The Queen and the Cure

by Amy Harmon

  Her voice was strong when she began to speak, but he felt the tremor in her hand where it lay against his hair. He knew the words she spoke were part of the ritual, but they seared his soul, echoing love denied and oaths unraveled.

  “You belong to us and we belong to you. Our roots will anchor you, our leaves cover you. From this day forward, there is a branch on the tree of Caarn that bears your name.”

  “Rise, Healer,” the king said, projecting his voice. The queen’s hand fell away and the people made their palms whisper once more.

  “Let the feast begin!” The king bellowed, and the people cheered.

  Kjell rose, keeping his eyes slightly averted, looking beyond the king and his queen, and he saw a flash of movement that chilled his blood. Perhaps it was the slope of her neck, her heavy black tresses, or the way she turned her head. But the glimpse was instantly gone, like his mind was playing tricks on him. He stared at the press of onlookers, at the dancing shadows created by the sinking sun and the newly-lit torches that encircled the courtyard. It was not yet dark, and the gloaming was pink and soft and mild, no brilliant colors and violent shades. Caarn was grey and green and deep brown—colors that spoke of earth and sky and things that grow. He separated himself from the celebration, slipping in and out of the spinning villagers and the dancing feet, searching.

  Pale candlenuts as big as a child’s palm would burn for hours, and everywhere Kjell looked, pyramids of the flammable seed on rock pedestals were being lit, permeating the castle and the grounds with their amber light and fragrant oil.

  When Isak found him, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed, Kjell knew he hadn’t been imagining things.

  “Captain, I saw her. The woman from the Jandarian plain. She is here,” Isak gasped.

  “Tell me.”

  “She was not a snake this time . . . not in animal form. She was on the edge of the crowd, dancing and drinking. She was clothed in silks and her hair was . . .” Isak tried to indicate with his hands, doing a poor job of description, and gave up. “It wasn’t wild or snarled. It was coiled like a crown. She is beautiful . . .” he gulped. “I was near the queen, and didn’t dare leave my post to follow the woman. She looked right at me, and she smiled.”

  Kjell cursed the press of people and the inability of his men to communicate effectively.

  “You did well. You don’t ever leave the queen to pursue the enemy.”

  Isak nodded but continued with his report. “The feast has begun. Jerick is guarding the queen. There are sentries at every door of the Great Hall and lining the walls. The king is asking for you, Captain. You are the guest of honor.”

  “I’ll be there shortly. Spread the message. Tell the men the Changer is here.”

  “She can do little harm in human form, right Captain?” Isak asked, anxious.

  “One would think,” Kjell said. “But her confidence is concerning.”

  “Where did she come from? Where did she get the clothes . . . and the jewels?” Isak asked.

  “I think I know,” Kjell replied grimly. “Go Isak. Do as I said.”

  Kjell climbed the stairs with more haste than was seemly. He didn’t want to draw attention, but he had no time for decorum. He strode down the long corridors to the wing of the castle where the royal chambers were located, the king’s quarters on the left, the queen’s on the right. Kjell hadn’t slept outside Sasha’s door, but he knew every inch of her room, every item within it, and every habit and practice of the queen. Sasha was tidy, prone to simplicity, and seldom took great pains or much time with her appearance. From the current state of the chamber, one would think someone else resided there.

  The Changer had flown in. A small window, high on the wall, had been cracked to air the space, and a black feather, sooty and short, lay near an open chest of jewels. Kjell could picture Ariel of Firi perched there in the form of a crow, peering at all the shiny things before changing into a woman and helping herself to a few.

  Sasha’s tub had not been emptied after she’d bathed. A dirty footprint was outlined against the pale stone floor beside the huge iron basin. Lady Firi had washed herself in the queen’s bathwater and upended the salts and oils when she was done, creating a perfumed cloud that made Kjell wheeze and retreat quickly.

  Sasha’s gowns were pulled from their hooks and scattered about the floor as well. A few of them were shredded and soiled, as if Firi had shifted into a beast and torn them apart for sport. Sasha was taller and slimmer than Ariel of Firi. The dresses would not have been a good fit. But clearly Lady Firi had found one and poured herself into it, dressing herself, fixing her hair, and donning her pilfered jewels. Then she’d walked from the chamber and down into the courtyard, joining the celebration of the people of Caarn who, for weeks, had been welcoming strangers into their midst. No one had stopped her. No one had sounded an alarm until she had safely slipped away.

  The feasting had gone on much of the day, but in the banquet room long tables were arranged in a large rectangle for honored guests. The members of his council and their wives, as well as Padrig, Captain Lortimer, and a handful of respected villagers had all received invitations to dine with the king and queen. Kjell was seated as a guest of honor beside the king, eating food he couldn’t taste, tasting food he didn’t eat.

  His men stood on high alert, necks craned and eyes peeled, but the night was one of the longest he’d ever spent. As the hours passed, the wine continued to flow, the villagers grew more and more merry, and King Aren regaled his audience with tales of Caarn from decades past, while Sasha, a storyteller who surpassed them all, sat stiff-backed and quiet beside him.

  When she suddenly stood, her eyes black and her hands gripping her skirts, the king’s voice trailed off and his eyes rose to her face.

  “Saoirse?” the king asked, reaching a hand to steady her. She stared down at him blindly, her crown tipping over one ear, but she didn’t right it or answer him. Kjell rose from his place beside the king and stepped toward her, unable to look away.

  “They are drawn by our heartbeats. By the blood in our veins,” she murmured.

  “Who, Majesty?” Padrig asked from his seat on her left side.

  “There were no bones,” she continued, her voice hollow.

  “Not here, Saoirse,” the king warned, noting the attention she had begun to draw. “We will speak of this privately.”

  “No Volgar bones. Not in Caarn,” Sasha said slowly, still lost in her vision.

  The people within hearing distance exclaimed in fear, and the word trickled down the tables.

  “The queen has seen the Volgar!”

  “She is a Seer. The queen is a Seer and she says the Volgar will return.”

  “We will have to hide again!”

  “We will have to leave Caarn.”

  The panic became a thrumming murmur as one person spoke to another, seeking comfort in conference, until the king stood, and with a booming voice, demanded quiet.

  “The queen is weary. We are all weary, and sadly, we are still afraid. What the queen was speaking of is not a vision but a terrible memory. Sit. Eat. Be merry. We have much to celebrate. No one is in danger this eve.”

  The people nodded, some laughing at their own fear. Others looked unconvinced. Kjell didn’t return to his seat but stood with his back to the wall, directly behind the queen’s chair, standing guard. Sasha said no more, but bowed her head, lost in her own thoughts, and the temporary uproar was tamped down and smoothed more. But the mood had changed and soon the guests began to depart, blaming the late hour and the long day, their aching heads and their weary wives.

  The king had lost his good humor as well, and sat woodenly beside the frozen queen, bidding adieu to bowing guests with a flutter of his hand and a tip of his head, until no one remained in the hall with him but the queen, Padrig, Kjell and the members of the guard still stationed at the doors.

  “What did you see, Majesty?” Kjell asked quietly.

  The king tossed his crown onto the table in
front of him. It clattered heavily and Sasha flinched, but she answered Kjell.

  “Wings. Talons. The eastern hills. Pounding hearts,” she listed. Her voice was flat, cold even, but her eyes swam with distress.

  “And what do you think it means?” Kjell pressed.

  “The Volgar will be drawn back to Caarn. We are food. They smell our blood.”

  “There could be another explanation for your vision!” Padrig wailed. “We don’t have to assume the worst.”

  “Padrig,” the king warned wearily. “Don’t be a fool. It is one thing to be optimistic. It is another to be blind.”

  “I can’t leave Caarn again. I won’t,” Padrig said, shaking his head.

  “And we cannot hide,” the king agreed. “If I spin again, I won’t be able to come back.”

  “Spinning is not meant to be permanent. It is one thing to change straw to gold. To change air to fire, to pull food from the soil. These things are not living. But when a man becomes something he is not, for any length of time, whether he be a beast or a tree, it dulls his spirit and represses his very self. We must use our gifts . . . but we can’t hide behind them,” Sasha said.

  “So we will use what we have,” Kjell said with finality.

  “We cannot fight birdmen with leaves and roots, Healer!” Padrig cried.

  “Maybe . . . we can,” Kjell said. “If you can pull plants from the ground with the palm of your hands, King Aren, you can cause vines to grow. We will set snares. We will make traps.”

  Aren shook his head like he couldn’t believe it was all happening again.

  “We will fight back,” Sasha urged. Her jaw was set and her color was high. She’d wanted to fight back once, and she’d been sent away.

  Padrig moaned, but he didn’t protest.

  “When are they coming?” Kjell asked.

  “When the leaves are vibrant on the hills,” Sasha whispered.

  The king and Padrig gasped, and Kjell’s heart sank.

  Summer was already waning. The leaves on the trees above Caarn were still green, but the light was shifting, the air smelled different, and the days weren’t quite as long.

  It seemed the village had been brought to life only to die a quick death.

  The following morning, the gifted man with the bellowing voice stood on the highest tower in the castle keep, and with his head tipped toward the sky to avoid blasting the people below, he called the villagers to the castle keep. The people of Caarn trudged into the courtyard, bleary-eyed and yawning, drowsy from too much drink and drained from too much dancing. The celebration had barely ended, and the king was summoning them back.

  In grave tones and sober words, King Aren told his people to prepare. There was shock and denial, anger and fear. Some asked why and how, others raged that fate was cruel. Many demanded answers and all demanded hope.

  But no one wanted to hide.

  The men were adamant. The women refused. The children trembled at the mere suggestion. Kjell began the work of drafting a battle plan based solely on Sasha’s premonitions, calling on his guard and the Gifted to assist. The Spinners worked long hours, harvesting and storing, creating stock-piles for the cold months ahead, praying that Caarn would live to see them. The king spent his days among the growers, convinced that his gifts would be better used preparing for winter than preparing for war. He left that to Kjell and everything else to his queen. He wore the dejected air of a man defeated, and though he worked as hard as any man, his eyes strayed to the forests, and he listened with only half an ear when Kjell sought his counsel.

  “In Jeru City the Volgar surprised us. In Caarn, we know they’re coming.”

  “How did you defeat them?” a young recruit asked.

  “Queen Lark made them fall from the sky,” Kjell answered, remembering.

  “How did she do that?” the Sea Changer marveled.

  “With words. But we don’t have words,” Kjell mused.

  “But we have wind,” Dev’s mother spoke up. “My son could make a great gust to knock them down.”

  “We have earth,” Jedah added.

  “We have sound,” Boom bellowed, trying to whisper but making the glass in the windows shake instead.

  “And we have vines,” Jerick reminded.

  “We will spread vines from the castle walls to the turrets. When we are finished, the Castle of Caarn will look like a giant tent, covered in green. And we will stand beneath, spears raised, waiting for the Volgar to fall into our pit. When they do, their wings will tangle in the vines, and we will kill them.”

  They would use everything they had, and Kjell would continue to pray that the Changer, who still lurked somewhere in the woods, would wait her turn to come against him, or give up altogether. Even Changers were not safe from Volgar bloodlust. The thought encouraged him.

  Kjell was awakened by a shake to his shoulder and a reluctant voice in his ear. It was the cat-eyed Gaspar, and his irises gleamed above Kjell in the dark.

  “Captain, there is someone at the gate who seeks entry.”

  Kjell was awake immediately, shooting up from his bed, images of the Changer pleading sweetly with the watchman playing through his head.

  “He says he is King Tiras of Jeru. But he is . . . unclad. He insisted you would want to see him. D-do you want to see him, sir?” Gaspar sounded doubtful.

  Kjell tumbled from his bed, pulling on his boots as his heart leapt with joy and disbelief. Tiras? In Caarn. God be praised. Tiras in Caarn.

  His brother stood beyond the castle gates, his arms folded across his brown chest, his stance wide, his jaw defiant. It was the same way he stood when he was crowned and caped. And he was stark naked.

  “Raise the gate,” Kjell shouted, scrambling from the watchtower the way he’d scrambled up it.

  Tiras strode into the courtyard as though the palace were his, and Kjell grabbed him up, laughing and shaking him, overjoyed and half convinced he’d finally broken under the strain of the last months.

  “Where are your bloody clothes?”

  “It is the burden of being a Changer, brother. You know this. I flew to Kilmorda, I swam to Dendar. Neither birds nor sea creatures have need of raiment.”

  Gaspar was gaping, and the garrison had begun to empty behind them, men streaming out and greeting their king. Jerick tossed Tiras a tunic and breeches, bowing as his smile split his face.

  “Welcome to Caarn, King Tiras. I’ve never been so happy to see a naked man in my whole life.”

  “Lieutenant.” Tiras grinned in greeting. “Count yourself among the blessed. Now where can an ill-clad king find some supper and some ale?”

  “Come, brother,” Kjell choked, too emotional to say more, and led Tiras to the west entrance to the castle kitchens, knowing Yetta would have something fit for a king in the larder. Isak ran ahead to light the lamps, a courtesy Kjell acknowledged even as he quickly dismissed his men. His composure was cracked, his emotions high, his heart full, and his mind swimming. He didn’t want his men to see him weep.

  He loaded a platter for his brother, watching as Tiras shoved food into his mouth and gulped at his ale, hungry in a way that gave testament to the miles he’d come.

  “How did you find us?” Kjell choked, still struggling to compose himself.

  “The roads in Dendar all lead to Caarn.” Tiras swallowed and went back for more. “The Star Maker was quite proud of the fact. The bird’s eye view is quite remarkable.”

  “You should not have left Queen Lark,” Kjell murmured. “She would never forgive me if you didn’t return.”

  “I could not stay away. You would have come for me.”

  Kjell could not deny that truth and nodded, overcome once more.

  “You promised me you would return,” Tiras chided. “What happened?”

  Kjell hardly knew where to start. “There was no one here when we arrived. Not a soul,” he began. He relayed the events of the last months, the wolf in the woods, the loss of the ship, and the empty bay. He told Tiras about th
e Spinners disguised as trees and the healing that had brought them all back. He told him how the forest had parted at his command and about the woman named Koorah who would have been queen. Finally, he expressed his fears that Lady Firi had followed him from Quondoon to Caarn.

  Tiras listened with a lowered brow and thin lips, and by the time Kjell had finished his account, he had risen to his feet, his meal consumed and his third glass of ale forgotten.

  “The Creator have mercy, brother. What a tale,” he whispered. “What a tale.”

  “It is true. Every word. I thought I might not ever see you again.”

  Tiras faced him, and Kjell could see his own feelings mirrored in his brother’s eyes.

  “You are thin, Kjell,” he observed.

  “I am not,” Kjell scoffed.

  Tiras laughed and shook his head, relieving the emotional tension. “All right. You are not. But you are thinner. You look worn.”

  “Sasha is pleased with the grey in my hair,” Kjell disputed, running a hand over his head.

  “She is pleased with the hair on your arse, but don’t let that convince you it’s attractive,” Tiras retorted. Kjell glowered and Tiras groaned.

  “I’m sorry, brother. I mean no disrespect to Queen Saoirse. I fear for you. That is all. There is Volgar stench in the air.”

  “They are coming, Tiras. Sasha has seen it,” Kjell said, realizing he had not told his brother everything.

  “Damnation, Kjell!” Tiras cursed.

  “You need to leave. You need to go back to Jeru, to Lark, and to your child,” Kjell urged. “Rest tonight. Leave tomorrow.”

  “Is that what you would do, Kjell?” Tiras asked softly. “We’ve fought the Volgar together many times before.”

  “Please don’t do that to me, Tiras. I cannot demand Sasha leave, and I cannot leave these people to face the Volgar alone. King Aren is not a warrior. They have no army. No weapons. No bloody defenses. But this is not your fight. This is not your kingdom. And it is not worth your life.”