The Queen and the Cure

by Amy Harmon

  The days passed, and then the years. What she saw became who she was.

  “Will I ever go home?” she asked the king, her tears falling on his shoulder.

  “I don’t know. Will you?” She stared into his beloved face, confused and surprised.

  “What do you see, Saoirse?”

  “I see Dendar.”

  “Then you must stay.”

  Flowers and wreaths. The soft petals of her mother’s hands had become petals in Saoirse’s hair. Padrig stood before them, his arms raised to the stars, but he did not pull lights from the firmament. He drew vows from their mouths. He pronounced them man and wife, King Aren and Queen Saoirse, and the people crowed and clapped.

  She saw her reflection in the glass and realized she had grown into her mother—tall and straight, a child no longer, a crown on her head and thorns in her heart.

  She saw Dendar, but she saw more. She saw the Healer, his hands braced against a tree, wracked in lamentation.

  Leaves changed, yellow and gold, orange and burgundy. Then they were gone, leaving Grandfather Tree and the rest of the forest bare and skeletal. But the green came again, clothing the trees and carpeting the fields in grass. Beyond Caarn, the king traveled, returning with terrible news and growing fears.

  “Tell me, Saoirse, what do you see?”

  Birdmen, winged dragons with the chest and legs of a man. Beasts that drank blood and ate flesh. She saw them over the trees and in the valley, above the hills and across the streams. She saw them everywhere.

  “Whatever it is that your parents fear, it cannot be worse for you there than in Dendar.”

  Trees. Silent and waiting. Endless trees and empty fields, and a trip back to now, across the sea.

  “We will wait for you, Saoirse, here in the valley of Caarn,” they said. “Come back to us, Saoirse, here in the valley of Caarn.”

  Padrig pulled the memories from her head and, wrapping them in light, he let them go. Let her go.

  “Sometimes our memories can hurt us, Sasha. So I will tell you a new story.”

  Knowledge merged and met the past, and the past became an avalanche, a flood, a tempest comprised of wind and sand.

  She and Kjell had not escaped the storm after all.

  She couldn’t breathe, and she couldn’t speak. Each grain of sand was a shard in her skin, a terrible truth that completely changed the landscape. All that was became all that is, churning and changing, rearranging, until Sasha was swept away and Saoirse took her place, no longer plagued by who she’d been, but completely destroyed by who she was.

  ***

  Kjell climbed the broad staircase, Sasha in his arms, Lark on his heels. Tiras would see to the Spinner. He would see that justice was done. And if he didn’t, Kjell would. But for now he could only whisk her away, his heart in his throat, fear in his veins, Sasha weeping against his chest. Lark commanded the door to his chamber to open before they even arrived, she ordered the covers to toss themselves aside before he crossed the room, and when he laid Sasha across his bed, the queen’s mouth moved around words of comfort.

  “What is past is done and gone,

  Ease the torment of this one,

  In her heart and in her mind,

  Let her rest and forget time.”

  Lark couldn’t heal and she didn’t compel, but her powers of suggestion and her ability to command were unmatched. Regaining her speech had made her considerably more powerful, yet she wielded her words so carefully.

  Sasha quieted, her trembling becoming an occasional shudder, her tears slowing. Her hands released the cloth of his shirt, her muscles relaxed, finding reprieve in sleep, and Kjell collapsed beside her.

  “I will stay with her. The memories are with her now, and whether she sleeps or not, she is processing,” Lark volunteered.

  “I should not have allowed it,” Kjell said.

  “You sound like your brother,” Lark said softly.

  “No. He sounds like me,” Kjell argued. But he sighed and rose from the bed, looking down at the woman curled in tormented slumber.

  “Go, Kjell. Sasha will be here when you return. You need answers and at this moment, she can’t give them to you.”

  When Kjell returned to the Great Hall, Tiras sat on his throne, surrounded by empty space and high, arching windows that framed the night and the silence in the room. His face was like stone, his hands gripping the arms, his feet braced wide like he was preparing to stand.

  “Sit, brother,” he said.

  “Where is the Spinner?” Kjell asked, unwilling to comply.

  Tiras leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him, meeting his older brother’s gaze.

  “Sit,” he asked again.

  “Just speak, Tiras,” Kjell shot back.

  “Sasha is not Lady Saoirse of Kilmorda,” Tiras stated, his eyes never leaving Kjell’s.

  “What?” Kjell asked, impatient, wishing Tiras would cease babbling and start beheading.

  “She is Queen Saoirse of Dendar,” Tiras said.

  Kjell stared at his brother, dumbfounded, too many pieces of the story still unaccounted for. Tiras began to speak again, trying to explain.

  “King Aren of Dendar is a powerful Spinner—his people are Spinners, but most of them don’t spin objects into illusions or straw into gold. They make things grow. They are able to spin themselves into plants and trees and bushes and grass.”

  “Caarn means tree. Tree. They spin themselves into trees,” Kjell whispered. He reached for something to hold on to, and collapsed to the dais of his brother’s throne, obeying Tiras after all.

  “Sasha’s story. It wasn’t a story. It was real,” Kjell breathed. No. Not Sasha. Seer-sha. Queen Saoirse. The name rolled around on Kjell’s tongue like burnt sugar, sweet and bitter, inviting and unwelcome.

  “Dendar was overrun by Volgar. Porta and Willa were decimated first, then Dendar. Then Kilmorda. Padrig is a Spinner, but his gift is different from the other people of Caarn. Because of this, when the Volgar came, the king—Padrig’s nephew—charged him with keeping Saoirse safe. She could not protect herself . . . nor could she hide,” Tiras continued, tripping over the explanation like he hadn’t had time to process it himself.

  “She’s a queen,” Kjell said, lightheaded and tempted to laugh. He should have known. No wonder he wanted to worship at her feet.

  “You don’t understand, Kjell,” Tiras interrupted softly. He moved down to the dais and sat next to his brother, his eyes on the floor. His compassion demanded it. “She is not the heir to the throne. She is not related to the king. She is the wife of the king. She is King Aren’s . . . queen.”

  Kjell raged through the castle hallways, demanding access to the Spinner, Tiras following behind like he was a toddler in danger of falling.

  “Where is he, Tiras?” he shouted.

  “You will hurt him,” Tiras said. “I can’t allow that.”

  “I will kill him!” he confirmed, searching mindlessly, slamming doors and frightening the staff. Dawn had come, but the castle had just gone to bed.

  “You cannot kill a man for telling painful truths, Kjell.”

  “I can kill him for letting me believe a lie!” he bellowed.

  “There were no lies, Kjell.” Tiras shook his head. “Nobody lied to you.”

  Kjell shoved past his brother, and Tiras finally let him go.

  He paced the hallway outside her room, not able to sit at her bedside, not able to sit still at all. Lark kept a vigil, just like she’d said she would, but when Sasha finally woke, she refused to see him.

  Lark stepped out into the corridor, her face drawn, her hands stretched out to him, ready to comfort, armed with excuses. But he would not be comforted or denied. He pushed into the room, and Lark didn’t stop him. Sasha lay very still with her eyes closed.

  He waited by her bed, sprawled in a chair like a drunken fool, muttering to himself and waiting for her to open her eyes and look at him. Lark had taken down Sasha’s hair and helped her to re
move the golden gown she’d spent the whole night tempting him in. She was awake behind her closed lids. He’d watched her sleeping often enough to know. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and her hands were clenched.

  She couldn’t look at him. Only days before, he had made love to her and she couldn’t look away.

  She turned her head into the pillows and in a voice that barely resembled the Sasha he knew, she asked him to go.

  “Please, Captain. I need you to leave.”

  And he could not deny her.

  Days later, he was called into the library, summoned like a royal courtier, and he obeyed again, paying special attention to his appearance, combing his hair back from his face and carefully shaving the growth from his jaw. He had a maid press his tunic and a porter shine his boots. Then he strapped on his anger and his disdain and made sure he was late.

  She was waiting alone, as carefully coiffed as he, no feather duster or ladder to climb. No sweet pleading for another kiss. There wouldn’t be another one. She’d seen the truth all along.

  And still she didn’t look at him.

  “You are Queen Saoirse of Dendar.” It was the only thing he could think to say.

  “Yes,” she replied. He expected her to elaborate. To cry. To fall into his arms. But she sat primly, her hands in her lap, her back straight, her face forward, and her eyes focused beyond his head.

  “Should I kneel? What is customary when speaking to a queen in Dendar?” he asked.

  Her face remained immovable, but her throat convulsed briefly.

  “You may stand,” she whispered. “You owe me no fealty.” She swallowed again, but her eyes stayed averted.

  “I see. So tell me, how did Lady Saoirse of Kilmorda, a child, grow to be Queen Saoirse of Dendar?” He matched her tone, the unemotional delivery, the feigned boredom.

  “I was Gifted, and my parents were afraid. They knew what happened to Lady Meshara of Corvyn. I was just a little girl, but I could see terrible things. I would tell them elaborate stories that always seemed to come true. I made their lives miserable.” She paused, collected her thoughts, and proceeded without inflection.

  “An arrangement was made between Kilmorda and Dendar. A betrothment. I was sent to Dendar along with three ships filled with gold, fine silk, and exotic spices. When I was twenty summers, I became Queen. A year later, King Aren sent me back to Kilmorda. He told me it was just for a while. Dendar was under attack, and unlike the rest of Caarn, I couldn’t spin to protect myself.”

  She wrapped her story in concise sentences and careful words. She didn’t embellish, didn’t add drama or flair the way she usually did. The delivery was dry, flat, and colorless. Everything that Sasha wasn’t.

  “Why did Padrig take your memories?” he asked the question with just enough disdain to let her know he was no longer convinced that he had. It was theatrics. He knew Padrig had taken Sasha’s memories as surely as Kjell had stolen her kisses.

  “King Aren ordered him to. He told Padrig if Kilmorda fell, I would try to return. He knew if I could remember Dendar, I would try to go back, and I would be killed.”

  “And will you?” he pressed, nonchalant.

  Finally, her eyes found his.

  “Will I . . . what?” Ah. There she was. Sasha of Quondoon. Persecuted servant, looking to him.

  “Will you go back?” he asked. And there he was. The Kjell of old, scathing and sharp.

  She didn’t explain herself or say, “It is expected,” or “I must,” or “I have no choice.” She simply replied, “Yes.”

  Yes.

  She would be going back.

  “King Tiras and Queen Lark have agreed to arrange a small contingent of soldiers and supplies from Corvyn to Dendar,” she expounded. “There was wealth recovered in my father’s house. It is now . . . mine. Padrig has not been back since we fled. He doesn’t know what we will find, but he is confident Caarn is waiting, and we will be welcomed home.”

  How kind of King Tiras and Queen Lark. How very considerate. They were arranging all the details. He wanted to kill his brother.

  He bowed slowly, with great pomp, the way he used to bow before Lark, just to make her seethe. “I wish you safe travels, Your Highness. It has been a pleasure to have served you.” He kept his gaze locked on hers as he straightened.

  She didn’t reply, but her eyes grew bright and her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to speak but hadn’t decided what to say. He stared at her a moment longer, waiting for words that didn’t come, before turning on his heel and striding from the room.

  For days he avoided all the chatter, all the glorious gossip of the long-lost Queen of Dendar who had miraculously been found alive and rescued by the valiant king and his good queen. He didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to hear. Didn’t want to count the days until she was gone. But there were preparations he couldn’t ignore and people he couldn’t evade. Jerick cornered him—making everything decidedly worse with his effusive sympathy—only to run from his presence. Tiras summoned him several times, but Kjell defied his edicts.

  He spent hours in the yard, taking his rage and impotence out on anyone who would come against him with a jousting stick, a sword, or a spear. When he realized his men were eyeing him with more pity than fear, he abandoned them too, leaving Jeru City for endless patrols with only Lucian and his sour thoughts for company. Still, avoiding a Seer indefinitely proved impossible.

  Sasha found him four days later in the royal stables, mucking stalls that he’d already cleaned, feeding horses that were too full to eat, and oiling saddles that were already gleaming. Her hair was arranged in a crown of braids and loose curls that hung obediently down her back and past her breasts, as if each one had been carefully placed. Her gown was the same soft green as the scarf he’d bought her in Solemn, her lips pink, her nails buffed, her presentation perfect. But her dark eyes were bruised and weary, and her cheeks were pale beneath the smattering of copper. She didn’t appear to have slept, and the starch he’d observed in the throne room was missing from her posture.

  “We are leaving the day after tomorrow,” she said softly.

  “Go and do no harm,” he shot back, the traditional Jeruvian parting sounding like a slap. She turned away from him and pressed her palms to her face, easing the sting.

  “I remember. But I haven’t forgotten,” she said, her voice breaking slightly.

  “I don’t know what that means,” he answered, but he abandoned the bales of hay that didn’t need to be moved again and dropped down onto one of them.

  “I remember. I remember everything. And everything has changed. But I have not forgotten how I feel about you.”

  His throat closed and his skin burned, and he fisted his hands in his hair so he wouldn’t reach for her. He kept his eyes on the wooden slats of the stable floor, waiting for her to continue. But she didn’t. Instead she began to cry. It was not the keening of the night when Padrig returned her memories. It was not the gentle sniffling of a tender moment, or the pretty cries of a manipulation. Her cries were so deep and raw, they ricocheted through his chest and reverberated in his head. She shook with them, her hands covering her eyes and her hair creating a shroud reminiscent of the day she sank to her knees and declared herself his.

  “Tell me what you remember.” Maybe it was foolish, but it was a story he wanted to hear, even if it killed him.

  “They’re gone. My mother and my father are gone,” she cried. “I remember Kilmorda. I remember my life. I remember my . . . self. And I am gone too.”

  “No,” he soothed. “You are not.”

  “I remember the king. I remember King Aren,” she rushed, as if she had to tell him, had to get it all out.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  “He was a good king. He was kind to me. I grew to love him, and I was happy.”

  How could relief and despair exist together? Yet they did, and his heart rejoiced even as he mourned the truth that sealed his fate.

  “I am glad,” he choked, and mad
e himself say it once more. “I am glad.”

  She shook her head adamantly, her curls dancing around her, caressing her neck and her face, stroking her back, touching her arms when he could not.

  “Please . . . don’t . . . say that. Don’t tell me you are glad. If you don’t mourn with me, no one will.” She turned toward him and extended her hand, pleading, asking for comfort. She’d held his hand so many times, taken it in support, in solidarity, in supplication.

  He rose and took it, gripping the long, slim fingers, counting the freckles on her skin with his eyes so he wouldn’t touch them with his lips. She clutched his just as tightly, but neither of them stepped closer, neither narrowed the space nor crossed the new divide. Clinging to his hand, she continued, her thoughts tumbling over each other, her words coming quickly, confiding and confessing.

  “I remember Caarn. The castle. The people. The forests and the hills. The valley of Caarn in Dendar became my home. And I loved her even more than I loved Kilmorda.”

  “Caarn is not gone. She is waiting for you. You can go back,” he reassured. He didn’t know what she wanted to hear. He didn’t know what she needed to hear. Knowing was not his gift. It had never been his gift. Compassion, empathy, self-sacrifice and self-denial—he was not equipped with any of them. Yet the moment Sasha fell into his life, he’d been asked to continually exercise them.

  “You told me once you were lost. There is a whole world waiting for you. A whole life. You aren’t lost anymore,” he said.

  “I am more lost than I have ever been. Padrig told me I would lose nothing when he restored my memories, but he knew that was not true.” She stared at him, agonized. “I lost you,” she whispered, and his heart grew sharp branches and roots that unfurled and pierced his chest.

  “I remember, but I have not forgotten,” she repeated.

  “Please, Sasha,” he panted, trying to breathe around the briars.

  “I am Saoirse. But I am Sasha too. And Sasha loves Kjell.”