The Queen and the Cure

by Amy Harmon

  “Yes. I feel something for her,” he admitted quietly, grateful he didn’t have to admit more, and sank down on a garden bench at an angle to his brother’s wife.

  “And you don’t want to?” the queen asked.

  “I have tried not to.”

  “But feelings don’t always obey.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “They don’t. But I don’t trust . . . my feelings. Especially because I healed her. The healing has created a . . . bond. A strong one. An unnatural one.”

  “I see.” She was silent for a moment, as if examining his confession for holes.

  “Do you have feelings for me?” she asked suddenly.

  Kjell’s eyes shot to hers, and he knew she saw the curse he swallowed.

  “No,” he clipped.

  The queen laughed, the sound light and silvery, like the woman herself.

  “I admire you,” he amended. “I would die for you, gladly. I even . . . love you. But . . .” he struggled to explain something he didn’t understand himself.

  “But you healed me too, Kjell. Remember?”

  He hadn’t considered that.

  “Yet the bond is very different than what you are feeling for Sasha, isn’t it?”

  Even her name hurt him, piercing him sweetly, and he hung his head in submission.

  “I have loved badly before,” he grunted. He could barely say the words, and they were mostly unintelligible. The queen, however, did not miss them.

  “I see,” she sighed. She didn’t argue with him, didn’t question his feelings or his misgivings. She just let the statement be, accepting the truth of it. He had loved badly, and the kingdom had suffered. He had suffered. Terribly.

  After a time, the queen spoke again, returning to the matter at hand.

  “Sasha is devoted to you.”

  “Yes.” He agreed without equivocation. He knew that she was.

  “But you don’t trust her devotion either?” the queen asked.

  “It is born of gratitude and servitude. I don’t want either of those things from her.”

  “What do you want?”

  When Kjell failed to respond, Lark answered for him. “You want her to love you. It is an entirely different thing, isn’t it?”

  “I think so, yes,” he confessed, and felt both relief and pain at the admission. “I am not easy to love.”

  Lark laughed again, and he winced. “That, my dear Kjell, is a good thing. The very best things in life are born of difficulty. Whatever comes too easily is easily abandoned.”

  “It is the height of irony. I am forced to care in order to heal. I’ve spent my whole life not giving a damn.”

  “You are such a fool, brother.” Lark smiled to soften her words, but they still stung, and his eyes shot up and his jaw cracked. Lark was his queen, but he didn’t have to like what she said.

  “Kjell,” she soothed. “You care too much. And when you commit, both you and Tiras are just like your father. No half measures. All in, to the death. But Zoltev committed himself to power. You commit yourself to people. It is significantly more painful.”

  His shoulders slumped, and he rose from the bench. He was a fool. And he had a sneaking suspicion the queen was right. She was often right.

  “Tiras will be back soon. You should speak with him, Kjell.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Somewhere abusing his power.” Her smile was rueful, and she commanded the book to rise and open.

  “Flying?”

  “Flying. I will tell him you seek his counsel,” she murmured, allowing him to continue on in his search. He took a few steps before he spoke again, tossing the question over his shoulder.

  “Is she well?” he asked.

  “What?” Lark replied, clearly confused.

  “Wren. Is she well?”

  “Ah,” Lark sighed, and her voice smiled. “Yes. She is perfect.”

  “She has grown since I last saw her. She is beautiful,” he admitted, surprising himself with his sincerity.

  “Thank you, brother.”

  He was almost through the garden when Lark called out to him.

  “She is in the library, Kjell.” He quickened his step and heard her answering laugh. Curse his obviousness.

  Kjell had never liked the library. Endless knowledge and obedient words, everything in its proper place, everything with a beginning and an ending. Tiras loved the rows of shelves. Kjell just wanted to knock them down.

  Sasha was perched on a ladder, one arm clutching the top, one arm stretched high, wielding a duster made of goose feathers, her tongue caught between her lips in concentration. Either she didn’t hear him coming, or she was too intent on her precarious position to spare him a glance.

  He reached up, wrapped his arms around her legs, and toppled her into his arms.

  Her small squeal became a smile, and she sighed his name as he stepped behind the tallest of the shelves, hiding them from the wide, double doors and from anyone who might come to check on the new maid. Sasha twined her arms around him, looking at him like he was the sun and she’d been lost in the dark. She pressed her lips to his cheek so sweetly that he moaned and let her feet find the floor. Then his fingers were in her hair and on her face, touching her nose and her chin, touching the freckles he saw when he closed his eyes.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice catching, her body pressing into his.

  “I’m counting your freckles to make sure you haven’t lost any.” He felt her teeth on his shoulder, as if she wanted to get closer, to consume him. He bundled her hair in his hands, nipping at her chin and her throat, following the path where his fingers had been.

  Then he was kissing her, telling her all the things that he couldn’t say, listening for all the things he needed to hear. His hands cradled her hips and slid up her slim back, tracing and retracing, reveling in the feel of her and in the knowledge that she welcomed him.

  “Thank you,” she sighed into his mouth. He withdrew slightly, just enough to glower down at her.

  “You are thanking me for kissing you?”

  “Yes. Every time you do it, I’m afraid you will never do it again.”

  “Why?” he asked, incredulous.

  “I can’t explain it,” she whispered. “It isn’t something I see. It’s something I feel.”

  “How can I make that feeling go away?”

  “You must promise to never stop kissing me,” she said, her face solemn. “You must kiss me relentlessly and never cease.”

  He nodded, every bit as solemn, and immediately obeyed.

  “Sasha!”

  She was trembling, her eyes open, but something about her gaze and the sounds in her throat convinced him she wasn’t awake.

  He shook her gently, kneading her arms and stroking her hair.

  “Sasha, wake.”

  One moment she was somewhere else and the next, with him. He saw the light come back in her eyes, the awareness, but her trembling continued and her mouth struggled to form words, still caught in the place where the mind was a contortionist and the body was paralyzed.

  “I s-saw you,” she stuttered.

  “And do you see me now?” he asked quietly, making sure she was with him in the present.

  “Yes.” Her eyes closed briefly, but there was no relief in her face. He released her, moving away. When she slept near him, he kept his distance. He had to.

  “I saw her.”

  He didn’t have to ask who she meant.

  “She will not hurt you. I will not let her,” he promised.

  “It is not me I am afraid for,” she murmured.

  “If she wanted to harm me, she could have done so many, many times. Yet she hasn’t.”

  She nodded, agreeing with him, her eyes darker than the night outside his window. But he knew she hadn’t shared all she’d seen, hadn’t told him all she feared. Sasha told stories, but she never told lies. Maybe her dreams felt like lies. Or maybe she simply didn’t dare speculate on what she didn’t completel
y understand. Lark would tell her that was wise, that words could be spoken into reality.

  He didn’t kiss her or pull her close to comfort her, and she didn’t seek it. Alone this way, with nothing to stop them, the only thing keeping them apart was never coming together in the first place. He did not touch her and she did not touch him, not in the dark, not in that way. Not yet. And pleasure did not belong in the same bed as fear.

  She didn’t return to sleep but lay quietly beside him until dawn, as if staying awake would allow her to see the threat before it came to pass. Just before daybreak, she crept from his bed, and he let her go, feigning sleep so she wouldn’t worry that she’d disturbed him.

  Before she slipped out the door he thought he heard her whisper. “I will not let her hurt you.”

  ***

  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.