The Queen and the Cure

by Amy Harmon

  “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.

  ***

  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. Sh
e 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 declari
ng 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.”