by Amy Harmon
“You are weeping, Captain,” she whispered, and he heard the tremor in her voice as she clutched him to her.
“I am healing, Sasha,” he said, and her mouth found his, administering her own cure, tasting the salt of past sorrow, relieving the weight of old wounds. For several moments he returned her kiss, gratitude falling from their tangled tongues and urgent lips, hushed whispers and professions of love moving between their mouths.
He rose, drawing her up with him, wanting to be free of the grove where his queen had faced the Changer and kings went to die. But Sasha held back, stepping from his arms and turning back to the dead woman with the same compassion she approached everything else.
“We cannot leave her here,” Sasha protested. “Not like that. This is a sacred place.”
“I will send Isak to turn her body to ash. He has suffered this night. He will be relieved to see it end.”
“I think we should ask the trees,” she said, turning to the largest oak in the grove. With complete confidence, she pressed her palms to the bark, speaking with the firm authority of a monarch.
“I am Queen Saoirse of Caarn. I carry the blood of Caarn. I ask that you return the body of the woman who lies dead beneath your boughs to the earth from whence she came.”
Like the day on the road to Caarn, a day that felt like a lifetime ago, the ground quaked beneath their feet, and the biddable tree exhumed its roots. Enormous fingers shook off the soil and curled around the body of the Changer, dragging her into the earth and swallowing her whole. The ground trembled again, the leaves sighed, and Ariel of Firi was no more, freeing him at last. Even the furrows were softly filled, the loose dirt sliding back into place as the roots retreated with their dead.
Sasha moved to his side, slipping her hand into his.
“You carry the blood of Caarn?” Kjell asked, not understanding.
“I am carrying the blood of Caarn,” she said, her eyes rising to his.
He drew back, gazing down at her, still flummoxed.
“Your child—a child of Caarn—grows within me,” she explained gently.
“My child . . . grows . . . within you,” he stammered.
“Yes, Captain.”
He staggered, and Sasha steadied him, wrapping her arms around his waist. He pressed his lips to her hair, to her cheeks, dropping to his knees so he could press his hands to the slight swell between her hips. Then he pulled her toward him, replacing his hands with his mouth, reverent and reeling. For a moment he could only pray to the god of fortune and the creator of all things. He didn’t pray with words but with the overflowing of his spirit, his lips pressed to the womb of the woman who stood before him.
“I have not forgiven you for coming out here alone,” he whispered against her body.
“You will,” she said, stroking his hair.
He swept her up, needing to be as close to her as he could, and began walking back to the castle, weaving through the forest, her body clutched to his chest.
“I can walk, Captain,” she murmured, her head tucked beneath his chin, her lips touching his heart.
“I want to hold you a little longer,” he said. And she did not deny him.
The sentry above the rear castle gate cried out in alarm as he saw Kjell approach through the trees, the queen in his arms.
“Majesty!”
“Open the gate. All is well,” Kjell called.
“You should let me walk, Captain,” Sasha pressed. “You will frighten everyone.”
“I don’t care. I will do as I wish. For once, I will do as I bloody wish.”
Sasha was right. She often was. The guard poured from the castle and the grounds, their search for the queen ending back where it began. They rushed to Kjell’s side, distressed, peppering him with questions that Sasha fielded with calm reassurance.
Padrig, his long robes streaming after him, was not far behind.
“Is she injured?” he asked, trembling, his eyes clinging to the blood darkening the red of Sasha’s gown.
“No. But we are in need of your services, Spinner,” Kjell said.
“Anything, Majesty,” Padrig said, nodding eagerly.
“I wish to marry the queen.”
Padrig gaped and Jerick snorted.
“N-now?” Padrig stuttered.
“Now.”
“Can we change our clothes, Highness?” Sasha asked, her voice mild but her eyes dancing.
He hesitated, unwilling to let something as inconsequential as clothing detain them. He would not wait any longer.
“I will not make vows covered in Ariel of Firi’s blood,” Sasha insisted softly. “And I will not marry the King of Caarn in the dead of night, as if I am ashamed to be his queen. We will welcome all of Caarn—all of Dendar—to witness the marriage.”
Kjell sighed, still not releasing her. “Soon?” he grumbled.
“Soon,” she reassured.
“If we can prepare for a battle in two days, we can prepare for a celebration in the same amount of time,” he insisted. Padrig opened his mouth to argue, but Kjell silenced him with a look. “The day after tomorrow, I will marry the queen, Star Maker. Let it be written. Let it be done.”
“Kjell of Jeru, son of Koorah, King of Caarn, will wed Queen Saoirse of Caarn, daughter of the late Lord Pierce and the late Lady Sareca of Kilmorda. May the God of Words and Creation seal their union for the good of Caarn,” Boom announced from the watchtower, shouting the words to the quaking trees, the impatient king, and to all the people of Caarn.
Kjell worried the people would not come, that the queen would be ashamed, and the celebration shunned. He wouldn’t allow it, wouldn’t abide it, and had already drawn up his first royal edict to make sure it didn’t happen.
But all of Caarn came. They came bearing flowers and well-wishes, food and song, and when Padrig raised his arms to the heavens, declaring the couple man and wife, the people wept. The King’s Guard wept too, baptizing the moment their captain bowed his head and kissed his queen, reaching the end of one journey and eager to start another.
The festivities interrupted by the queen’s warning less than a month before were cheerfully resumed, long life and true love were toasted without reservation, and faith in the future of Caarn was joyfully reestablished. But when the villagers departed and the castle was cloaked in slumber, the king held his queen in the soft light of the closest stars, repeating the promises he’d made beneath the cliffs of Quondoon, when he’d been lonely and she’d been lost, and the future had not yet been fulfilled.
Kjell whispered in Sasha’s ear, sing-song and coaxing, “Can you hear me, woman? Come sing with me.”
“Come to me, and I will try to heal you. I will try to heal you, if you but come back,” Sasha sang softly, the melody sweet, the lyrics heartfelt, and it fell from her lips in a husky plea.
“Come to me, and I will give you shelter, I will give you shelter, if you but come back,” he added, picking up where she left off. His lips brushed the lobe of her ear, and he felt the shudder that swept from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. Her heart galloped, her skin grew damp beneath his, and he continued to chant, making the promise all over again.
“Come to me, and I will try to love you. I will try to love you, if you but come back.”
He heard a single, solitary tolling that grew between them, around them and within them, deep and demanding, and Kjell lifted his voice, grasping the pitch and pulling the tone from her pounding heart. It grew and grew, and still he hummed until her pulse resonated in his skin, in his skull, behind his eyes, and deep in his belly. He was euphoric, vibrating with sound and triumph, his hands smoothing back crimson hair from speckled cheeks and staring down into eyes so dark they appeared infinite. Their gazes locked, and for a moment, there was only reverberation between them.
“I saw you,” she whispered, her body quaking and her fingers caressing his face. Kjell leaned in, filling his hands with her hair and his mouth with her kiss.
“I saw you,”
he said against her lips. “And I never looked away.”
***
Light glanced off of the empty throne and streaked across the wide room, peeking around corners and climbing the walls. Silence was the only occupant. Something fluttered overhead, breaking the stillness. Vines with leaves so emerald they appeared black in the shadows, wrapped their way around the rocks and past the windows, filtering the light and casting the interior in a wash of green. The castle was holding her breath. She’d been holding her breath for so long.
Then, through the stillness, a cry rang out, lusty and strong, and the castle released her breath on a long sigh. The child had arrived. A girl. The first daughter of King Kjell and Queen Saoirse, a new daughter of Caarn. Her mother had longed for her, her father rejoiced when she was placed in his arms, and her brothers—all four of them—gazed down at her with varying degrees of adoration and distrust. Princess Koorah had finally arrived.
The staff had been busy in anticipation of her birth. The happiness of the day clung and quivered, breathing welcome and promise to all who entered there. The wood shone, the tapestries glowed, and in the corridor, the portraits of the kings had been carefully dusted. The row of painted royals looked down on passersby, pale-haired and softly smiling. Except for the last. His hair was dark, his eyes fierce, and his mouth turned down. He wore his crown of gold as though it were a crown of thorns, sharp and uncomfortable against his brow. The woman beside him in the picture—her own crown as natural to her as the golden flecks on her skin—gazed up at him with soft eyes and curved lips, his hand clutched in hers. She rarely let go.
Some speculated that young Kjell, the oldest prince of Caarn, was actually the son of the late king. He was born six months after Aren died and the Healer made vows to the Seer. But as he grew, few had doubts as to his sire. He was big for his age and had the same pale eyes and dark hair as his father. When people saw him, they always knew.
His mother had caught him with his head tipped, listening to things she couldn’t hear, mimicking a melody she hadn’t taught him. His father had shown him how to press gentle fingers to the breast of a dying bird, and together they’d watched it fly away, whole.
Twin boys—Gibbous and Peter in honor of the men who’d lost their lives on the Jyraen Sea—were born two years after their older brother. Their red hair and vivid eyes gave them the look of mischievous elves, and Grandfather Tree recognized their small hands and their climbing feet, widening his boughs and spreading his branches to catch them should they fall. The walls of their nursery were constantly flowering, and the castle staff had found a stalk of corn growing in Peter’s chest of drawers.
When King Kjell declared his fourth son Lucian Maximus, everyone commented on the fine name and never knew it was chosen to honor a beloved horse and a patient dog. Lucian Maximus longed to run and fly and swim, not unlike his namesakes, and the first time he changed he was only three years old. Queen Saoirse found a small bear in her young son’s cradle and got her first grey hair.
Caarn had grown. Dendar had flourished. People had returned, and the Volgar had not. Animals roamed the hills and the surrounding fields. Grazing cattle and galloping horses dotted the countryside. Dogs barked, lazy cats sunned themselves on the rock walls, and the chickens clucked and strutted, chastising the pigs in their pens.
The forests had grown too, welcoming the Spinners of Caarn when their days grew numbered, watching over the valley that thrived and spread. The trees were not aware of the passing of days or the turn of the seasons. They simply grew, keeping their patient vigil, graciously sharing their gifts. Sometimes the Healer, a son of Caarn, would walk among them with reverent hands, greeting them and whispering thanks, and the trees would nod their leafy heads, thanking him in return.
***
To my husband and my children, thank you. At the end of a project I’m always tired, overwrought, and irritable. But you all still love me. Every time.
To my assistant, Tamara, thank you for making time for me in your life, for keeping me organized and efficient, for filling in ever-growing gaps. Your friendship over these last years has been one of the best parts of my writing success.
To Nicole Karlson, your effusive praise and late night messages gave me so much encouragement on this project. You love this book, and because you love it, I was able to love it more.
To my publishers around the world, to my readers in every corner, to the bloggers and tweeters, book groups and bookgrammers, thank you for spreading the love for my books. I am indebted to you.
To Jane Dystel and Lauren Abramo, thank you for your support and for taking care of me. I am always reassured that I am working with the best literary agents in the world.
To Karey White, you are such a blessing. Thank you for editing for me, for knowing your stuff, and for keeping it real, always.
***
Amy Harmon is a Wall Street Journal, USA Today, and New York Times Bestselling author. Amy knew at an early age that writing was something she wanted to do, and she divided her time between writing songs and stories as she grew. Having grown up in the middle of wheat fields without a television, with only her books and her siblings to entertain her, she developed a strong sense of what made a good story. Her books are now being published in fifteen different languages, truly a dream come true for a little country girl from Levan, Utah.
Amy Harmon has written eleven novels — the USA Today Bestsellers, The Bird and The Sword, Making Faces and Running Barefoot, as well as From Sand and Ash, The Law of Moses, The Song of David, Infinity + One, and the New York Times Bestseller, A Different Blue. Her recent release, The Bird and the Sword, is a Goodreads Best Fantasy of 2016 finalist.
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***
Young Adult and Paranormal Romance
Slow Dance in Purgatory
Prom Night in Purgatory
Inspirational Romance
A Different Blue
Running Barefoot
Making Faces
Infinity + One
The Law of Moses
The Song of David
Historical Fiction
From Sand and Ash
Romantic Fantasy
The Bird and The Sword
***
