The Queen and the Cure

by Amy Harmon

  The words reverberated between them, round and reverent, and Kjell could only marvel and mourn that they’d been uttered at all. He couldn’t bear to hear them, yet he repeated them over and over in his mind, hearing Sasha say them, reveling in each syllable.

  “And Kjell loves Sasha,” he admitted in return, each word a tortured confession. He’d never told her, and now he could only speak as though he were someone else.

  Sasha hung her head and wept, beyond speech, the tears so heavy and wet she was doubled over with their weight. He couldn’t watch anymore. He swept her up, embracing her, pressing her cheek to his and burying his nose in her hair.

  “I would heal you if I could.” He pressed his hands over her heart, to her cheeks and her brow, trying to soothe the sting of remembrance, but it wasn’t a pain he could ease even if he’d never touched her before.

  “I have given Sasha to you, but she was not mine to give,” she wept. “I am so sorry, Captain.”

  “I know,” he said, nodding, forgiving her. “I know.” And in that moment he wondered if he’d actually known all along. Maybe knowing was his Gift. Because he’d known, deep down, from the very first, that she didn’t belong to him.

  He fell back into the straw, holding her, letting her grieve, grieving with her. She cried for a long time, laying in his arms, his cheek resting on her head, but there was no more speaking, no more apologies. And when the shuddering ceased and her eyes closed, he settled her carefully on the straw and told the stable master to make sure she was not awakened or disturbed. He was quite certain she hadn’t slept since Lark had cast her spell. He certainly hadn’t. The sleep would have been a glorious reprieve, but waking up and remembering was too hard. He winced at his musings. Sasha had been caught in a cycle of constant remembrance for three days.

  He would not sleep . . . but he would drink. And he would think.

  “You’re sending her off with ships and supplies,” Kjell accused, holding his flask in one hand while he held his head in the other. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough to endure Tiras’s presence.

  “Yes. I should have sent ships long ago,” Tiras said, unapologetic. Someone had ratted Kjell out, he was certain of it. One of his men had seen him and told the king he was holed up in the tavern, and Tiras had come running. Tiras never drank in the hostelry. When Tiras needed to escape, he changed. Kjell could not escape himself, no matter how hard he tried.

  Kjell stared at his brother stonily, and Tiras sighed.

  “Four years ago, refugees started trickling into Jeru from the lands north. Men, women, and children who climbed aboard anything that would float just to escape the Volgar. Somehow some of them made it to Jeru only to find that we were in a hell of our own. But we’ve come out of it, Kjell. It is time to see what remains beyond the sea. It is long past time.”

  “How convenient then. Let’s all celebrate this amazing opportunity to explore and settle new worlds,” Kjell mocked.

  “It is not a new world for Queen Saoirse. I couldn’t stop her if I wanted to. She is a woman of means. All that her father owned—and he was a wealthy lord—is now hers. She brought a ship full of riches to pay for an army to go back to Dendar. But there was no army to spare, and we know what happened in Kilmorda. The treasure was brought here to Jeru after the first battle in the valley of Kilmorda—you remember, don’t you? Ten chests marked with the emblem of the tree. She described them to me. They belong to Dendar, and she will be taking them back with her,” Tiras explained.

  Kjell flung his heavy flagon at the wall and watched it erupt, spewing ale in a half-moon spatter before hitting the floor. The tavern owner looked balefully at the mess and then addressed the king with a small bow.

  “The captain’s been talking to the dog, Highness. Calling her Maximus of Jeru and nursing that same pint for hours. It might be time for him to go home,” he suggested cautiously, mopping up Kjell’s temper and admirably controlling his own.

  Leaning down, Kjell sank his fingers into the thick fur behind the mutt’s ears, scratching briskly. The dog’s eyes rolled back in ecstasy, and her tongue fell from her mouth and flopped against the floor. She’d been his companion since he’d arrived.

  “Ah Gilly. Ye’ve traded your dignity for pleasure, haven’t you, girl?” the tavern owner sighed, talking to his dog. “Be careful, Captain. The bitch will follow you now. Ye’ll never get rid of her.”

  Kjell shot up from the floor with a roar, and with his brawny arms, cleared the adjacent table of its contents, spilling spirits and overturning platters.

  Tiras stood, narrowly avoiding being struck by a flying dish. He set a small pouch, heavy with coin, in the tavern owner’s hand, grabbed Kjell’s arm, and dragged him from the establishment.

  The sun was so blinding Kjell stumbled and almost fell. He closed his eyes, not even caring where they walked, and let Tiras lead him.

  “Are you really that sloshed, or are you just using it as an excuse to wreak havoc and talk to dogs?”

  “I told you I was past pretending, brother,” Kjell reminded, repeating his sentiments from the night of the masquerade, the night of the unveiling, hers and his. But he hadn’t yet donned a new disguise, and he didn’t think he ever would.

  They walked to the mews, the shadowy quiet welcoming them. Tiras loved the mews—he felt safe there—and Kjell didn’t have the energy to tell him that the mews made him think of unhappy changes, of losing his brother to a curse neither of them could control.

  Hashim, the Master Falconer, approached with a tidy bow and prayerful hands. He was a Changer like Tiras, and he trained the royal carrier birds to fly to all corners of the kingdom, delivering missives and communications from the king. Years before, Hashim had found Kjell and Tiras on the road to Firi, sent on a false errand, and turned them back. Without him, Zoltev would have toppled Jeru.

  “Majesty,” Hashim greeted. “I’ve just received a message from Corvyn. All will be in order for the voyage to Dendar when the caravan arrives.”

  Kjell dropped to the long bench that lined the far wall, waiting for the conversation to end. Tiras thanked Hashim and spoke with him quietly for a moment before the falconer bowed and retreated once more.

  Kjell watched his brother walk among the shrouded birds, noting his broad shoulders, his calm presence, his hands clasped behind his back like folded wings, resembling the eagle he never completely shrugged off.

  “She leaves the day after tomorrow. It will be easier for you then,” Tiras offered after a weighty silence.

  “No. It won’t. Because I am going with her.” Kjell had told the dog. He’d told his ale. He’d told his heart and his head. Now he had to tell the only person in the world who would truly mourn his absence.

  “Kjell . . .” Tiras protested, his voice falling off in disapproval. “You are drunk, and that isn’t wise.”

  “I have never claimed to be wise. That has always been you, Tiras. Not me. And you and I both know I’m not at all drunk.”

  “Half of the bloody guard has volunteered to go. She will be in good hands,” Tiras said.

  Kjell scoffed, the chortle not quite lifting his lips. “Of course they have. But they are my men. I will lead them.”

  “I need you here,” Tiras demanded.

  “Why, Tiras?” Kjell asked, incredulous.

  “Because . . . you are the captain of my guard. You are Kjell of Jeru. You are protector of the city.”

  “And you are a powerful king. The Volgar has been obliterated. I have spent the last two years looking for something to kill just to justify my existence.”

  “There is nothing for you in Dendar, Kjell,” Tiras argued.

  “I am not convinced there is anything for me anywhere.”

  “That is not true,” Tiras pleaded. “You are my brother. This is your home.”

  “No, Tiras. It isn’t. This castle has never been my home. I have stayed out of loyalty to you. But this is not about me, Tiras. She told me—Sasha told me—that our gifts are about responsibi
lity. She is now my responsibility.”

  “No, brother. She isn’t!” Tiras cried.

  “Did I tell you where I found her?” Kjell shot to his feet, and he didn’t wait for Tiras to answer. “She was broken, laying in a heap at the base of a cliff. I didn’t think I could heal her. I had never healed anyone but you and the queen, and my devotion to you both—”

  “—can’t be questioned,” Tiras completed his sentence.

  “No, it can’t,” Kjell agreed, gritting his teeth against his sudden emotion. “Since I healed you, I’ve healed a hundred small wounds, a hundred minor injuries. But nothing like what I did the day when I restored your life. Not until I healed Sasha.” He winced and corrected himself, using her proper name. “Saoirse.”

  “I made a bargain with her as she lay dying on the ground. I told her that if she . . . came back . . . that I would try to love her. But I haven’t even had to try. I’ve tried not to.”

  “Kjell,” Tiras breathed, weakening.

  “I love her more than I’ve ever loved anything—or anyone—before. It was never a choice.”

  “The gods save us,” Tiras sighed, and he was contemplative for a moment, as if trying to puzzle out a solution. Then he shook his head and met Kjell’s gaze with compassion. “But she is the wife of another, Kjell.”

  Kjell nodded, accepting the verdict, his pain so great he was swimming in it, gulping it in in giant mouthfuls. But it was like trying to swallow an ocean, and he stopped fighting it, letting it take him. “The day I healed her, I gave myself to her. And I made her a promise. Just ten days ago, before all of Jeru, I pledged myself to her. Everything has changed. But nothing has changed for me. And I am going with her.”

  “I don’t know what you’ll find in Dendar, Kjell. Do you remember what Kilmorda looked like?” Tiras argued, changing his tactics.

  “Yes. All the more reason to go. I will go with her, and I will put her back on the throne.”

  “Just as you put me back on the throne,” Tiras said. “Caught in an eternal round of fixing what is broken and never finding what you seek.”

  “I have no ambition in myself,” Kjell whispered.

  “No. You don’t. You never have.” Tiras shook his head and pulled at his dark hair, vexed. “But perhaps fate has other plans, Kjell,” Tiras warned. “I understand falling in love with a woman you don’t think you can have. But you cannot . . . have her. Whether or not you go to Dendar . . . she is not yours,” Tiras implored.

  Kjell winced, remembering all the times he’d insisted just that.

  I am yours.

  You are not.

  In his heart she had become his—her flesh, her breath, the weight of her hair and the devotion of her black gaze. That much could not be changed by a Star Maker’s revelations.

  “I will not shame you, brother,” Kjell insisted, his eyes hard, his voice shaking.

  “And I would not blame you, Kjell. But if you go to Dendar, and the kingdom of Caarn still exists, if King Aren lives, you will be putting yourself in the service of another king. And you must give him your loyalty.”

  “I am used to being in the service of kings,” Kjell retorted. “If he is a good king—and Sasha says that he is—then I can serve him. And when I am certain that Caarn is restored and that she is safe . . . I will return to Jeru.”

  “And leave her behind?” Tiras challenged.

  “Yes,” Kjell whispered. “And leave her behind.”

  ***

  The journey to Corvyn would be nothing like the journey from Quondoon. When Kilmorda had been decimated and her people destroyed and scattered, her ships had remained in her harbors, empty, of no use or interest to the scourge of conquering birdmen. In recent years, King Tiras had attempted to rebuild the industry, sending teams of tradesmen and sailors to repair the ships docked at Kilmorda’s ports and sail them to the ports in Corvyn and Firi. But with the destruction in Porta, Dendar and Willa, and no one to resume trade on the other side of the Jyraen Sea, those ships had gone from the Bay of Brisson, tucked between Kilmorda and Corvyn, to the harbors in Firi and back again, following the Jeruvian coast, never venturing to the lands across the Jyraen Sea.

  The Bay of Brisson lay directly north of Lord Corvyn’s fortress in the Corvar Mountains and word had already been sent to him that two ships should be readied, sailors gathered, and supplies loaded. One of the two ships en route to Dendar would carry an envoy to send east into Willa, and negotiations were already underway to send another expedition from Firi to explore what remained of Porta.

  There was no love or familial feeling between Lord Corvyn and his daughter, the queen, and no loyalty or allegiance to King Tiras. The history between the provinces was long and painful, riddled with fear and injustice, political maneuvering and personal undermining. But Lord Corvyn was not a stupid man. Tiras was eager to resume old trade routes and reestablish connections lost to the Volgar blight. If the king wanted to commission two ships and the labor to sail them, Lord Corvyn would oblige, and happily. He would also make an obscene profit, Kjell had no doubt. If the ships were lost, they had never been Lord Corvyn’s ships to begin with, and if they returned with good news and the possibility of new trade, all the better.

  The ships were to sail from the Bay of Brisson across the Jyraen Sea, heading northwest toward Dendar. When they arrived in the Bay of Dendar, Kjell, Queen Saoirse, and one contingent would continue to the Valley of Caarn while the other would head east to the realm once known as Willa. The journey across the waters would take them little more than a week, if all went well.

  Tiras had put his steward over the cargo, the caravan, and the men who would travel to Corvyn, and from Corvyn, to Dendar. Kjell made a few minor adjustments and put himself in charge. The steward gratefully turned it over to him, and just after dawn on a midsummer Jeruvian morning, ten wagons, forty horses, and fifty people—members of the King’s Guard, a Star Maker, a queen, two maids, a blacksmith, a cook, a carpenter, and a slew of the Gifted, claiming talents just obscure enough to make them more odd than awe-inducing—left for Corvyn. Thirty sailors and two ships’ captains would meet them at the Bay of Brisson in Corvyn, ready to sail.

  He hadn’t told Sasha he was coming, hadn’t seen her at all since he left her asleep in the straw. Telling her his intentions implied he needed a response or permission from her. He didn’t need either. So he didn’t tell her.

  When she saw him, mounted on Lucian, making the rounds through the assembled men and wagons, she had stopped abruptly, Padrig beside her. The Spinner said something to her and touched her arm, but her gaze never left Kjell’s face, and she approached him with careful eyes and clenched hands, Padrig trailing her with disapproval and despair.

  “I didn’t think I would see you again,” she said, her face a brittle mask, her voice strained. “Did you come to say goodbye?” she whispered, the word catching in her throat.

  “No,” Kjell clipped, and her mask wobbled and cracked. He looked away, searching the horizon and finding his strength. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

  The mask shattered and her eyes shone. For a moment neither of them breathed, the pain was so sharp and sweet. Then she reached for his hand. He took it, unable to bear her gaze for more than a heartbeat, but she didn’t make him wait that long.

  “Thank you, Captain,” she whispered, transporting them both to the outskirts of Solemn, to the moment he turned and went back for her. But this time, he would follow.

  She didn’t linger or say more, but released his hand and moved away, not giving either of them more than that moment. A member of his guard escorted her to the stable master, who held the reins of a grey Kjell had chosen himself, a horse he’d watched grow from a foal, a mount that had never nipped or spooked and had never thrown a rider. But Padrig held back, his eyes on Kjell, his expression bleak.

  “Captain,” Padrig warned softly. “You will only cause her more pain.”

  “The pain she feels is not my doing, Spinner,” Kjell shot back
.

  “Will you tell King Aren that you are in love with her?” Padrig pressed, his voice pitched low, his eyes lower.

  “I betrayed no one, Spinner. She betrayed no one. You and your king betrayed her. And if King Aren sits on his throne waiting for his queen to return to him after all this time, that is what I will tell him,” Kjell answered.

  Lucian whinnied and tossed his head, agreeing, and Kjell found Jerick who had mounted his horse and signaled to the trumpeters on the wall. Kjell had only one more thing to say to the man.

  “You do not get to make decisions for her anymore, Spinner. She will not be at your mercy. You will be at mine. Do you understand?”

  Kjell waited until Padrig lifted his gaze, signaling he had heard. Then he urged Lucian to the front of the caravan, his eyes touching briefly on the green flags of Jeru, on her gleaming black walls, on her peaks and vales. He would miss her. But he would rather miss Jeru than long for Sasha, though he knew he would do both. Neither belonged to him, and he doubted either would ever let him go.

  He found his brother standing on the ramparts, Lark beside him, and Kjell raised his sword in fealty and farewell as the horns began to wail, dancing from pitch to pitch and ending on a prolonged cry that echoed in his chest. Tiras raised a hand, keeping it lifted as if he would call him back, and Lark sent him a prayer across the distance, her words soft and sweet in his mind.

  “Jeru needs Kjell,” Tiras repeated, standing in the northernmost rampart with Lark, watching the caravan leave for Corvyn, and beyond that, for a destination no one was certain still existed.

  “Jeru has you. And me. Maybe . . . Dendar needs Kjell,” Lark said.

  “It will end badly,” Tiras worried.

  “Be careful with your words, husband,” Lark warned. “Maybe it will not end at all.”

  “You are speaking in riddles, Lark.”

  “He can’t remain here. The moment he saved Saoirse’s life, his path was set. Just as mine was set the moment I saved yours.”

  “He deserves happiness,” Tiras said.