Kjell didn’t desire riches. He didn’t want power or position. He’d never longed for possessions or even a place to call his own. Though he was older than his brother, he’d never wanted to be king, and he’d never envied Tiras—legitimate son and heir to the throne—who shouldered the weight of his responsibility with a calm acceptance Kjell had never mastered. Kjell had always been happiest watching his brother’s back or lost in the heat of battle, and he’d always known who he was.
He hadn’t been especially proud of it, but he’d known.
He was the bastard son of the late King Zoltev and the servant woman, Koorah, who’d warmed His Majesty’s bed for a time. A very short time. She’d died in childbirth, and Kjell had been named by the midwife, who thought his infant cry had sounded like the scream of a Kjell Owl before it attacks.
But there was more to a man than his parentage. More to a man than his blade, or his size, or his skills, and all that Kjell had once known had shifted and changed in the last year. He’d been forced to accept parts of himself that he’d always denied. He was Gifted. One of them. One of the people he’d feared and forsaken. And it had not been an easy adjustment. It was as if he’d battled the sea all his life only to discover he had scales and gills and belonged beneath the depths instead of casting nets. He no longer knew who he was or what his purpose might be. Or maybe he knew and just didn’t like it.
It had grown cooler as night fell. It would be hot—too hot—when the sun rose again, but Quondoon enjoyed extremes. Heat in the day and cold at night, towering peaks and flat plains, brief, punishing rains followed by long, dry spells where the rain refused to fall for months on end. The people of Quondoon were shepherds and scavengers, weavers and potters, but they didn’t grow much. They couldn’t. Kjell wondered again at the Volgar sightings. The Volgar preferred the swamp-lands. If the Volgar were nesting near the villages of Quondoon, they had truly grown desperate.
An eerie howling rose up suddenly from the precipice above them, and Lucian started in fright.
“Halt!” Kjell commanded, and his men obeyed immediately, hands on their swords, eyes on the canyon walls to their right, looking for the source of the sound. As they watched, figures materialized on the bluff that rose and plateaued to the right. The city of Solemn lay beyond. But these weren’t suspicious sentries. These were wolves who resented the interruption of their evening’s activities, and the baying rose again, making the horses shudder.
“There’s something there, Captain. Something wounded—or dead. The wolves want it,” a soldier spoke up, his eyes glued to the darkness that clung to the base of the tallest cliff.
“If it’s Volgar, it’s alone. The wolves wouldn’t go anywhere near a flock,” Jerick, his lieutenant, spoke up.
“It isn’t Volgar,” Kjell answered, but he dismounted and drew his sword. “Isak, Peter, and Gibbous, stay with the horses, the rest of you, fall in behind me.”
His men obeyed immediately, creeping through the brush and dry grass toward the base of the sheer wall that jutted from the earth. The shadows obscured whatever lay crumpled—for there was indeed something there—among the pale rocks. Something rippled—a dark billowing—like a Volgar wing, and Kjell paused, bidding his men to do the same.
Oddly, the wolves felt no compunction toward silence, and a lone howl rose above them before the others joined in the chorus. The baying did not cause the shadows to shift or the rippling to halt, and Kjell moved forward again, eyes on the shuddering darkness.
With several more steps, the moon unveiled her secret. The movement they’d seen was not a Volgar wing but the billowing dress of a woman, lying in a lifeless heap. Her hair was crimson, even in the shadows, blending with the red of her blood and the warmth of the earth. She lay on her back, her eyes closed, the oval of her face as pale and still as the rocks around her. Her arms were thrown wide like she’d embraced the wind as she fell.
Her back was oddly bent and one leg twisted beneath her, but she bore no teeth or claw-marks, and her clothes weren’t in tatters. It was not a Volgar attack; she’d fallen from the ledge above. Jerick was the first to close the distance and kneel at her side, touching the white skin of her throat with the impudence he usually reserved for Kjell.
“She is warm, Captain, and her heart still beats.”
Kjell wasn’t the only one who gasped, and the shocked intake of air echoed around him like a den of snakes, hissing through the huddled soldiers. She was so broken.
“What do you want to do?” Jerick raised his gaze to his leader, and the question was clear, though he didn’t voice it. Jerick knew Kjell was a Healer. They all knew, and his men both feared and worshipped him, watching in awe as he restored the fallen and the dying with nothing more than his hands. But he’d only healed those he had affection for, those he served and who served him. And he hadn’t done it often. He’d healed a few of his men. He’d healed his brother. His queen. But he’d been unable to find the power when there was no . . . love. He laughed bitterly, making the men around him shift awkwardly, and he realized the mocking chortle had escaped his lips.
“Go,” he commanded abruptly. “Take Lucian and the rest of the horses and find a place nearby to wait.”
No one moved, their eyes on the crumpled woman and the pool of blood that called to the wolves outlined on the cliffs above. The wolves were waiting for the soldiers to retreat and leave the girl.
“Go!” Kjell barked, sinking to his knees, knowing he’d wasted time when there was none. The soldiers rushed to withdraw, wary as the wolves, obeying their captain, but unhappy about doing so. Jerick didn’t leave, but Kjell had known he wouldn’t.
“I can’t do this while you watch,” Kjell admitted brusquely. “It makes me too aware of myself.”
“I’ve seen you heal before, Captain.”
“Yes. But not like this. I don’t know her.” Kjell placed his hands on the woman’s chest and felt the warmth of her heart, willful even as her body begged to be released from its torment. He listened for her song. For the single, clear note that would aid him. Her spirit, her force, her self.
“Imagine that you do,” Jerick urged softly. “Imagine her . . . full of life. Running. Smiling. Mating.”
Kjell’s eyes shot to Jerick’s, and his lieutenant stared back unapologetically, as if imagination was something that came easily to him and should therefore come easily to Kjell.
“Imagine that you love her,” Jerick repeated.
Kjell scoffed, resisting the sentiment, and bowed his head. He closed his eyes against Jerick’s gaze. His hands curled against the woman’s breast, urging her heart to obey, and an image rose, unbidden, in his mind. A woman who smiled at him with eyes that kept no secrets and told no lies. A woman with fiery hair like the one who lay before him, alone and dying. He lashed out again, demanding that Jerick depart. She was dying and he was listening to the mutterings of a foolish knight who’d clearly been too long without a woman. Running, smiling, mating. Bloody fool.
“Leave me, Jerick. Now.” If Jerick remained, Kjell would flog him. Jerick must have realized his captain would give no more quarter, for he turned away, and Kjell heard him depart through the brush, his stride dejected.
Kjell ran his hands over the slim ribs of the woman, feeling the jagged pieces of broken bones, and he bade them mend. He didn’t pray as his hands roved. The Creator had given him this curse and this cure, and he wouldn’t beg for an increase.
The woman resisted him, her slim frame stubborn in its death throes.
Kjell started to hum, purely on instinct, matching his timbre to the intermittent baying of the wolves above him. After a moment, he felt the tell-tale tingling in his hands, and his pulse surged in triumph. He commanded his body to share its light, and the shattered cage of her ribs righted beneath his touch, lifting her chest and curving outward into his broad palms. And still, he couldn’t hear her song.
“Where are you, woman?” he asked her. “I feel your heart and the seeping of your blood. S
ing to me so I can bring you back.”
He moved his hands to her thighs, feeling the shape of her body return, the bones of her legs knitting together and notching into the curve of her hips. When her spine became a long, straight line, he rolled her to her side to run his hands over the back of her skull. It was wet with blood and soft in his hands. He swallowed back bile, surprised at his squeamishness. He had gutted men and beasts and never winced or even hesitated.
“I am a man with little imagination,” he whispered, smoothing her hair. “I cannot pretend to love you. But I can heal you if you help me.”
He strained, still listening for that one note that would save her life. He’d been in this position once, years before, straining to hear something he’d never heard, hardly knowing what he sought, but listening all the same. At the time it was his brother, and his wounds had been just as grievous as this woman’s. Kjell had saved him. He’d healed him. But he’d also loved him.
Fear trembled in his belly, and the heat in his hands instantly lessened. He forced his thoughts back to his brother, to his affection, his respect, his devotion. The thought became strength, and the heat in his hands became light.
He leaned down and whispered in her ear, sing-song and coaxing.
“Can you hear me, woman? Come sing with me.” The only songs he knew were bawdy and lewd, simple tunes about lifting skirts and brandishing swords.
“Come to me, and I will try to heal you. I will try to heal you, if you but come back,” he chanted softly, the melody monotone, the lyrics weak, but it was a song of sorts, and it fell from his lips in a husky plea.
“Come to me, and I will give you shelter, I will give you shelter, if you but come back.” His lips brushed the lobe of her ear, and he felt an odd shudder that passed from his mouth and lifted her hair. Her heartbeat strengthened as if she heard. He continued to chant, allowing hope to make him a liar.
“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 peal, almost inaudible. Almost imaginary. Almost gone. A bell ringing once.
But it was enough.
Kjell lifted his voice, grasping the pitch and pulling the tone from the winking stars. Suddenly the death knell became a merry tolling, clear and bright. It grew and grew, and still he hummed, until the sound 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 the matted hair from blood-stained 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, the bell becoming words, and Kjell drew back, releasing his grip on her hair, the song in his throat becoming shocked silence. He clenched his hands and felt her blood on his palms.
“I saw you,” she said again. “You’re here. You finally came.”
***
Her words were senseless. He’d healed her body but her mind was something he couldn’t touch. Kjell sat back on his haunches, putting a few feet between them.
“Are you . . . all right?” he asked. He wanted to ask if she was whole—healed—but didn’t want to draw any more attention to what he’d just done. His gift frightened people. It frightened him. She began to raise herself up gingerly, and he extended his hand to assist her. She didn’t take it, but paused, sitting silently as if listening to her body. He needed to stand. His knees were numb, and his hips screamed from kneeling so long at her side. His head felt light and disconnected from the rest of his body, as if it floated above him like a cloud, thick and weightless, his thoughts muddled with fatigue.
His hands trembling, he pushed himself up, demanding that his cramped legs hold him. The healing had left him bled out, depleted, and he didn’t want his men—or the woman who watched him with hollow eyes—to see the after-effects of using his gift. They couldn’t know. Such knowledge was noted and tucked away, a secret to be traded among warring tribes and plotting men. He was not loved like his brother and had never inspired a similar loyalty. But he was feared like his father, and that suited him well enough.
The woman rose with him, defying the blood that still soaked the earth where she had lain. She was taller than he expected—long and slim—saving him from getting a crick in his neck to look into her face. Her hair was unbound and fell in matted disarray past the swell of her hips. Her thin dress, little more than a gown for sleeping, stuck to her skin in gory splotches. Her feet were shod in the short leather boots of a desert dweller, as if she’d left her home in a hurry, prioritizing shoes over her clothing.
“What is your name?” he asked. She hesitated, and he suspected that she was going to lie to him. He was well-accustomed to women who lied, and immediately braced himself not to believe her.
“I am called Sasha,” she supplied reluctantly, and his brows rose in disbelief.
It was hardly a name. It was a command used on horses or cattle—often accompanied by a kick to the flanks or a slap to the rump—to get them to move. He hissed the word several times a day, and wondered who had given the poor woman her moniker.
“And where is your home, Sasha?” He winced as he addressed her.
She turned toward the cliff that loomed above them, steep walls and jagged teeth, unwelcoming in the flickering torch-light.
“I live in Solemn, but it was never my home.” There was grief in the simple revelation, and he braced himself against it. He did not want to know her pain. He’d done what he could for her. Some pain was not within his power to ease. She said no more, but continued staring at the cliffs, as if her life had truly ended there, and she didn’t know what came next. She took a few steps toward the cliff wall, and he stepped aside, following her with his eyes. His gaze caught on a white cloth caught by the brush that grew in the cracks and crags about twenty feet from the base of the cliff. The woman—Sasha—moved toward it as if it belonged to her and scrambled up several feet before he realized she had every intention of scaling the wall to reach it.
“Come down. I won’t heal you twice.”
She bowed her head briefly, as if she knew she should listen, but then continued, scurrying upward several more feet and untangling the pale fabric from the branch while clinging to the wall with curled toes and one hand.
“It is mine,” she informed him—slightly breathless—when she stood in front of him once more. She wrapped the cloth carefully over her blood soaked hair and secured the edges around her waist. She was calm and composed, and her serenity made him wary. He’d healed her body, but a physical healing didn’t erase her memory or alter her experience. She had fallen. She had teetered between life and death. Yet she did not cry or tremble. She didn’t ask him questions or seek to understand—or explain—what had happened.
“There is a stream in the crevice between the cliffs. I will show you and your men,” she said.
“How did you know I was not alone?” he asked.
“I saw you,” she replied, repeating the first words she’d said, and his stomach shivered uncomfortably at her insistence. She’d been unconscious when they found her.
He whistled sharply, the sound piercing the darkness, sending a signal to his men. He waited, his eyes on the strange woman, until Jerick and several other men stepped out from the shadows and halted with stunned curses. A lance clattered against the ground.
“The woman knows where there is water. We’ll stay here for the night,” Kjell directed. “Gather the others and bring me my horse.”
“And Solemn?” Jerick asked, recovering quickly, as if he’d never doubted his captain’s ability.
The woman jerked like the word was a whip against her flesh.
“Tomorrow,” Kjell answered, and her eyes shot to his. “We’ll go tomorrow. When it’s light.”
Sasha was curled nearby, Kjell’s cloak tucked around her, the length of cloth she’d reclaimed from the cliff folded beneath her fiery hair. He could now see th
at the cloth was the palest blue, shot with streaks of white, like the sun had bleached it unevenly. When he’d fallen asleep, she was still huddled near the fire in his cloak, her simple, dark blue gown spread out to dry nearby. She’d clearly found him in the dark and lain beside him. She was closer to his feet than his face, but near enough that he would have stumbled over her had he risen before dawn. He didn’t know what to make of her proximity beyond the obvious: If he’d healed her, she had value to him. If he valued her, she was safer with him than with anyone else.
In the gathering light, the copper flecks on her skin were bolder, reflecting the warmth of her hair. The blood had left her dress stained in darker patches, but she was relatively clean, her hair free of gore and glorious in the yawning rays that stole across the plains from the east and collided with the crags. She’d been right about the water—a stream tumbled from a crevice and collected in a gulley between two jagged walls—and she’d lead them through a narrow canyon only minutes from where they’d found her. She’d waited until the men had filled their bellies and their carafes before kneeling beside the pool and rinsing her matted hair and soot-streaked skin. Her blood-soaked gown was another matter, and Kjell had left her with his cloak and a wedge of soap, withdrawing to a small clearing nearby with his men.
He found himself hoping she would slip away, back to the life she’d almost lost. But she didn’t. When she approached him, wrapped in his cloak, her hair dripping, holding her wet dress, he’d given her food and directed her to sit. He’d asked Isak—a soldier with a gift for fire—to start a blaze, and she huddled beside it, her head resting on her drawn-up knees. His men moved around her cautiously, keeping their distance and their own company, their wonder making them reticent, but he found them staring at him as often as they stared at her.
There was awe and more than a little fear in the looks they cast his way. They knew what he’d done, but they still couldn’t believe it. They’d seen him mend a bloody gash or a broken bone, but they’d also watched soldiers die in his care—gone before he could do anything for them but return their bodies to their families or bury them on a battlefield. All of his men had withstood the attack on Jeru City—though few had witnessed his singular part in it. But they’d all witnessed this woman—bloodied and lifeless—made whole once again.