“Like Grandfather Tree?” she asked, horror tinging her voice. The story of Grandfather Tree was one she hadn’t shared.
“No.” Padrig shook his head, adamant. “No. Grandfather went to the forest to pass from this life to the next. The Spinners of Caarn didn’t go to die. They went to hide.”
“And they’re still hiding?” Kjell pressed.
“Why?” Sasha cried.
“I don’t know, Majesty,” Padrig answered, and this time his voice rang true.
“We saw how well you communicate with the trees, Star Maker,” Lortimer mocked, slumped against the stairs leading up to the castle doors.
“I know they are there!” Padrig insisted. “We have come all this way. Surely you can give me a few days to see what can be done.”
Jerick and Isak shifted nervously, and Kjell raised his brow. Jerick moved beside him and spoke in hushed tones, his eyes on the Spinner. “The trees around the castle aren’t like the ones blocking the road, Captain. The Spinner talked to them. He pled with them. But the leaves didn’t even shiver.”
Sasha turned toward Kjell, her eyes pleading. He knew what she was going to say before the words left her mouth.
“The trees at the border moved for you, Captain. Perhaps . . . these trees will listen to you as well.”
“Tomorrow, Saoirse,” Padrig interceded. “One more day won’t matter. We will eat, and we will rest. Then we will see about the trees.”
Sasha didn’t argue, and Kjell let Padrig shuffle the weary travelers inside, promising them all would be well. When night fell, Kjell would slip out among the trees and see for himself if they could simply be asked to spin or if Padrig was in denial.
The Volgar nested like most birds, pulling bits of hair, rope, cloth, straw and mud into mounds to fall into. In the castle, the mattresses were destroyed—gutted and scored—but that was all. The Volgar were beasts, and beasts didn’t sit in chairs or toast their success. They hunted. They grazed. They slept. And when there was no blood to drink or flesh to eat, they quickly moved on.
There had been nothing to eat in the castle. Nothing to eat in all of Caarn, besides other animals. The Volgar had cleared Caarn of her livestock and wildlife and quickly moved on to richer pickings.
A consensus was drawn that they would camp together in the Great Hall for the time being, and they cleared the soaring gallery of dirt and debris, beating the rugs and restoring order to the space. There were linens in the closets and brooms and rags stored neatly in the huge palace washroom. Kjell eyed the iron basins with longing. He wanted to be clean. The kitchen and washroom both boasted odd spigots that rose like great hooks with long handles and drew the water from deep in the ground. Sasha demonstrated the spigot in the kitchen to the awestruck gathering, pumping the odd handle determinedly until water gurgled forth, filling one bucket after another, to be heated later in the huge cauldrons on the row of hearths.
“The last three cauldrons are always kept full, the water hot, so that a bath can be easily drawn. There are hearths and cauldrons in the castle laundry as well, and the servants usually bathe there.”
The sun was setting and fires were started, the travelers eager for warm baths and hot food. Fruit was plucked from the engorged trees and sliced and folded into dough prepared by the cook with flour and oil from Dendar Bay. There was no fresh meat, but there would be pies. The torches—still waiting in sconces on every wall of the castle—were lit, enlivening the spirits of the group. It wasn’t until hours later, after appetites were sated and tubs were filled, emptied, and filled again, washing the miles from the bodies of almost four dozen travelers, that Sasha emerged from the room where the women had bathed, her hair still damp, her dress rumpled but clean. After his own bath, Kjell had waited outside her door, unwilling to let down his guard, even under the lulling glow of heat and warmth, of tired voices and rock walls. The other women had come and gone, hardly noticing him they were so accustomed to his watchful presence.
“Come with me,” Sasha murmured, extending her hand to him. “There is something I must show you.” The night was deepening and everyone but the assigned watch had retired to their pallets in the Great Hall to find sleep and a bit of solitude behind closed lids. Kjell took a torch from the foyer and followed Sasha up the shadowy staircase, keeping her hand in his and his eyes peeled to the darkness of the upper floor. No one had bothered to light the upstairs.
They walked down the corridors, lighting sconces as they did, chasing the darkness and the gloom as they passed elaborate tapestries and enormous portraits. A painting, rimmed in gold and adorned in cobwebs caught his eye. Sasha, her eyes wide and dark and her brilliant hair dulled by dust, had been captured against a backdrop of green. Kjell slowed, wanting to stare, but Sasha urged him forward, unimpressed by the beauty of her portrait.
She didn’t look twice at the row of blond kings, but continued on until she stood beneath a picture of a royal family wearing crowns of gold branches and gilded leaves, gazing out of the painting in contented unity.
“Is that . . . Padrig?” Kjell asked, pointing to the bearded, blond man beside the king. The painting was dated four decades earlier, but Padrig hadn’t changed very much. He looked old even then.
“Yes. He is Aren’s uncle. Padrig was King Gideon’s younger brother. That is Briona, Gideon’s queen and Aren’s mother.” Sasha indicated the couple seated in the center of the portrait.
King Gideon and Queen Briona were stately, attractive people, painted with steady gazes and elevated chins.
“That is Aren,” Sasha pointed at the tall youth in the painting. He looked about fifteen or sixteen summers, his hair golden, his eyes blue, his features sharp, and he stood next to a girl maybe two or three summers older. The girl was also fair with pale blue eyes and a solemn expression. There was something defiant and almost familiar about the set of her jaw and her unsmiling mouth. Sasha pointed at her. “That is Aren’s older sister.”
“Why are you showing me this painting, Sasha?” Kjell asked, trying to be patient and failing, as usual.
“Because . . . her name was Koorah,” Sasha said softly.
Kjell froze, arrested by the painted face of the girl with the same name as his mother. Sasha reached for his hand again, anchoring him, but she continued, her voice adopting the sing-song quality she used whenever she told stories.
“No one talked about Koorah when I came to Caarn. She had been gone a long time.” Sasha took a deep breath, steadying herself, and he glanced down at her, noting the flush on her cheeks and the trembling of her lips. She was as stricken as he. “She would have been queen, Kjell. In Caarn, the throne passes to the oldest child, not the oldest son. She never married, but Aren says she was well-loved. There were suitors, of course, but no one turned her head or won her heart. When she was twenty-eight summers, she disappeared. Aren believed she’d fallen in love with someone unfit to be king. She boarded a ship in the Bay of Dendar, and no one ever saw her again. King Gideon and Queen Briona convinced themselves she was lost at sea. It was easier to believe her dead than to worry about her wellbeing. And everyone knew there were terrible creatures in the Jeruvian Sea,” Sasha added on a whisper.
“Koorah was my mother’s name,” Kjell murmured, his throat too constricted for greater sound.
“I know,” she answered, her voice as hushed as his. “You told me once. But I didn’t even remember my own name then. Today, when you told the trees to move and they obeyed, Padrig asked you where your mother was from.”
“And you remembered her name,” he supposed.
“Yes.” She nodded. For a moment they were quiet, contemplative. Kjell’s mind pulsed with possibilities he discarded almost as quickly as they came. But Sasha wasn’t finished.
“I remembered your mother’s name, and I remembered the story of Koorah, the Healer, who would have been queen,” she said.
“The Healer?”
“Yes, Captain, a Healer.” Sasha lifted her eyes to his, and he could only gaze ba
ck, suddenly seeing another slave woman in a foreign land. He’d never known what his mother looked like. He still didn’t, but he gave her blue eyes and golden hair like the portrait on the wall. He gave her a stubborn jaw and a mouth that looked like his.
“Koorah is not a common name,” Sasha murmured.
“No,” he agreed.
“The trees obeyed you,” Sasha reminded.
“Yes.” There was no denying it.
“She was a Healer. You are a Healer.”
He nodded again.
“If you are Lady Koorah of Caarn’s son, then . . . you are the King of Caarn.”
He began shaking his head, adamant and disbelieving. This is where they would not agree. “It could never be proven. And I don’t have any desire to be king.”
“Kell means prince in Dendar,” Sasha whispered.
“I was named after the Kjell Owl! The midwife named me,” Kjell argued.
“Is it possible . . . Koorah . . . named you?” Sasha asked.
“I know only what I was told,” he whispered, and turned away from the painting. “It makes no sense. My father—Zoltev—would have married her if she was heir to a throne. It would have been an advantageous match.”
“Maybe she never told him . . . maybe, like you, she had no desire to be queen, and maybe Zoltev was not the man she followed to Jeru.”
“Or maybe she simply loved . . . badly, and realized too late,” he acquiesced, and his eyes found Sasha’s. “We will never know.”
“No. Not for certain. But I had to show you. It would have been wrong to keep it from you.”
“Keep what from me? Her name was Koorah. It means nothing to me! She means nothing to me. There is no one here, Sasha. We are surrounded by trees and little else.” He ground his palms into his eyes. He was tired, overwrought, and the words that he uttered next were not words he was proud of. “Come back to Jeru. Come back with me, Sasha. Please.”
She bowed her head, and he felt her agony even as he cursed his own weakness. He clenched his fists and looked for something to break.
“I cannot turn my back on these people,” she said.
“What people? They are all gone!” he roared. “The king, the villagers. They are all bloody trees in a damned forest. It’s been four years, Sasha. You tell me I might be the King of Caarn? King of an empty castle and endless trees? I am a king of trees?” He was so frustrated he couldn’t spit the words out fast enough, and snatched the portrait of the family from the wall and heaved it down the hall, watching it cartwheel before it skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs, completely intact. Sasha did not protest or try to calm him, but watched him the way she always did, like she couldn’t listen hard enough, like she couldn’t possibly love him more than she already did, and that made him even angrier, because her feelings were as futile as his own.
“There is only one thing in this whole, godforsaken world that would make me want to be bloody King of Caarn. One. Thing.” He raised a finger and jabbed it toward her. “You! I would be the court jester and wear striped hose and paint on my face if it meant I could be near you. But if I am King of Caarn, then you wouldn’t be queen. You would simply be the wife of my uncle. Now that is funny! Maybe I should play the fool. This whole, bungled situation is just rich with hilarity.”
He slammed his palms against the empty space where the portrait had hung and pulled at the cloak he wore around his shoulders, a cloak that suddenly felt like an anvil around his neck. Sasha’s touch was light against his back, and he turned on her with a groan and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet. He buried his face in her hair, pressing his lips to the soft skin of her throat before finding her mouth and taking what he could before it was too late. He kissed her, imprinting the shape of her lips on his mouth, tasted her, committing her flavor to his tongue, and swallowed her sighs, taking the heat of her response into the coldest corners of his heart.
But the kiss did not douse his fury or quiet the flame of frustration in his gut. It simply accentuated the hopelessness of his desire. He pulled away slightly, and for a moment breathed her in, his eyes closed, his resolve hardening. Sasha would not turn her back on Caarn, and she would not deny him. But his need was hurting her. His presence was hurting her. Uncertainty was hurting them both. And it had to end.
Releasing her, he grabbed the torch from the sconce on the wall and strode from the corridor, not waiting to see if she followed, trusting she would. He resisted the urge to burn the picture resting precariously against the bannister, but let it be, if only for the young woman named Koorah who observed him with painted eyes.
Down the broad staircase, across the echoing foyer and through the iron doors he flew, determined to be done with it all, to end the torment of hope.
“Healer!” Padrig shouted, coming out of the darkness like a phantom. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to set fire to the forest, Spinner,” he mocked, not slowing. He’d alerted the watch, and it wouldn’t be long until the whole castle was stirring. He quickened his pace, desperate to begin without onlookers. Sasha was running behind him, her breaths harsh. He was scaring her. The thought brought him up short.
“Which one, Padrig. Which one is the king?” he asked, moderating his tone.
“Why?” Padrig gasped, his eyes glued to the flame.
“You want me to heal them. That is why I’m here. That is why you helped me. You knew this is what we would find.”
“I . . . suspected,” Padrig confessed.
“How?” Sasha asked. “How did you know, Padrig?
“Your memories, Saoirse. When I showed Lady Firi your memories, I didn’t tell you everything we saw.” Padrig turned toward Kjell, beseeching even as he raised a hand to ward Kjell off. “We saw you touching the trees, Healer. And we saw the trees becoming . . . people. Ariel of Firi didn’t understand. But I did.” He placed a trembling hand over his heart. “I did.”
“When you gave me back my memories, that one was gone,” Sasha whispered, anger and realization making her eyes glow in the dancing torchlight.
“Yes,” Padrig replied, not denying it.
“But you didn’t tell me,” Sasha said.
“You love him, Majesty. He loves you. If there was nothing to come back to in Caarn . . . I didn’t believe you would . . . come back,” Padrig offered timidly.
Instead of Padrig’s confession making him angry, it gave Kjell an odd reassurance. Padrig was a manipulator. Even the trees judged him harshly, but Kjell couldn’t see how knowing Caarn slept would have changed anything.
“Sasha. If Padrig would have told you, you would still have come. And I would have followed.” Sasha’s eyes clung to his, defeated and despairing, clearly torn between her duty and her desire to shield him. That also had not changed.
“I knew something had gone wrong. They were trees too long, Healer. They couldn’t—they can’t—spin back,” Padrig rushed to expound, obviously relieved by Kjell’s pardon. Kjell pushed the torch into the Spinner’s hands and approached the nearest tree.
“How do we know whether the tree is a Spinner or simply a tree of Caarn?” Kjell asked.
Padrig inclined his head toward the trunk. “Touch it.”
Kjell pressed his hands to the bark and immediately withdrew them. This tree was different from the trees blocking the road into the valley. The sensation was like standing on the deck of the ship again, swaying on stormy seas, his stomach tossing to and fro.
“You feel it!” Padrig crowed, jubilant. “It is not simply a tree. It is a Spinner.”
“Yes.” Kjell nodded, but he immediately stepped away. He didn’t want to touch the tree. “But I am not.”
“You are a Healer. They need healing. And you have proven you can talk to the trees.” Padrig’s eyes were bright with knowing, and Kjell wondered if his loss of temper in the gallery had been overheard by the inquisitive Star Maker.
Kjell approached the tree again, addressing it with flattened palms and a clear
command. The sensation traveled up his arms, filling Kjell with nausea, but unlike the trees on the road to Caarn, the trunk didn’t quake or shift, the roots didn’t unfurl, and the leaves were silent. It didn’t seem to hear him at all. He tried again, adjusting his message, but all he got for his efforts was a whirling head and a churning belly.
“Talking to them is not enough,” he said, dropping his hands and stepping away. He breathed deeply, attempting to calm his stomach and quiet his nerves.
“You have to try to heal them, Captain,” Padrig pled. “These are not simply trees of Caarn. They are people. Some of them were children so young they’ve been trees longer than they were babes. They were hiding, and they don’t know how to stop.”
Kjell placed his hands on a different tree, one of the smallest in the grove, its bark pale and thin and remarkably smooth. The swaying sensation welled immediately, and Kjell planted his feet to keep from falling. If the smallest tree in the wood made him feel this way, he had no hope of success.
“I will help you,” Sasha said, and took one of his hands, pulling it from the trunk, just like she’d done in the unforgiving village of Solemn. She laid her other palm against the tree next to his, pressing her fingers into the smooth bark. Her eyes clung to his face, brimming with tears that began to streak her cheeks and drip from her chin.
“I need you to help me find compassion, Sasha,” he murmured. “You loved these people once.”
“I love them still. But I love you more,” she wept. “May Caarn forgive me, I love you more.”
For a moment they were silent, hands clasped, hearts heavy, trying to find the will to do what must be done.
“I believe this tree was a child,” Padrig offered, stepping beside them with the torch. “If you look closely, you can see her face.”
They peered, grateful for the distraction, for the opportunity to forget themselves and forge ahead.
“It is a child, a little girl. There are flowers in her hair. See?” Sasha whispered, tracing the eyes and the nose, barely visible in the orange glow of the torch and the shadows on the bark.