Leaning down, Kjell sank his fingers into the thick fur behind the mutt’s ears, scratching briskly. The dog’s eyes rolled back in ecstasy, and her tongue fell from her mouth and flopped against the floor. She’d been his companion since he’d arrived.
“Ah Gilly. Ye’ve traded your dignity for pleasure, haven’t you, girl?” the tavern owner sighed, talking to his dog. “Be careful, Captain. The bitch will follow you now. Ye’ll never get rid of her.”
Kjell shot up from the floor with a roar, and with his brawny arms, cleared the adjacent table of its contents, spilling spirits and overturning platters.
Tiras stood, narrowly avoiding being struck by a flying dish. He set a small pouch, heavy with coin, in the tavern owner’s hand, grabbed Kjell’s arm, and dragged him from the establishment.
The sun was so blinding Kjell stumbled and almost fell. He closed his eyes, not even caring where they walked, and let Tiras lead him.
“Are you really that sloshed, or are you just using it as an excuse to wreak havoc and talk to dogs?”
“I told you I was past pretending, brother,” Kjell reminded, repeating his sentiments from the night of the masquerade, the night of the unveiling, hers and his. But he hadn’t yet donned a new disguise, and he didn’t think he ever would.
They walked to the mews, the shadowy quiet welcoming them. Tiras loved the mews—he felt safe there—and Kjell didn’t have the energy to tell him that the mews made him think of unhappy changes, of losing his brother to a curse neither of them could control.
Hashim, the Master Falconer, approached with a tidy bow and prayerful hands. He was a Changer like Tiras, and he trained the royal carrier birds to fly to all corners of the kingdom, delivering missives and communications from the king. Years before, Hashim had found Kjell and Tiras on the road to Firi, sent on a false errand, and turned them back. Without him, Zoltev would have toppled Jeru.
“Majesty,” Hashim greeted. “I’ve just received a message from Corvyn. All will be in order for the voyage to Dendar when the caravan arrives.”
Kjell dropped to the long bench that lined the far wall, waiting for the conversation to end. Tiras thanked Hashim and spoke with him quietly for a moment before the falconer bowed and retreated once more.
Kjell watched his brother walk among the shrouded birds, noting his broad shoulders, his calm presence, his hands clasped behind his back like folded wings, resembling the eagle he never completely shrugged off.
“She leaves the day after tomorrow. It will be easier for you then,” Tiras offered after a weighty silence.
“No. It won’t. Because I am going with her.” Kjell had told the dog. He’d told his ale. He’d told his heart and his head. Now he had to tell the only person in the world who would truly mourn his absence.
“Kjell . . .” Tiras protested, his voice falling off in disapproval. “You are drunk, and that isn’t wise.”
“I have never claimed to be wise. That has always been you, Tiras. Not me. And you and I both know I’m not at all drunk.”
“Half of the bloody guard has volunteered to go. She will be in good hands,” Tiras said.
Kjell scoffed, the chortle not quite lifting his lips. “Of course they have. But they are my men. I will lead them.”
“I need you here,” Tiras demanded.
“Why, Tiras?” Kjell asked, incredulous.
“Because . . . you are the captain of my guard. You are Kjell of Jeru. You are protector of the city.”
“And you are a powerful king. The Volgar has been obliterated. I have spent the last two years looking for something to kill just to justify my existence.”
“There is nothing for you in Dendar, Kjell,” Tiras argued.
“I am not convinced there is anything for me anywhere.”
“That is not true,” Tiras pleaded. “You are my brother. This is your home.”
“No, Tiras. It isn’t. This castle has never been my home. I have stayed out of loyalty to you. But this is not about me, Tiras. She told me—Sasha told me—that our gifts are about responsibility. She is now my responsibility.”
“No, brother. She isn’t!” Tiras cried.
“Did I tell you where I found her?” Kjell shot to his feet, and he didn’t wait for Tiras to answer. “She was broken, laying in a heap at the base of a cliff. I didn’t think I could heal her. I had never healed anyone but you and the queen, and my devotion to you both—”
“—can’t be questioned,” Tiras completed his sentence.
“No, it can’t,” Kjell agreed, gritting his teeth against his sudden emotion. “Since I healed you, I’ve healed a hundred small wounds, a hundred minor injuries. But nothing like what I did the day when I restored your life. Not until I healed Sasha.” He winced and corrected himself, using her proper name. “Saoirse.”
“I made a bargain with her as she lay dying on the ground. I told her that if she . . . came back . . . that I would try to love her. But I haven’t even had to try. I’ve tried not to.”
“Kjell,” Tiras breathed, weakening.
“I love her more than I’ve ever loved anything—or anyone—before. It was never a choice.”
“The gods save us,” Tiras sighed, and he was contemplative for a moment, as if trying to puzzle out a solution. Then he shook his head and met Kjell’s gaze with compassion. “But she is the wife of another, Kjell.”
Kjell nodded, accepting the verdict, his pain so great he was swimming in it, gulping it in in giant mouthfuls. But it was like trying to swallow an ocean, and he stopped fighting it, letting it take him. “The day I healed her, I gave myself to her. And I made her a promise. Just ten days ago, before all of Jeru, I pledged myself to her. Everything has changed. But nothing has changed for me. And I am going with her.”
“I don’t know what you’ll find in Dendar, Kjell. Do you remember what Kilmorda looked like?” Tiras argued, changing his tactics.
“Yes. All the more reason to go. I will go with her, and I will put her back on the throne.”
“Just as you put me back on the throne,” Tiras said. “Caught in an eternal round of fixing what is broken and never finding what you seek.”
“I have no ambition in myself,” Kjell whispered.
“No. You don’t. You never have.” Tiras shook his head and pulled at his dark hair, vexed. “But perhaps fate has other plans, Kjell,” Tiras warned. “I understand falling in love with a woman you don’t think you can have. But you cannot . . . have her. Whether or not you go to Dendar . . . she is not yours,” Tiras implored.
Kjell winced, remembering all the times he’d insisted just that.
I am yours.
You are not.
In his heart she had become his—her flesh, her breath, the weight of her hair and the devotion of her black gaze. That much could not be changed by a Star Maker’s revelations.
“I will not shame you, brother,” Kjell insisted, his eyes hard, his voice shaking.
“And I would not blame you, Kjell. But if you go to Dendar, and the kingdom of Caarn still exists, if King Aren lives, you will be putting yourself in the service of another king. And you must give him your loyalty.”