The Queen and the Cure (The Bird and the Sword Chronicles, #2)

“Deeper!” Jerick yelled, and Kjell pressed still farther into the darkness.

“We’re all in Captain,” Jerick called a moment later, and they halted, one woman, two dozen men, and their mounts, bathed temporarily in the warm light of Isak’s blaze. Seconds later, Isak released the flame with an apology. The ball of fire was too hot for the people huddled around him, too flammable for the clothes he wore, and with no torch to light and no way to shelter the flame, he had to extinguish it.

“There was once a Spinner who could turn memories into stars the way Isak pulls fire from the air,” Sasha spoke into the gloom. “I will tell you the story when the storm passes. Don’t worry. It will pass.”

She was trying to comfort them, a lone woman among soldiers who were well accustomed to supreme discomfort and fear.

A rush of tenderness gripped Kjell, followed by a glimmer of fear. Her voice had sounded odd in the chamber, like she floated above them. He reached for her, suddenly afraid that he would lose her into the black space pressing around them. In the darkness, free from judgment and the awareness of his men, he tucked her body into his, wrapping his arms around her, returning the reassurance she so easily offered.

For a moment they could all hear each other—the chuff of the horses, the changing of positions, the rustle of clothes, the scrape of shoes upon the rocks. Then the storm brought deep night with it, a black so complete, no light shone from the mouth of the cave and all sound was swallowed up in its fury.

Kjell was rendered blind and deaf, but he could feel her heartbeat against his belly, her face pressed to his chest, and the weight of her hair spilling over his arms. Fingertips brushed his face, and for a moment he stood motionless as she traced his eyes and his nose, his lips and his ears, seeing him in the dark. He thought about her mouth and the way she’d looked at him when she saw the cave in her mind.

He could kiss her. He could taste her lips and swallow her sighs and wait out the tempest exploring her mouth.

The desire wailed within him like the squall around him, but he resisted, unwilling to do what was expected, even if it was what he wanted. Her hands fell to his shoulders and she stood unmoving in his arms, her cheek on his chest, and he spent the storm in equal parts agony and bliss.

***





The landscape had changed when they exited the cave, and for a moment, none of them spoke, but stretched their legs and tried to adjust to the light and disorientation. Somehow, even though they’d escaped the brunt of it, grit stuck to their skin and coated their brows and eyelashes, and Sasha shook out her hair and her scarf, beating her hands against her dress and shaking out her shoes.

Kjell found the highest point, little more than a mound of sand, and took out his spyglass, eager for Enoch and a bath. A haze hung in the air, obscuring the view in every direction. The sun was invisible, the light filtered and red. There was no horizon, no east, west, north or south. No matter the direction, the outlook was the same. Enoch would have to wait another day.

Eventually, Sasha joined him on the rise, bearing good news. “Some of the men are exploring. Isak made a torch out of horse hair and a strip of cloth. There’s water farther back in the cave! Not a lot, but enough to wash our faces and fill our flasks.”

“Then we’ll stay here tonight. We can camp in and around the cave. It does us no good to travel if we’re going in the wrong direction. We’ll just become more lost, and no one will find us out here.”

“We’re lost?” Sasha asked. She didn’t seem especially concerned.

“For the moment,” he replied, still futilely searching. He snapped his glass closed, and scrubbed at his skin. For a man who spent the majority of his time on horseback, he despised being filthy. Sasha handed him her scarf, and with a sigh, he accepted it. He’d pulled her close in the darkness, and he didn’t have the energy or desire to push her away again.

Without her veil he could see an angry strip of red, blistered flesh on the side of her neck where the relentless sun had found exposed skin.

“You’re burned,” he said, returning her scarf. It had helped to remove the sand from his eyelashes, if little else.

She nodded, shaking the veil once and recovering her head. He drew it aside and pressed his palm to her sore skin, making her flinch. When he moved his hand the blisters were gone, leaving a line of large, golden freckles in their wake. The freckles bothered him. He ran his thumb across them, wanting to wipe them away, puzzled. When he’d healed Tiras, he’d left no scars. He’d restored him completely.

“Don’t do that,” Sasha said, her voice sharp. It surprised him. Sasha’s voice was never sharp. He dropped his hand, raising his eyes from her skin and stepping away, confused. She’d welcomed his proximity in the cave.

“It is a burn, Captain. It will heal on its own.” She pressed her fingers to her neck, hiding it.

“It is done.”

Her shoulders slumped. “You can’t keep doing that.”

“I can. And I will,” he retorted, covering his confusion with ire.

“I didn’t know your healing came with a cost,” she murmured. “I don’t want you to heal when you don’t have to.”

Realization flooded him. She didn’t want him to heal her because she thought it cost him. For every life he saved, he gave a day of his own. He didn’t know if soothing blisters constituted saving a life, but she was clearly upset by it.

“For all I know, I will live to be a very old man with more years on this land than I know what to do with. That is the one thing about my gift that has never bothered me, the possibility that I might be trading my days away.”

“You are kind,” she said softly.

“I am not kind,” Kjell scoffed.

“And you are good,” she added.

“I am not good!” he laughed.

“I have never known a man like you.”

“You were a slave in Quondoon! The men you knew were not trying to impress you.”

“Neither are you, Captain. Yet I am still impressed.”

“Then you have a lot to learn.”

She nodded slowly, and he was immediately remorseful. Her old master had told her she was simple. She was not simple. She was wise . . . and infuriating.

“Why do I make you so angry?” she asked.

“You don’t make me angry,” he argued, frustration making his hands curl.

“I do,” she insisted, looking at him steadily.

“You do not know me. You have no idea who I am. You think I’m a Healer, but I have slain more men than I have healed.”

She was silent for a moment, absorbing his confession. He began walking back toward the cave, expecting her to follow.

“You are wrong, Captain,” she called after him. “I do know you. I knew your face before I met you. I saw you more times than I can count. You have always given me hope.”

His heart tripped and his feet followed, and he stopped walking to avoid falling on his face in the shifting sand. He didn’t look back at her, but she had to know he heard her. With a lusty exhale, he resumed walking, minding his step.