The Queen and the Cure

by Amy Harmon

  “Have you ever watched a sconce as it is lit? For a moment the torch and the wick both flare, as if spreading the flame makes each stronger. That is what happens when you and Queen Saoirse are together. I see it. King Aren saw it. All of Caarn sees it,” Tiras said.

  Kjell stared at his brother balefully, waiting for him to continue.

  “You have been released, Kjell. She has not,” Tiras said slowly, enunciating every word, and Kjell immediately lost his temper.

  “I have been released?” Kjell repeated, incredulous. “I have not been released. I have been crowned! I wear this bloody wreath of gold and am expected to sleep in the king’s chambers listening to the queen cry when she thinks no one can hear.”

  “The king is gone, and you can love his queen without constraints,” Tiras insisted. “You are freed, but she is not. She cannot simply run into your arms, brother. Guilt makes grief unbearable.”

  Kjell groaned and rubbed his eyes wearily. He didn’t want Sasha to grieve for Aren. It was an awful truth, but a truth all the same.

  “Suddenly she can have what her heart desires most. You. But getting what we want at the expense of someone else taints the fulfilment of even our fondest dreams,” Tiras said, his frank assessment making Kjell hiss in frustration.

  “She is blameless. She didn’t cause Aren’s death or seek it,” Kjell said.

  “It doesn’t matter. She loves you, he died, and the whole kingdom is watching,” Tiras contended.

  “It is a never-ending round!” Kjell raged. “One thing after another. I love her. And I cannot have her.”

  Kjell surged to his feet and strode around the perimeter of the library, along the rows of books he had no intention of ever reading, and ended back in front of his younger brother, dejected and deflated.

  “She is yours, Kjell. Heart and soul,” Tiras said, his compassion evident. “It is obvious. She was yours from the moment you met. But you must let her mourn.”

  “I cannot be King of Caarn if she is not by my side, Tiras,” Kjell whispered. “I cannot do it.”

  “Time, brother, and patience,” Tiras urged. “It is something you can give her. It is something you can give yourself. When I see you again, she will be your queen and these ledgers won’t be so outdated. I have no doubt.”

  And so Kjell gave Sasha patience the way he’d given her his body and his gift, the way he’d surrendered his heart and his life. Freely. Completely. He kept a guard at her door and two in the ramparts facing her window. He gave her time, and he prayed for the strength to wait.

  ***

  Kjell’s meager belongings had been moved from the garrison to the king’s chambers shortly after his unexpected ascension. He’d quietly allowed it, knowing he could not remain where he was, bunking with his men while managing a kingdom. And he had wanted to be closer to Sasha.

  King Aren’s possessions were whisked away, his rooms stripped of his presence, and the heavy furniture repositioned to make the space feel new. Kjell had never been in the king’s chamber before Aren died, and the furnishings didn’t matter to him. Still, the echo of the old king in the quarters made him feel like a usurper, and he never remained in the chamber for long.

  One night, a week after Tiras’s departure, feeling over-tired and under-appreciated, Kjell walked through the queen’s gardens, staring up at Sasha’s rooms and feeling like a love-sick fool. The fruit had been harvested, the trees pruned, and the chill of fall permeated the moonlit air. He didn’t want to return to the castle or sleep in Aren’s rooms, so he tossed his cloak upon the ground and stretched out beneath an apple tree, his eyes on the flickering light from Sasha’s window and the silent sentries on the ramparts. Jerick was on the queen’s watch tonight, his bow in his arms, his shoulders straight, facing her window like he’d been instructed to do, and Kjell let his eyes drift closed, weary but reassured that all was as well as it could be.

  He dreamed of Sasha and their marriage announcement in Jeru, of her gold dress and her fiery tresses, of her happiness and her soft touch. He awoke to hands on his skin and lips on his mouth, and kept his eyes closed, believing he still dreamed. But the hands that roamed his body were aggressive, the lips dry and abrasive, and the breath that fluttered against his mouth tasted of blood. When he lifted his bleary lids, it was not Sasha’s face above him.

  Lady Firi’s hair still wreathed her head in a coil, evidence of her preparations and her blatant trespasses the night of the celebration, but that had been more than a fortnight before, and Kjell wondered if she’d spent the last weeks as an animal, never changing into human form. Her plaited hair only accentuated her nakedness, making Kjell long for the matted curls and wild length, if only to shield her from his eyes.

  She scampered back, putting space between them, and licked her lips as though she too had noticed their texture. Kjell sat up slowly, cataloging the weight of the new blade in his boot, the speed at which he would have to move, and the odds of bringing her down with a well-thrown dagger. She increased the distance, sensing his intent.

  “There was a time when you welcomed my presence and my touch, Kjell of Jeru,” she purred. “You will welcome it again.”

  “There was a time when you wore clothes, Ariel. There was a time when you smelled sweet and kissed softly. A time when I didn’t know who you really are. That time has passed,” he replied.

  “No, Kjell. The time has finally come. This kingdom is yours now. These people are yours. They will bow down to your every wish.”

  “And to you?” he asked.

  “Yes. I will be your queen.”

  “No,” he said. “You will not.”

  She pouted playfully. “So serious. So stubborn. So foolish. I can be whatever I wish, Kjell of Jeru. King Kjell of Caarn,” she mocked. “I was the little brown mare you purchased in Enoch. I was the gull who stirred the Volgar. I was the black adder in the grass, the wolf in the Corvar Mountains, the squid in the sea.” Her eyes flashed with temper. “I didn’t want you to die, but you almost killed me. I could have tossed you all into the sea.”

  “Why didn’t you?” he asked, easing to his feet. She stepped back again, and moonlight pooled around her.

  “I didn’t want you to die. I wanted you to be afraid,” she said. “You are afraid of me, Kjell. And fear is even better than love.”

  “And you will make Caarn fear you as well?”

  “If I must. I have been following you for a long time, Kjell. Years. Waiting for the things the Star Maker showed me to come to pass. Then you found her. And I realized that she was the Seer who’d seen visions of you becoming a king.

  “I tried to toss her over the cliffs so you could not heal her, to strike her in her sleep so you didn’t know she lay dying, to attack when she was alone. But she is never alone. You’ve kept her so close and you care so deeply. Do I mean nothing to you?”

  He was silent, and her eyes narrowed with irritation.

  “I have been made an outcast in my own country. But in Dendar . . . I can have everything I want. Even you. Imagine my surprise when there was no one here.” She laughed, incredulous. “What good is a kingdom if there is no one to bow down before you? If there is no one to rule?”

  “So you’ve continued to wait.”

  “Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter, wait for him, his heart is true,” she sang, parroting the old tune. “You’ve brought them all back for me. You’ve defeated the Volgar. And I don’t have to wait any longer.”

  An arrow, straight and long, pierced the air and sank into her shoulder, knocking her forward. Kjell lunged, drawing his blade as he closed the distance between them. An angry scream tore from her throat and became the shriek of a falcon, flapping and rising into the sky. The arrow fell as she climbed, insulted but uninjured, and Kjell could only watch her go with a frustrated bellow, his knife in his hand, the Changer shrouded by the night.

  Jerick joined him a moment later, breathless, clutching his bow. “I missed, Captain. I’m sorry. She stepped back, and I had a
clean shot.”

  “You didn’t miss, Lieutenant.” Kjell swore. “She is simply hard to kill.” Fear billowed in his chest, and his legs quaked, a delayed reaction to the Changer’s presence. His eyes found the light of Sasha’s window, needing to reassure himself she was unharmed. He realized suddenly that no one stood watch on the ramparts.

  “I need to see the queen,” he clipped.

  Jerick nodded, not questioning Kjell’s request, but he gave a report as they walked. “Isak is on duty outside her chamber. Her window is closed, Kjell. The Changer did not enter. All is well.”

  They pounded up the broad stairs and through the corridors, but Isak was not at the queen’s door. Instead, he stood outside Aren’s old chamber, watching them approach with dawning confusion.

  “Captain?” he queried. He looked at the heavy door at his back as if it had beguiled him. He rapped on it sharply.

  “Majesty?” he called.

  “Why are you standing guard over the king’s chamber, Isak?” Jerick asked, his voice uncharacteristically sharp.

  “The queen went inside and closed the door, Majesty,” Isak explained. “I’ve stood guard here since.”

  Kjell pushed into the room. The door was unbarred and the chamber beyond was empty. He rushed to the bathing chamber, to the wardrobe, to the narrow staircase that led to the king’s private wine cellar. Kjell stared at the steps with growing horror.

  “She never left this room, and no one went in,” Isak insisted behind him.

  “Kjell, there is a man at every entrance. Everyone is accounted for,” Jerick reasoned.

  “Everyone but the queen,” Kjell said, trying desperately not to shout. “Did you ever leave the door, Isak?”

  “No. I was here the entire time. I thought she was with you, Captain. I . . . was . . .” Isak stuttered. “I was trying to . . . respect your . . . privacy.”

  “She went through the tunnels in the cellar. She left the castle through the tunnels Jedah made before the battle,” Kjell breathed, fisting his hands in his hair.

  “Why would she do that, Captain?” Isak cried, incredulous.

  “Isak,” Jerick moaned. “You know why.”

  Sasha, who never let Kjell’s men take him for granted, who threw herself over him to shield him from Volgar talons, who conspired to drug him and leave him in Brisson to protect him, who worried about the cost of his gift and her inability to spare him from suffering. Sasha would walk into the forest calling Lady Firi’s name if she thought she could save him. Of that he had no doubt.

  “How long? How long has it been since anyone saw her?” Kjell whispered, angrier at himself than the trembling guard. Kjell had stayed away to give her clarity, to give her time, to shield her from his impatience and his longing. And she’d slipped away.

  “An hour, Captain,” Isak answered, his lips tight, his eyes pleading for forgiveness.

  “Find her,” Kjell begged.

  Isak descended the wine cellar stairs to enter the tunnels, his hands glowing and his feet quick, but Kjell did not follow. He knew where the tunnels led, and crawling through them on his hands and knees would take too long. Kjell ran from the castle keep, Jerick and a dozen of his men at his heels, but they separated at the edge of the woods, his men fanning out into the forest. Kjell hesitated, knowing he could not run in blind terror and hope to find her. He breathed, closing his eyes and pressing his hands to the bark of the watchful trees, petitioning them for their guidance and their direction. For a heartbeat his legs buckled and his head bowed.

  “I am Kjell of Koorah. I carry the blood of Caarn. Please . . . help me find the queen.”

  The tree beneath his hands trembled, or maybe it simply moved with him, shuddering in dread and fear, but a long thin branch lowered and stretched, a skeletal finger pointing deeper into the grove. Kjell ran, not questioning the wisdom or instruction of the woods, and after several steps, he realized where he was.

  Maybe Sasha had simply gone to sit beneath the bows of Aren’s tree, making peace with what had passed. But the hour was late, and Kjell’s instincts screamed that solace and silence among the trees was not the queen’s design; Sasha had not slipped into the wood to kneel in remembrance in a sacred grove.

  A twig snapped and a soft wind stirred, and for a moment he was certain he had found her, the gossamer spill of her dress like silver moth wings, dancing in and out of the light. He breathed her name, quickening his pace, but something made him hold his tongue.

  It was Sasha’s dress, but it wasn’t Sasha.

  Ariel of Firi darted through the grove, clothed in the queen’s raiment, as if his words in the garden had pricked her vanity and her humanity. The gown pulled at her breasts and dragged through the underbrush, collecting bits of leaves and sticks that tore at the pale garment. The trees warned silence, but his heart could not comply. It thundered in his ears and sent his blood roaring through his veins as he crept forward, following the Changer.

  Then the curious moon stepped out from behind the clouds and illuminated the clearing where Aren had crowned him king. Sasha waited there, bathed in moonlight, her bearing both regal and resigned, her unbound hair melding against the deep red of her dress, and her hands hanging loosely to her sides. She didn’t hitch her skirts to flee, look to the trees for a place to hide, or call his name for rescue. She simply stood in the center of the grove, watching as Lady Firi approached, wearing her dress, as if she’d been expecting her all along.

  Kjell drew up, struck by the terrible beauty of the scene, of the vicious serenity of the woman he loved quietly facing the woman he feared above all else.

  He didn’t know whether to charge through the trees, upsetting the hushed balance of life and death that permeated the grove, or to hold back, drawing his bow, and trusting in his ability to make the shot.

  “It is time for you to go, Changer,” Sasha said, her voice calm and oddly kind.

  “It is time for you to die, Saoirse,” Lady Firi crooned. The glee dripped from her words like the Volgar blood had seeped through the vines. She circled Sasha with scorn and confidence, smoothing her borrowed dress and prancing as though her feet were clothed in bejeweled slippers and not caked in the soil of Caarn.

  Then the gown puddled and pooled, abandoned like snake scales, as Lady Firi grew claws and her face became feline. Silken black fur rippled over crouching limbs and a curling tail. She scampered up the wide base of Grandfather Tree and skulked along the widest bough, positioning herself above the queen.

  It was the form she had taken during the battle for Jeru City. Kjell had seen her perched on the parapets, watching havoc unfold around her. She’d left her mark on Queen Lark but had been denied the kill, interrupted by an archer’s arrow and Zoltev’s wrath. She had shifted from shape to shape, purging the arrow in her side before reassuming the panther’s grace, stalking along the ramparts the way she now padded along a low-hanging limb.

  Sasha took three steps back as if bracing herself for battle. Then she lifted her chin to the Changer, an unmistakable challenge that evoked a bellow from Kjell’s lungs, a denial that rang through the trees as he began to run, too far to save her, too close to deny the events unfolding before his eyes.

  The panther leaped, a black slash against the pale light, her teeth barred, claws protracted, and Sasha raised her arms—almost as though she meant to embrace the beast—and was knocked to the ground. The cat roared, the sound like a thousand swords unsheathing in unison, and covered the queen, swallowing Sasha beneath its superior size.

  Kjell hurtled through the trees, releasing one arrow after the other, screaming as the whistling shafts flew wide and long, missing his target. He flung his bow as he threw himself at the Changer, wrapping his arms around the body of the huge cat, rolling as he heaved the weight from atop the queen.

  There was no resistance, no yowling flex of muscle or slashing teeth and claws. Kjell released the Changer and scrambled free, his eyes on the inert beast, shock and disbelief replacing the horror in his c
hest.

  His blade, the blade he’d pressed into Sasha’s hand before the second Volgar attack, protruded from the panther’s chest, skewering its heart. He crawled to Sasha’s side, running his hands over her body, begging the Creator for mercy and assistance.

  She was gasping for breath, her eyes black and bottomless, her lips parted and panting, and Kjell moaned her name, the palms of his hands stained in blood and trembling with denial.

  “Sasha,” he begged. “Sasha, Sasha, Sasha.”

  Her breath shuddered and caught, then caught again, and her eyes fluttered closed in relief.

  “She stole my breath, Captain. That is all,” she whispered, her voice hitching on every word. “I am unharmed.”

  He caught her up, embracing her, feeling the warmth and the wet of spilled blood between them, a reminder of near death and deliverance. He began to shake, and she held him, pressing her lips to his neck, wrapping her arms around him, reassuring him.

  But he needed distance between his beloved and the beast.

  He half-crawled, half-staggered, dragging Sasha with him, moving so his back was braced against Aren’s tree, Sasha across his lap. They watched as the inky black of the panther’s fur became the pale skin of limbs and legs, the rise of a feminine hip and the fall of a narrow waist. Ariel of Firi, wrapped in the length of her matted hair, lay unmasked in death and stripped of her gift. The knife did not fall from her breast, expunged by the change, but remained buried deep, the hilt glittering and wet.

  “All is well, Captain. It is done,” Sasha soothed.

  “You saw this. You knew this day would come,” he cried, the knowledge flooding him as his heart quieted.

  “I knew there would be a battle,” she confessed. “And she would not protect her heart.”

  He started to laugh, incredulous relief robbing him of breath and sense, and then his laughter became a rasping moan, and he felt the heat and slide of tears down his cheeks, washing the blood from his skin and the fear from his heart.