Then he grew angry that he worried and frustrated that he fretted. Finally, after spending hours doing the things that usually brought him pleasure and relief, he stormed back to the inn where he’d left her. He stomped up the stairs to her room and pounded upon the door of her chamber until she opened it with weary eyes, the wafting scent of rose petals, and freshly-washed hair. He grunted his relief that all was well, repeated his edict that she go wherever she pleased, and turned and stomped to his own quarters, directly across the wide corridor.
Then he stood inside his room and listened at his door, straining his ears to see if she left. She didn’t. Where would she go? Did he think she’d followed him from Solemn only to leave him in Enoch? He threw himself across the massive bed and fell into restless sleep, wishing she was curled nearby and hating himself for it.
He would take her to Jeru City. He would find a place for her in the queen’s service, and he would be free of her.
He returned to the bathhouse the next day, determined to lose himself in his old ways, to soothe himself in water and steam and scent and skin. But the woman who attended him looked like Ariel of Firi—it was the look he thought he preferred—with dusky skin and full lips, round hips and heavy breasts. Her thick, black hair was arranged in fat ropes down her back, and he found himself wishing it was unbound, the curls untamed. When she looked up at him, her eyes carefully lined in kohl and heavy-lidded with pretended ardor, he felt nothing but self-loathing. He immediately sent her away.
He washed himself and donned fresh clothes, eager to be on his way though he had no destination. He walked aimlessly, his eyes empty and his mind full, when he thought he saw the washwoman again. He recoiled, wondering why she would trail him, and realized it wasn’t her at all.
The woman passed by, eyeing him with blatant appreciation and he realized his mistake. She didn’t resemble the washwoman from the bathhouse. Not really. She resembled Ariel of Firi. Did every woman have her face, or did he see her treachery in every woman? He looked for her wherever he went. He’d never spoken her name again, never told Tiras that he searched, but he had never stopped.
She would be difficult to find. She’d beguiled him for many years, feigning devotion and fealty, swearing her loyalty to the crown while plotting to undermine it. She was a woman who could change from one animal to another, flying from place to place, shifting as her climate and surroundings required. She would blend in until it was safe to be seen. Then she would take what she wanted and hurt whom she must.
She had never been satisfied with being the daughter of a lord or an ambassador of a province. She’d wanted more, circling Tiras and using Kjell, plotting to make him king so she could take her place beside him. But Kjell had never wanted to be king and suddenly another woman had been named queen—a little bird with powers even greater than her own. Unmasked, Ariel of Firi had disappeared.
He had no doubt she would surface again. When she did, he would not be a Healer. He would be an executioner, and there would be justice.
He walked until dusk and returned to the inn, lurking outside of Sasha’s chamber, famished and dissatisfied. He could hear her inside and wanted to see her, even for a moment, but spent the evening in his chamber, eating his supper alone, and wishing the morning would come. As the hour grew late, he found himself outside her room again—telling himself he was only seeing how she fared—and discovered that the door was unlatched. He pushed it wide, alarmed, and stepped inside. No candles were lit, no supper had been consumed, and her bed was neatly made.
Sasha stood by the window, and she’d pushed the drapes wide to let in the moonlight. It appeared she was waiting, though for what he couldn’t guess. He pushed the door closed behind him, making her jump and making him scowl.
“Your door was ajar. We aren’t in the middle of Quondoon, Sasha. We’re on the banks of Enoch, and there are plenty here who would like nothing better than to drag you off.”
Her hair was loose around her body, and her eyes were on the moon, but when he spoke she turned from the window and met his gaze. She was breathing rapidly like she was afraid, and her eyes were so wide he thought he must be too late, that something or someone had already harmed her.
“Sasha?”
With a deep inhale and little warning, she pulled her new dress over her head and stood naked in the moonlight—bare skin and rosy-tipped breasts, gently flared hips and long limbs—all of her softness exposed to the night. He could have closed the distance between them, if only to shield her from his eyes and cover her with his body, but he stepped back instead. He saw her hands flex at her sides, resisting the urge to cover what she’d revealed, and he knew she was frightened.
“What are you doing?” he moaned, simultaneously horrified and transfixed. He knew what she was doing. He was not an innocent and a woman’s body was always something to be appreciated. But the setting was all wrong. Her pale skin and vivid hair looked garish in the darkness, a sacrificial offering to an idol she’d created—an idol he knew did not exist—and he took no pleasure in the sight of her, even as he acknowledged her beauty.
“I am yours,” she said simply, but there was a tremor in her voice—just the smallest hint of distress—that made Kjell’s legs feel weak even as his head swam with the vision of her. “I am not a child. I have lain with men. Twice Mina arranged it. She told me it would keep us safe. Now I belong to you. I will lie with you if that is what you wish.”
Outside a bird shrieked, and the sounds in the street beyond and the establishment below seemed to swell all around them, in chorus with the pounding of blood in his head. Sasha started to sink to her knees, supplicating and subservient, and Kjell raised a warning hand.
“Don’t you dare kneel!” he roared, and she froze, her chin snapping up. Her eyes—deep and sad—reminded him of the well in the Jeru City square where Jeruvians shouted their wishes, only to leave, disappointed and hoarse. He would not make the same mistake. He would not yell, and he would not make foolish wishes.
He stalked toward her, pinning her in place with his gaze. Bending, he grabbed her gown from the ground and offered it insistently. When she made no move to take it, he tossed it at her. It collided with her chest and slid down her body, pooling at her feet once again. His eyes followed the descent but he forced them to stay at her feet.
“I know why you are doing this,” he said, moderating his voice.
“Because it is expected?” she offered, though it was more a question than an explanation.
“You want to bind us together. But lying with you will not bind me to you. It will only further bind you to me. Do you understand?”
Sasha was silent, as if she didn’t understand at all.