The Queen and the Cure

by Amy Harmon

  “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 remov
e 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.

  ***

  Sasha’s hair was uncovered, spilling in endless curls, an eruption of fire. She wore a dress of pale gold that moved with her body and accented her skin, and Kjell knew the queen had played a part in procuring the gown. Lark didn’t wear gold—it would have looked odd with her silvery eyes and ash-brown hair, her spiked crown, and her tiny, bird-like figure—but the precious metal suited Sasha perfectly. The queen wore midnight blue, and together the women were fire and ice, sunlight and moonshine, and Tiras laughed at Kjell when his steps faltered upon entering the ballroom.

  It was a masquerade, an ancient Jeruvian tradition, where a man would remove the mask of his betrothed, revealing her identity, and claiming her. With the unveiling, the announcement would be made, both to those in attendance at the masquerade and also to those outside the walls. Tiras had made it a royal event—demanded it even—and the hall dripped with candlelight and spun with color, the masked ladies and well-groomed men filling every nook and crowding every cranny, celebrating the engagement of the king’s brother.

  “The mask does little good when you wear a crown,” Tiras observed, his eyes on his small wife, her bejeweled mask more a decoration than a disguise.

  “Or when your hair is the color of fall leaves,” Kjell added, unable to look away from the fiery tresses and the smiling mouth of his intended.

  Tiras snorted, his hand moving to his older brother’s shoulder and squeezing gently.

  “You are a poet, Kjell,” Tiras grinned.

  “No. I have just lost all desire to pretend,” he confessed.

  “The announcement will be made, and tonight the royal crier will read the bans from the tower wall,” Tiras said, “and you won’t be able to turn back.”

  “I don’t want to,” Kjell replied. “But I do wish we could quietly make our vows and be done with it. We are not royalty. We do not want or need the traditional service or the pomp and circumstance that goes with it.”

  “You are my brother and the captain of the King’s Guard, and she is Lady Kilmorda. You will not skulk or hasten the arrangement. It is another victory for Jeru that an heir of Kilmorda has been found and mighty Kjell has been tamed,” Tiras teased.

  Kjell endured his brother’s banter and accepted his duty without further argument. If the king insisted on ceremony, he would conform, but the Jeruvian marriage rites would change nothing. He had already pledged himself.

  Tiras wasted no time. The announcement was made at sunset. Bells rang from one end of Jeru City to the other, and the royal crier stood on the wall and read the bans over and over again, repeating himself as subjects gathered and listened, then ran to share, eager to spread the news.

  “Kjell of Jeru, captain of the King’s Guard, son of the late Zoltev, and brother of the noble King Tiras, will wed Lady Sasha of Kilmorda, daughter of the late Lord Pierce and the late Lady Sareca, may the Creator keep their souls. So it is written, so it will be done on the fourth day of Antipas, the month of constancy. May the God of Words and Creation seal their union for the good of Jeru,” the crier announced, shouting the words into the setting sun and flinging them at the stars.

  In response, the cry went up again and again, “Hail, Kjell of Jeru, brother of the king. Hail Lady Sasha, daughter of Kilmorda.”

  The dancing began as the bells ceased ringing, and Kjell endured that too. He played his part and knew the steps, treating it like swordplay, just to get through the sequences duty demanded. Sasha was drawn into one dance after the other, and she stumbled a bit, twirled a little too often and too early, but caught on quickly. Before long she was swaying in time, weaving through the lines, making him forget he hated dancing. She was a golden candlestick, slightly taller than the other women, and he was drawn to her light, again and again. When they were apart, she watched him as he watched her, unable to look away.

  When the evening waned and the tower bells tolled midnight, he joined his brother and his queen on the dais, Sasha at his side, and bowed his farewell to the departing guests. As the last of the attendees made their way past the dais and exited the great hall, Jerick entered quickly through the king’s private entrance and approached Tiras, bowing deeply and apologizing profusely.

  “Majesty, forgive me. There is a visitor at the drawbridge. He seeks entry.”

  “What is his business?” Tiras sighed, clearly ready for the night to end. The clock had struck, the dancing was done, and the celebration had all but concluded. Only a few drunken noblemen, the musicians, and the king’s staff remained. Sasha yawned deeply and tried to disguise it, and the queen’s crown was slightly askew.

  “He insists he knows the lady from Kilmorda,” Jerick explained, apologetic, his eyes glancing off Kjell and Sasha before returning to the king. “I would have sent him away and made him return on the morrow, but the captain has had us looking for this man.”

  Kjell’s heart momentarily lost its rhythm and Sasha straightened beside him. Tiras raised his brows in question, but when Kjell affirmed the claim with a brisk nod, Tiras consented to give the man a hearing.

  Moments later, Jerick and another guard returned, accompanied by a shrouded visitor. They stopped ten feet in front of the throne, as tradition demanded, and commanded the man to state his name.

  “King Tiras, Queen Lark,” the visitor intoned, his voice low and unremarkable. “I am Padrigus of Dendar. Thank you for receiving me at this hour.”

  “Bring him closer,” Tiras said to the guards, inclining his head. “Then leave us and remain outside the doors.”

  Kjell appreciated the king’s request. If this was a man who knew Sasha, who bore knowledge of her past, Kjell did not want an audience listening in, not even one comprised of men he would trust with his life. The two guards escorted the man forward and, releasing him, withdrew from the hall. When the great doors closed, Kjell stepped down from the dais and stopped directly in front of the man.

  “You are the man we saw in the street the day we arrived in Jeru,” Kjell said, not interested in pleasantries with a stranger. The man had removed his beard, greatly altering his appearance, but Kjell recognized the slope of his shoulders and the slant of his head. He was gaunt and stooped as if he’d grown accustomed to carrying a great weight upon his back, and just like the day in the street, he wore robes instead of a tunic and breeches, the wide cowl making him look like a prophet instead of a pauper. When he pushed it back, revealing his face, Sasha gasped.

  “Padrig?” Sasha cried, taking a step forward and extending a hand to the old man. Kjell stepped in front of her, barring her path.

  “You know him,” Kjell asserted. It wasn’t a question but a statement. She clearly recognized the man.

  “Yes.” Sasha nodded emphatically. “He is the man who helped me. He walked with me from Kilmorda to Firi,” she exclaimed, her eyes shining with recognition.

  “Milady, I’ve been looking for you for so long,” Padrig whispered. His legs buckled, as though the burden on his shoulders had suddenly been lifted and he’d lost his balance. He was old, but his age was more worry than years, more grey hair than deep lines. Kjell moved to help him stand,
and the man gripped his arms to steady himself.

  “Why have you just come forward? We have been in Jeru City for a fortnight. My men searched for you, but you had fled,” Kjell demanded.

  “Forgive me, Captain,” Padrig murmured, bowing his head. “There were many things to consider.”

  “Yet you came forward tonight?” Tiras asked, his brow furrowing.

  “I heard the bans, Majesty. They confirmed her identity,” Padrig explained.

  “Please, Padrig. Sit. You look so worn,” Sasha implored, welcoming his presence the way she did most things, with joy and instant acceptance.

  Kjell eased him toward a chair but the man refused, finding his strength and releasing Kjell’s arm. He braced his legs as if preparing for a storm, and Sasha ducked around Kjell and took Padrig’s hand, a luminous smile curving her lips.

  “You are the only thing I remember from my life,” she marveled. “You were kind to me. And I never got to thank you.”

  “She is Lady Sasha of Kilmorda, isn’t she?” The queen asked Padrig gently, and Kjell wanted to yell, to tell everyone to cease talking for a moment. But the conversation gained momentum around him.

  “Yes,” he nodded emphatically. “Sometimes . . . we called her Sasha. But her given name is Saoirse.” There it was again, the word he’d said in the street. Seer-sha. He’d known who she was, even then.

  “We?” Kjell interrupted.

  “Her family. Those who love her.” Padrig could hardly speak, though it was clear there was a great deal more to say.

  “Why can’t she remember, Padrig?” Kjell asked, suspicion making his voice sharp.

  Padrig didn’t answer, but he gripped Sasha’s hands desperately, his throat working, his lips muttering, and Kjell’s dread mushroomed into fear. Kjell placed his hand on Padrig’s thin chest and pushed him back. He drew Sasha behind him, standing between her and the trembling man. Slowly, his eyes on Padrig, he withdrew his sword and leveled it at the man’s throat.