheat.
Kjell remembered the fruit trees in Sasha’s garden—all the bounty and the variety. With the right seeds, Aren could have built it in a day. In a matter of hours.
There would be plenty to eat.
“Walk with me, Healer. You and I have much to discuss.” When Padrig and the king’s counselors fell in behind them, the king waved them off. “I wish to speak to the captain alone. Stay.”
Kjell fell into step beside the king as they moved away from the growers, from the miracles spilling from their hands, and from the fields not yet sown. They climbed into the forest formed not of spinners, but of the towering trees of Caarn. Kjell could easily see the difference now.
“I am accustomed to looking down on men. You are even bigger than I am,” the king commented, moving through the trees as though he belonged among them.
“My brother—King Tiras—is tall as well. We get our size from our father,” Kjell answered, repeating what he’d always believed.
“As did I. We are a tall people. Maybe it is an outward manifestation of our gifts.” The king stooped to pick up a sturdy, long stick and weighed it in his hands before he jabbed it into the ground, using it as a staff to climb the rise.
Kjell was silent, waiting for the king to say what he was bound to say. He had little doubt that much had been discussed and revealed while he slept. Sasha would not have withheld the entire story from King Aren. It was not her way.
“I am not a young man. I haven’t been young for a long time. I was not young when Saoirse became my queen. Ours was a marriage designed to unite people and blend nations, but we were suited. And her gift was desirable to me. So many of us are Tree Spinners in Caarn. We have tried to bring in other gifts, but the gift to spin is a highly dominant trait. My father was a Tree Spinner, and his father before him. Padrig has a unique gift. My sister had a unique gift as well. But she did not choose to stay in Caarn.”
The king had stopped walking and faced Kjell, searching his eyes.
“Saoirse tells me your father, King Zoltev of Jeru, was a wicked man.”
Kjell nodded, denying nothing. And still the king studied him.
“You may have gotten your size from your father. Your strength. But you are very like your mother,” Aren said, his voice flat and heavy, as though declaring a royal edict.
Kjell stumbled back, the air whooshing from his lungs in surprise. That was not the accusation he had expected.
“She told me, Captain,” Aren explained. “Saoirse told me who you are. I didn’t want to believe it. But it is undeniable.” Aren lowered his staff so it pointed at Kjell’s chest. “So you took my queen and now you will take my kingdom?”
Kjell did not step back or lower his gaze.
“If I had taken your queen, Majesty, she would not be here. And if I’d wanted your kingdom, you would not be here,” he said softly.
Aren’s blue eyes were suddenly alight with mirth, and he threw back his head and laughed. Kjell did not join him. His feelings were too turbulent, his thoughts too troubled.
Aren lowered his stick and leaned against it, stroking his beard as his grin faded, his eyes thoughtful and his posture pensive.
“Why did you heal me, Captain?” he pressed. “You could have taken my place beside her.”
“I don’t want to take another man’s place. I want only what belongs to me.”
I belong to you now.
Kjell pushed her voice away.
“I could argue that the kingdom is rightfully yours,” Aren said.
“If my mother was indeed Koorah of Caarn, then she walked away from her birthright. I did not come to reclaim it.”
“Why did you come?” Aren asked.
“To make sure . . . the queen . . . is safe.” He could not call her Sasha in the presence of the king. It was too familiar. But he couldn’t call her Saoirse; it wasn’t familiar enough. He decided not to say her name at all. It was easier that way.
As succinctly as he could, Kjell told the king about the Changer who had dogged their journey, about his fears, and about his certainty that the battle for power had not ended on the shores of Jeru.
Aren listened, his eyes widening at the tale. When Kjell finished, he was quiet for a long time, considering.
“Without you, the walls of Caarn would still be empty. Caarn needs a Healer,” he said, finality in his voice. “I would be a fool to insist that you leave.”
“I’ve healed the whole bloody village. I have nothing to offer anyone here. If someone grows ill or is gravely wounded, I will be useless.”
“What do you mean?” the king gasped. “Saoirse said you healed an entire village in Quondoon. You healed a forest of Spinners. Surely you can heal again.”
“A scratch. A minor wound. A small burn. Those things I can do, over and over again. But the kind of healing I’ve done here in Caarn? I won’t be able to do it again. That kind of healing is a gift I can give only once.”
“But the woman . . . the Changer. She doesn’t know this?”
“No. And I believe that is what has protected the queen thus far. The changer doesn’t know I can’t simply heal her again.”
“Are you sure she followed you to Dendar?” the king pressed.
“No. But if she is here, I led her here. I brought this to you. It is happening all over again, and I can’t leave. Even if I wanted to. Even if it would be easier to go.”
“Then we will wait. And we will watch.” The king sighed.
“I will do what I promised. I will stay until the queen is safe. But you must guard her, Majesty,” Kjell insisted.
“Saoirse is not helpless,” Aren said.
“No. She is fearless, compassionate, and totally committed. But her visions are sporadic and incomplete. And she is not ruthless.”
“This Lady Firi, this Changer—she is ruthless?”
“Yes.”
“There are dreadful scars down Saoirse’s back. How did she get them?” the king asked.
The rage swelled and bellowed in Kjell’s chest, and he forced himself to look away, flexing his hands so he wouldn’t ball them into fists. The Creator help him. He could not abide the thought of Sasha’s pale skin bare to another man’s eyes.
“That bothers you,” the king whispered. “It bothers you that I have seen her scars. She is my wife, Healer.”
“She is my heart,” Kjell shot back, unable to hold his tongue.
The king cursed and Kjell braced himself for the king to swing his stick. He would take the punishment. He deserved it. But the blow did not come.
“It is a man’s world, yet we are slaves to our women,” King Aren whispered. “I do not blame you. I do not blame her. But you will keep your distance, Captain.”
Kjell nodded, and without another word, retreated into the trees, unable to trust himself in the king’s presence any longer.
Kjell was true to his promise, staying as far from the queen as possible. He had shared his suspicions and specific instructions with his men. If they didn’t know what they were looking for, they couldn’t possibly defend against it.
Lortimer and the sailors were more amenable to staying now that there was a village to reside in. They’d been well paid to take the voyage—the people in Caarn were friendly and welcoming, and a few months was not so much to ask when conditions were agreeable. The Gifted and the tradesmen who had made the journey had always intended to stay, and they went about making arrangements for themselves in the new community.
The King’s Guard broached no complaint at the extended stay. Their lodgings were comfortable, their bellies full, and their devotion to Sasha evident. Jerick had begun calling them the Queen’s Guard when he didn’t think Kjell could hear. Kjell knew Tiras would worry when no one came back, but had no way to send him word. Hashim’s messenger birds were not trained to fly across the sea.
Kjell moved his belongings from the castle and slept in the barracks with his men. He had found it worrisome that King Aren had no soldiers of his own. He had a court and counselors, cooks and seamstresses, stewards and grounds-men. There were artisans and weavers, growers and bakers, candle makers and gamekeepers—though there was little game anymore in Caarn. But there was no army.
A string of spindly guardsmen stood at attention by the entrances and on the castle parapets, but they did little more than bow and bellow the time, bugling the general welfare of Caarn like pesky roosters. Kjell wondered which of them had been the first to spin into a trembling tree when the Volgar attacked. The guardsmen worked in shifts and went home to their cottages when they weren’t on duty. The barracks he and his men had commandeered were the least crowded corner of the entire keep.
Kjell took it upon himself to change that.
He kept a handful of guards assigned to the queen and enlisted the rest of his men to recruit and train a small army, and fortunately, there were men seeking work. King Aren had instructed the trees around the border to open, thinning them with a firm command. They had obeyed, ambling outward, creating a porous perimeter around the valley.
When Kjell had expressed concerns to Padrig and King Aren about the unprotected border, the king had nodded soberly, listening to his fears, but he had his own opinions.
“Caarn has always welcomed everyone. We only ask that if you come to Caarn, you contribute. If you want to eat, you will work. Everyone can do something. That has been our strength.”
“That is noble. But there are monsters in the world. Your strength is also your weakness. Who will keep the monsters out?” Kjell asked.
“The Volgar are gone,” Padrig protested, inspiring a growl from Kjell’s throat. For a man who could harvest memories, Padrig’s own memory was remarkably deficient.
“There are all types of monsters,” Kjell shot back. “But don’t be so hasty, Padrig. The people have returned. Maybe the Volgar will as well.”
The king nodded slowly. “Then we will do our best to defend against them.”
Kjell dedicated himself to doing just that. Empty cottages were filled, and the surrounding fields and streams continued to yield enough food to feed them. Making things grow was child’s play for the Spinners of Caarn, but harvesting required the same toil and time as it did everywhere else. But those who didn’t have a calling or a craft, a duty or a trade, were enlisted in the defense of Caarn.
With the opening of the forest wall along the border, wildlife began to trickle into the valley as well, and when Kjell wasn’t creating an army he was hunting for the Changer. He didn’t know what he thought he’d find, but he looked all the same, watching for signs and ciphers, for traces and tracks. If given the opportunity he would have to strike a killing blow. If he merely wounded her, she could change, and in changing, she would heal.
Each day, he mixed dirt with a bit of water from the carafe on his belt and darkened his skin. Then he wrapped himself in greenery and perched on a knoll beneath a sheltering tree, waiting faithfully. His size made it hard to hide, but his desire to escape the castle walls and avoid the castle’s queen gave him patience and persistence. She was his reason to evade and his reason to endure.
Two weeks after waiting day after day, he was rewarded by the presence of a doe, picking her way through the foliage, her eyes on the castle just visible through the trees. The deer was sleek and brown, the same color as the wolf in the Corvar Mountains, and Kjell’s heart leapt at the glimmer of possibility in the feminine line of her back and the deep brown of her eyes. The doe didn’t strip the bark from the trees or nose the bushes, but stared at the castle as though it called to her.
Keeping his breath locked in his chest, Kjell drew his bow, notching the arrow, feeling the tension in his limbs and in the choice before him. He released his breath as he released the shaft. It flew true, slicing the air and piercing the soft pelt of the deer, burrowing deep behind her front leg. She crumpled, her head rising and falling, her only nod to resistance. He ran, hurtling rocks and skirting bushes, his eyes never leaving the downed animal.
There was little blood, but her gaze was fixed, and in death she remained exactly what she’d been in life.
A deer.
Kjell swore, sorry that he’d killed her and angry that he would do it again, and began the untidy work of removing her pelt. The meat would be welcome even if his efforts were fruitless.
A snapping in the undergrowth had him whirling with his knife raised. Jerick appeared, his own bow looped over his arm, his other hand outstretched, offering wine like he’d offered it once before.
“I will never drink from your bottle again,” Kjell muttered.
“An unanticipated boon, I must say,” Jerick retorted. “I prefer not to share.”
“Report, Lieutenant,” Kjell ordered.
“All is well, Captain.”
“Nothing gets near her,” Kjell insisted for the hundredth time.
“Not even a mouse,” Jerick replied, his standard answer to Kjell’s dogged demand.
“How is she?” It was the first time Kjell had asked. Jerick had managed to communicate her whereabouts and her wellbeing without elaborating, which had left Kjell both grateful and gutted.
Jerick regarded him with more compassion than he deserved.
“She is tireless.”
“There is much to be done,” Kjell said evenly.
“She is unhappy, Captain. She rises early, works without ceasing, and retires late. Every day she asks if you are well, and I tell her the same thing that I just told you. You are tireless. And you are miserable.”
“Don’t tell her that,” Kjell snapped.
“All right. I will lie,” Jerick agreed cheerfully.
“I do not want her to suffer,” Kjell muttered.
Jerick nodded and immediately shifted subjects.
“There will be a celebration, Captain. Will you be there? There is talk you will be knighted.”
“A hero of the realm.” Kjell sighed, repeating the title that was to be bestowed on him.
“Yes. The people need a celebration. And you need to allow them to thank you.”
“The king said the same thing. I promised I will be there,” Kjell grumbled.
“He is a good king, Captain.” Jerick said softly.
“Jerick? Why do you always say things I have no desire to hear?” Kjell asked, though his voice lacked its customary venom.
“Because I am the only one who dares,” Jerick replied. “It’s good for you, Captain.”
“Yes. I am always healed by your presence and your words, Lieutenant,” Kjell countered dryly.
Jerick snorted. “King Aren reminds me a little of you.”
“Cease speaking, Lieutenant,” Kjell sighed, knowing Jerick would never, ever cease speaking.
“It is something in his eyes,” Jerick mused. “Though his are a brighter blue. And much warmer. Wiser. Maybe it is his mouth. Of course he smiles more.” Jerick’s grin was wicked as Kjell sought to sweep his feet out from under him. The lieutenant countered and danced away. Kjell let him scamper, crouching over the deer once more, too subdued to make chase, though he appreciated Jerick’s company more than he would admit.
“She’s a beauty. First one I’ve seen. The animals are coming back. The forest is coming alive. It’s . . . comforting,” Jerick mused, listening to the chirping of the birds and the chattering of the squirrels above them.
Kjell nodded, though he knew little comfort and even less peace. He considered again that Ariel of Firi had died in the depths of the sea. Or maybe she’d never left the Corvar Mountains or the Bay of Brisson at all. She was controlling him—his emotions, his time, his energy—with no effort at all.
“Don’t drain the doe here. Yetta will want the blood. She will put it in her soup, and it will taste like the nectar of the gods.” Jerick indicated the deer Kjell had just begun to skin.
“Then help me carry it back,” Kjell said. They hoisted it upon their shoulders, walking in comfortable silence, the weight and warmth of the animal shared evenly between them.
“Captain, if Lady Firi followed you from the plains of Janda all the way to the mountains in Corvyn, she followed you here,” Jerick offered as they neared the west castle gate. The newly-trained watchman saw their approach and called out a welcome and a query, just as he’d been taught.
“Are you sure you aren’t Gifted, Lieutenant?” Kjell murmured, waiting for the gate to rise. “You have an uncanny way of reading my mind.”
“No Captain. I am not Gifted,” Jerick retorted. “I am just your friend.”