Sasha obeyed immediately, tucking herself beside the Teller, who took her hand the way she’d taken Kjell’s.
“You’ve already seen Bartol—what can I possibly tell you that you don’t know?” Gwyn’s voice was wry.
Bartol was an entertainer, one of the Gifted who’d been a court jester before the laws had made having a gift a boon instead of a curse.
Bartol made Tiras laugh with his antics, but Kjell had mocked the man more than once for his inane talents. In his opinion, Bartol’s gift was a useless one—a weak variation of seeing that served no purpose. Bartol took great pride in telling people what they already knew, things like, “You ate lamb last Tuesday. You fear heights because you fell from a tree when you were a child. Your best mate is Garvin. Your mother was Janetta. The day of your birth there was a terrible blizzard. You’ve a mark on your arse shaped like a ship.” All of it ridiculous, all of it unhelpful.
The man had been taken a bit more seriously since the king’s edict, and Lark had asked him what he could tell them about Sasha. Bartol had immediately proclaimed Sasha the daughter of Pierce and Sareca of Kilmorda, and the queen said he spoke truth. But Bartol had known nothing beyond Sasha’s parentage, and had proceeded to rattle off a string of things Sasha could have told them herself, as well as a few things—like the color of the king’s drawers and that Princess Wren had cut a new tooth—that no one cared to know. Bartol had made Tiras laugh, and the queen had declared it a miracle, but Sasha had still insisted on dusting books and scrubbing floors. She might be the daughter of a lord, but there was nothing and no one to return to in Kilmorda. And Sasha still couldn’t remember them.
“We thought you might be able to see who Sasha is,” Kjell said.
“Who she is?” Gwyn asked frowning. “She already knows. Better than most, I would say. Who do you think you are, girl?”
“I am his,” Sasha said without hesitation, her gaze level and unflinching.
Gwyn crowed softly, as if the answer pleased her even more than the greeting, and Kjell felt his belly and his face get hot.
“No, child. He is yours,” Gwyn said, and Kjell grimaced. Gwyn ignored him, her gaze still on Sasha. “You have come a long way,” she mused.
“Yes,” Sasha answered.
“And there is a journey yet to come. Do you see it?” Gwyn pressed.
“To my home?” Sasha asked as if she already knew.
“To your home,” Gwyn confirmed.
Kjell wanted to interrupt, to protest. This was not what they’d come for. Kilmorda was in ruins. There would be no journey to the province if he could help it. But he held his tongue.
“You have the eyes of a Seer, Sasha,” Shenna said softly, inserting herself into the conversation.
“Yes. I’m not a terribly good one. It is a frustrating gift. It is a talent that rarely heals and usually frightens. It frightens me.”
“It frightens me too,” Gwyn said. “Our gifts are often burdens, aren’t they?”
Sasha wilted, her eyes on her feet, and Gwyn was silent for a long time.
“You are a Seer, but that is not your dominant gift,” Gwyn said thoughtfully.
Sasha looked surprised, even hopeful, and she waited expectantly, lifting her eyes back to the old woman.
“You magnify the gifts of others. You make them stronger. You have strengthened our Kjell many times,” Gwyn said.
“I don’t know if that is a gift, Mother Gwyn,” Sasha said slowly. “Or if that is simply . . . love.”
Kjell froze.
“But that is the best gift of all,” Gwyn said.
Kjell wanted to bolt, overwhelmed with the need to be alone and to never be alone again. He stood abruptly, and Sasha stood as well, ever his faithful shadow, gently releasing the old woman’s hand.
“We’ve made the Healer uncomfortable.” Gwyn sighed, irritated. “Go on ahead, Captain. I want to say goodbye to this girl.”
He needed no urging and turned and strode from the garden.
“Captain?” he heard Shenna call behind him. He counted the Healer as one of his friends, though she might not know it. She’d taught him a great deal about his gift. He trusted her, and he thought she’d come to trust him. Or at least respect him. He paused and waited for her to catch up to him, but he kept his back to her. She was too intuitive, and he was too disturbed.
“I offered to heal her scars. The ones on her back. She wouldn’t let me,” Shenna said, her voice troubled.
That sounded like Sasha. Still, he didn’t turn around. He needed a moment, and it didn’t seem like he was going to get one.
“How did you know about her scars?” he asked.
“They are still tender. I sensed them.”
He flinched.
“She said they are a reminder,” Shenna continued.
“Of what?” His tone was plaintive.
“That she may not be able to heal, but she can save.”
“Bloody hell,” he cursed.
“It does no good to fight what she sees. Or to fight her,” she added softly. “Mother Gwyn is the same way. It’s like throwing yourself against the rocks.”
He nodded, suddenly resigned, and stepped out of the garden gate, waiting for Sasha.
If there was to be a journey to Kilmorda, he would need to talk to his brother.
He was reminded of the days when Tiras locked himself away in dungeon rooms or sequestered himself to his chambers. Kjell had become his eyes and ears and feet and hands, keeping the kingdom afloat while continually covering for his brother, who was losing himself a little more each day. He’d dragged Lark through the halls at all hours of the night to help him, desperate for assistance, yet distrustful and derisive, convinced she was his brother’s worst mistake.
And she had saved them all.
Now he found himself walking through the halls of the castle again, seeking Sasha, wanting redemption yet unable to trust himself. He’d loved a woman once. Or thought he did. A woman who understood him well enough to play him like a harp. A woman who had brought Jeru to its knees. He’d been wrong before. He’d been foolish and afraid. Fear makes hate, and he’d hated all the wrong people. He would not be used again.
She met him at the door of her chamber, flinging it wide as if she’d watched him approach. Her color was high, her eyes bright, her lips parted like she was struggling for breath.
“You saw me coming?” he murmured, stopping in the entry, wanting her desperately while wishing he’d never come.
“I don’t see everything,” she began, and he said the words with her, matching her tone and pitch even as he added, “Yes. I know.”
“You’re creating ripples with your stony heart,” she said softly, and he wanted to smile at her word play, at the memory of her explanation of the ripples in the pond and how they often managed to reach her on the shore eventually.
She turned and walked into her room, and he followed, shutting the chamber door behind them. She perched on the edge of her bed, her hair pooling around her, reminding him of the day she stood in the rain, battered and bedraggled, clinging to her clothes while he clung to his resistance.