The Queen and the Cure

  “I’ve healed the whole bloody village. I have nothing to offer anyone here. If someone grows ill or is gravely wounded, I will be useless.”

  “What do you mean?” the king gasped. “Saoirse said you healed an entire village in Quondoon. You healed a forest of Spinners. Surely you can heal again.”

  “A scratch. A minor wound. A small burn. Those things I can do, over and over again. But the kind of healing I’ve done here in Caarn? I won’t be able to do it again. That kind of healing is a gift I can give only once.”

  “But the woman . . . the Changer. She doesn’t know this?”

  “No. And I believe that is what has protected the queen thus far. The changer doesn’t know I can’t simply heal her again.”

  “Are you sure she followed you to Dendar?” the king pressed.

  “No. But if she is here, I led her here. I brought this to you. It is happening all over again, and I can’t leave. Even if I wanted to. Even if it would be easier to go.”

  “Then we will wait. And we will watch.” The king sighed.

  “I will do what I promised. I will stay until the queen is safe. But you must guard her, Majesty,” Kjell insisted.

  “Saoirse is not helpless,” Aren said.

  “No. She is fearless, compassionate, and totally committed. But her visions are sporadic and incomplete. And she is not ruthless.”

  “This Lady Firi, this Changer—she is ruthless?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are dreadful scars down Saoirse’s back. How did she get them?” the king asked.

  The rage swelled and bellowed in Kjell’s chest, and he forced himself to look away, flexing his hands so he wouldn’t ball them into fists. The Creator help him. He could not abide the thought of Sasha’s pale skin bare to another man’s eyes.

  “That bothers you,” the king whispered. “It bothers you that I have seen her scars. She is my wife, Healer.”

  “She is my heart,” Kjell shot back, unable to hold his tongue.

  The king cursed and Kjell braced himself for the king to swing his stick. He would take the punishment. He deserved it. But the blow did not come.

  “It is a man’s world, yet we are slaves to our women,” King Aren whispered. “I do not blame you. I do not blame her. But you will keep your distance, Captain.”

  Kjell nodded, and without another word, retreated into the trees, unable to trust himself in the king’s presence any longer.

  Kjell was true to his promise, staying as far from the queen as possible. He had shared his suspicions and specific instructions with his men. If they didn’t know what they were looking for, they couldn’t possibly defend against it.

  Lortimer and the sailors were more amenable to staying now that there was a village to reside in. They’d been well paid to take the voyage—the people in Caarn were friendly and welcoming, and a few months was not so much to ask when conditions were agreeable. The Gifted and the tradesmen who had made the journey had always intended to stay, and they went about making arrangements for themselves in the new community.

  The King’s Guard broached no complaint at the extended stay. Their lodgings were comfortable, their bellies full, and their devotion to Sasha evident. Jerick had begun calling them the Queen’s Guard when he didn’t think Kjell could hear. Kjell knew Tiras would worry when no one came back, but had no way to send him word. Hashim’s messenger birds were not trained to fly across the sea.

  Kjell moved his belongings from the castle and slept in the barracks with his men. He had found it worrisome that King Aren had no soldiers of his own. He had a court and counselors, cooks and seamstresses, stewards and grounds-men. There were artisans and weavers, growers and bakers, candle makers and gamekeepers—though there was little game anymore in Caarn. But there was no army.

  A string of spindly guardsmen stood at attention by the entrances and on the castle parapets, but they did little more than bow and bellow the time, bugling the general welfare of Caarn like pesky roosters. Kjell wondered which of them had been the first to spin into a trembling tree when the Volgar attacked. The guardsmen worked in shifts and went home to their cottages when they weren’t on duty. The barracks he and his men had commandeered were the least crowded corner of the entire keep.

  Kjell took it upon himself to change that.

  He kept a handful of guards assigned to the queen and enlisted the rest of his men to recruit and train a small army, and fortunately, there were men seeking work. King Aren had instructed the trees around the border to open, thinning them with a firm command. They had obeyed, ambling outward, creating a porous perimeter around the valley.

  When Kjell had expressed concerns to Padrig and King Aren about the unprotected border, the king had nodded soberly, listening to his fears, but he had his own opinions.

  “Caarn has always welcomed everyone. We only ask that if you come to Caarn, you contribute. If you want to eat, you will work. Everyone can do something. That has been our strength.”

  “That is noble. But there are monsters in the world. Your strength is also your weakness. Who will keep the monsters out?” Kjell asked.

  “The Volgar are gone,” Padrig protested, inspiring a growl from Kjell’s throat. For a man who could harvest memories, Padrig’s own memory was remarkably deficient.

  “There are all types of monsters,” Kjell shot back. “But don’t be so hasty, Padrig. The people have returned. Maybe the Volgar will as well.”

  The king nodded slowly. “Then we will do our best to defend against them.”

  Kjell dedicated himself to doing just that. Empty cottages were filled, and the surrounding fields and streams continued to yield enough food to feed them. Making things grow was child’s play for the Spinners of Caarn, but harvesting required the same toil and time as it did everywhere else. But those who didn’t have a calling or a craft, a duty or a trade, were enlisted in the defense of Caarn.

  With the opening of the forest wall along the border, wildlife began to trickle into the valley as well, and when Kjell wasn’t creating an army he was hunting for the Changer. He didn’t know what he thought he’d find, but he looked all the same, watching for signs and ciphers, for traces and tracks. If given the opportunity he would have to strike a killing blow. If he merely wounded her, she could change, and in changing, she would heal.

  Each day, he mixed dirt with a bit of water from the carafe on his belt and darkened his skin. Then he wrapped himself in greenery and perched on a knoll beneath a sheltering tree, waiting faithfully. His size made it hard to hide, but his desire to escape the castle walls and avoid the castle’s queen gave him patience and persistence. She was his reason to evade and his reason to endure.

  Two weeks after waiting day after day, he was rewarded by the presence of a doe, picking her way through the foliage, her eyes on the castle just visible through the trees. The deer was sleek and brown, the same color as the wolf in the Corvar Mountains, and Kjell’s heart leapt at the glimmer of possibility in the feminine line of her back and the deep brown of her eyes. The doe didn’t strip the bark from the trees or nose the bushes, but stared at the castle as though it called to her.

  Keeping his breath locked in his chest, Kjell drew his bow, notching the arrow, feeling the tension in his limbs and in the choice before him. He released his breath as he released the shaft. It flew true, slicing the air and piercing the soft pelt of the deer, burrowing deep behind her front leg. She crumpled, her head rising and falling, her only nod to resistance. He ran, hurtling rocks and skirting bushes, his eyes never leaving the downed animal.

  There was little blood, but her gaze was fixed, and in death she remained exactly what she’d been in life.

  A deer.

  Kjell swore, sorry that he’d killed her and angry that he would do it again, and began the untidy work of removing her pelt. The meat would be welcome even if his efforts were fruitless.

  A snapping in the undergrowth had him whirling with his knife raised. Jerick appeared, his own bow looped
over his arm, his other hand outstretched, offering wine like he’d offered it once before.

  “I will never drink from your bottle again,” Kjell muttered.

  “An unanticipated boon, I must say,” Jerick retorted. “I prefer not to share.”

  “Report, Lieutenant,” Kjell ordered.

  “All is well, Captain.”

  “Nothing gets near her,” Kjell insisted for the hundredth time.

  “Not even a mouse,” Jerick replied, his standard answer to Kjell’s dogged demand.

  “How is she?” It was the first time Kjell had asked. Jerick had managed to communicate her whereabouts and her wellbeing without elaborating, which had left Kjell both grateful and gutted.

  Jerick regarded him with more compassion than he deserved.

  “She is tireless.”

  “There is much to be done,” Kjell said evenly.

  “She is unhappy, Captain. She rises early, works without ceasing, and retires late. Every day she asks if you are well, and I tell her the same thing that I just told you. You are tireless. And you are miserable.”

  “Don’t tell her that,” Kjell snapped.

  “All right. I will lie,” Jerick agreed cheerfully.

  “I do not want her to suffer,” Kjell muttered.

  Jerick nodded and immediately shifted subjects.

  “There will be a celebration, Captain. Will you be there? There is talk you will be knighted.”

  “A hero of the realm.” Kjell sighed, repeating the title that was to be bestowed on him.

  “Yes. The people need a celebration. And you need to allow them to thank you.”

  “The king said the same thing. I promised I will be there,” Kjell grumbled.

  “He is a good king, Captain.” Jerick said softly.

  “Jerick? Why do you always say things I have no desire to hear?” Kjell asked, though his voice lacked its customary venom.

  “Because I am the only one who dares,” Jerick replied. “It’s good for you, Captain.”

  “Yes. I am always healed by your presence and your words, Lieutenant,” Kjell countered dryly.

  Jerick snorted. “King Aren reminds me a little of you.”

  “Cease speaking, Lieutenant,” Kjell sighed, knowing Jerick would never, ever cease speaking.

  “It is something in his eyes,” Jerick mused. “Though his are a brighter blue. And much warmer. Wiser. Maybe it is his mouth. Of course he smiles more.” Jerick’s grin was wicked as Kjell sought to sweep his feet out from under him. The lieutenant countered and danced away. Kjell let him scamper, crouching over the deer once more, too subdued to make chase, though he appreciated Jerick’s company more than he would admit.

  “She’s a beauty. First one I’ve seen. The animals are coming back. The forest is coming alive. It’s . . . comforting,” Jerick mused, listening to the chirping of the birds and the chattering of the squirrels above them.

  Kjell nodded, though he knew little comfort and even less peace. He considered again that Ariel of Firi had died in the depths of the sea. Or maybe she’d never left the Corvar Mountains or the Bay of Brisson at all. She was controlling him—his emotions, his time, his energy—with no effort at all.

  “Don’t drain the doe here. Yetta will want the blood. She will put it in her soup, and it will taste like the nectar of the gods.” Jerick indicated the deer Kjell had just begun to skin.

  “Then help me carry it back,” Kjell said. They hoisted it upon their shoulders, walking in comfortable silence, the weight and warmth of the animal shared evenly between them.

  “Captain, if Lady Firi followed you from the plains of Janda all the way to the mountains in Corvyn, she followed you here,” Jerick offered as they neared the west castle gate. The newly-trained watchman saw their approach and called out a welcome and a query, just as he’d been taught.

  “Are you sure you aren’t Gifted, Lieutenant?” Kjell murmured, waiting for the gate to rise. “You have an uncanny way of reading my mind.”

  “No Captain. I am not Gifted,” Jerick retorted. “I am just your friend.”

  ***

  Kjell was summoned to the castle by the King’s Council and asked to report on the “progress of the army and the readiness of the guard.” The king’s advisors were much like Tiras’s council in Jeru—self-important, inquisitive, and full of suggestions that made them all feel productive but accomplished very little.

  Still, they revered Kjell—everyone but the king, who treated him with respect but no awe—and that much was a new experience. He answered their questions, made a few requests for the building up of the castle’s defense, and escaped as quickly as he could. He strode down the long corridor hung with the portraits of the Caarn royalty, refusing to cast his gaze at the woman named Koorah or the glowing picture of the young queen. He was down the stairs and through the expansive foyer when he heard her voice, echoing through the slightly-opened door of the Great Room just to the left of the entrance.

  He paused and moved toward the sound, entranced, letting it flow over and through him like a caress. She was telling stories again, and he suddenly realized she was talking about him.

  “The captain thrust his lance upward into the belly of Architeuthis,” she said, injecting drama into every word.

  “The giant squid!” a child interrupted.

  “Yes, the giant squid. Mortally wounded, the squid retreated, swimming back into the darkest parts of the sea, for that is where Architeuthis lives.”

  “Why is he so big?” a little voice inquired.

  “Because he is lonely,” Sasha replied, inexplicably.

  “The captain is lonely?” the child asked.

  “No.” Sasha’s voice hitched but she recovered quickly. “Architeuthis is lonely. He grows big to keep himself company. His tentacles are like friends. But sometimes he is so lonely, he tries to take the ships deep into the sea. But ships don’t belong on the sea floor, and neither do men. So Architeuthis is destined to be alone.”

  “But why is the Healer so big?” the same child insisted, thoroughly confused.

  “Because he is a warrior,” Sasha was quick to answer.

  “Not a Healer?” someone asked.

  “I suppose he is both,” Sasha said softly.

  “Is he lonely too? My father says he isn’t friendly,” another child chimed in.

  Kjell winced.

  “Is that a true story about the giant squid?” a child pondered doubtfully. “How do you know he just doesn’t want to gobble ships and eat people?”

  Sasha quieted the children and before long only the soft sounds of independent study filtered through the window. Kjell turned away, the spell broken, his hands still in need of washing.

  “You have found our school,” Padrig said, startling him. “We’re holding classes in the Great Hall until more permanent arrangements can be made.”

  “Is there no one else to teach them?” Kjell asked. Jerick said Sasha was tireless, but she could not do everything.

  “There are a few others. But Queen Saoirse assists for a little while every day. She is the most educated among us.”

  “A slave from Quondoon,” Kjell whispered.

  “Yes,” Padrig said, a pained expression crossing his face. “The children have struggled most in the transition. They have aged, just as they would have done had they been children instead of trees. They went to sleep one way and woke another. Bedwin was four when he began hiding. He is eight now. And he doesn’t know how to read. Moira was eleven, still a child. Suddenly she is fifteen, with a woman’s body and emotions, and she doesn’t know how to act. She is too old for the school room yet too immature to be anywhere else. There are many like Bedwin and Moira. All their lives were interrupted, and they are all a little lost.”

  They weren’t the only ones.

  “We are looking for a permanent headmaster,” Padrig continued. “The old head schoolmaster was one who did not come back.”

  “One of the trees?

  “Yes.”
Padrig nodded.

  “I remember. His heartbeat was faint.” Kjell had felt no tossing or turbulence beneath the bark, and he’d almost moved on, believing the tree was simply that, a tree. It was the schoolmaster’s wife who made him listen harder, insisting the elm was her husband who’d gone into hiding beside her. But the man could not be saved . . . or healed.

  “The schoolmaster will become like Grandfather Tree.”

  “What does that mean, Spinner?” Kjell asked.

  “He will die. But just like the stars in the sky, he will live on as long as his tree lives on. He has spun away and will never spin back.”

  “My brother Gideon, the king’s father, died in his sleep. He did not know he was going to die. He did not take his place next to his father—Grandfather Tree—in the grove. Aren’s mother, Briona, is there. But not Gideon. It is something that grieves the king terribly.

  “When I die, I will not become a tree of Caarn either. I will simply become dust again.” Padrig shrugged sadly. “But perhaps the Creator, in his mercy, will make me stardust.”

  The children suddenly burst out the doors as if being chased by Architeuthis himself, and Padrig threw up his hands, pretending he was being tossed about by a great wind.

  “Slow down, children! You are in the palace!”

  “Good day, Master Padrigus,” they chorused, bobbing and bowing as they tumbled by him toward the castle kitchen. Three small boys of varying widths and heights came to a stumbling halt in front of Kjell and pulled at their forelocks dutifully.

  “Good day, Healer,” one stammered. Another didn’t speak at all, but stared, wide-eyed. The third boy reminded him of Jerick, and the moment he opened his mouth, the resemblance was even more marked.

  “Are you a Healer and a warrior like Queen Saoirse says? And are you terribly lonely like Architeuthis? I don’t think he’s lonely. He’s mean. He’s mean and nasty, and he likes to break bones and ships with his tentacles.”

  Kjell stared at the small boy, unsure of which question to answer first, if he should answer him at all. He had to agree that Architeuthis was not nearly as sympathetic a creature as Sasha had made it out to be.