“I am used to being in the service of kings,” Kjell retorted. “If he is a good king—and Sasha says that he is—then I can serve him. And when I am certain that Caarn is restored and that she is safe . . . I will return to Jeru.”
“And leave her behind?” Tiras challenged.
“Yes,” Kjell whispered. “And leave her behind.”
***
The journey to Corvyn would be nothing like the journey from Quondoon. When Kilmorda had been decimated and her people destroyed and scattered, her ships had remained in her harbors, empty, of no use or interest to the scourge of conquering birdmen. In recent years, King Tiras had attempted to rebuild the industry, sending teams of tradesmen and sailors to repair the ships docked at Kilmorda’s ports and sail them to the ports in Corvyn and Firi. But with the destruction in Porta, Dendar and Willa, and no one to resume trade on the other side of the Jyraen Sea, those ships had gone from the Bay of Brisson, tucked between Kilmorda and Corvyn, to the harbors in Firi and back again, following the Jeruvian coast, never venturing to the lands across the Jyraen Sea.
The Bay of Brisson lay directly north of Lord Corvyn’s fortress in the Corvar Mountains and word had already been sent to him that two ships should be readied, sailors gathered, and supplies loaded. One of the two ships en route to Dendar would carry an envoy to send east into Willa, and negotiations were already underway to send another expedition from Firi to explore what remained of Porta.
There was no love or familial feeling between Lord Corvyn and his daughter, the queen, and no loyalty or allegiance to King Tiras. The history between the provinces was long and painful, riddled with fear and injustice, political maneuvering and personal undermining. But Lord Corvyn was not a stupid man. Tiras was eager to resume old trade routes and reestablish connections lost to the Volgar blight. If the king wanted to commission two ships and the labor to sail them, Lord Corvyn would oblige, and happily. He would also make an obscene profit, Kjell had no doubt. If the ships were lost, they had never been Lord Corvyn’s ships to begin with, and if they returned with good news and the possibility of new trade, all the better.
The ships were to sail from the Bay of Brisson across the Jyraen Sea, heading northwest toward Dendar. When they arrived in the Bay of Dendar, Kjell, Queen Saoirse, and one contingent would continue to the Valley of Caarn while the other would head east to the realm once known as Willa. The journey across the waters would take them little more than a week, if all went well.
Tiras had put his steward over the cargo, the caravan, and the men who would travel to Corvyn, and from Corvyn, to Dendar. Kjell made a few minor adjustments and put himself in charge. The steward gratefully turned it over to him, and just after dawn on a midsummer Jeruvian morning, ten wagons, forty horses, and fifty people—members of the King’s Guard, a Star Maker, a queen, two maids, a blacksmith, a cook, a carpenter, and a slew of the Gifted, claiming talents just obscure enough to make them more odd than awe-inducing—left for Corvyn. Thirty sailors and two ships’ captains would meet them at the Bay of Brisson in Corvyn, ready to sail.
He hadn’t told Sasha he was coming, hadn’t seen her at all since he left her asleep in the straw. Telling her his intentions implied he needed a response or permission from her. He didn’t need either. So he didn’t tell her.
When she saw him, mounted on Lucian, making the rounds through the assembled men and wagons, she had stopped abruptly, Padrig beside her. The Spinner said something to her and touched her arm, but her gaze never left Kjell’s face, and she approached him with careful eyes and clenched hands, Padrig trailing her with disapproval and despair.
“I didn’t think I would see you again,” she said, her face a brittle mask, her voice strained. “Did you come to say goodbye?” she whispered, the word catching in her throat.
“No,” Kjell clipped, and her mask wobbled and cracked. He looked away, searching the horizon and finding his strength. “I’m coming with you,” he said.
The mask shattered and her eyes shone. For a moment neither of them breathed, the pain was so sharp and sweet. Then she reached for his hand. He took it, unable to bear her gaze for more than a heartbeat, but she didn’t make him wait that long.
“Thank you, Captain,” she whispered, transporting them both to the outskirts of Solemn, to the moment he turned and went back for her. But this time, he would follow.
She didn’t linger or say more, but released his hand and moved away, not giving either of them more than that moment. A member of his guard escorted her to the stable master, who held the reins of a grey Kjell had chosen himself, a horse he’d watched grow from a foal, a mount that had never nipped or spooked and had never thrown a rider. But Padrig held back, his eyes on Kjell, his expression bleak.
“Captain,” Padrig warned softly. “You will only cause her more pain.”
“The pain she feels is not my doing, Spinner,” Kjell shot back.
“Will you tell King Aren that you are in love with her?” Padrig pressed, his voice pitched low, his eyes lower.
“I betrayed no one, Spinner. She betrayed no one. You and your king betrayed her. And if King Aren sits on his throne waiting for his queen to return to him after all this time, that is what I will tell him,” Kjell answered.
Lucian whinnied and tossed his head, agreeing, and Kjell found Jerick who had mounted his horse and signaled to the trumpeters on the wall. Kjell had only one more thing to say to the man.
“You do not get to make decisions for her anymore, Spinner. She will not be at your mercy. You will be at mine. Do you understand?”
Kjell waited until Padrig lifted his gaze, signaling he had heard. Then he urged Lucian to the front of the caravan, his eyes touching briefly on the green flags of Jeru, on her gleaming black walls, on her peaks and vales. He would miss her. But he would rather miss Jeru than long for Sasha, though he knew he would do both. Neither belonged to him, and he doubted either would ever let him go.
He found his brother standing on the ramparts, Lark beside him, and Kjell raised his sword in fealty and farewell as the horns began to wail, dancing from pitch to pitch and ending on a prolonged cry that echoed in his chest. Tiras raised a hand, keeping it lifted as if he would call him back, and Lark sent him a prayer across the distance, her words soft and sweet in his mind.
“Jeru needs Kjell,” Tiras repeated, standing in the northernmost rampart with Lark, watching the caravan leave for Corvyn, and beyond that, for a destination no one was certain still existed.
“Jeru has you. And me. Maybe . . . Dendar needs Kjell,” Lark said.
“It will end badly,” Tiras worried.
“Be careful with your words, husband,” Lark warned. “Maybe it will not end at all.”
“You are speaking in riddles, Lark.”
“He can’t remain here. The moment he saved Saoirse’s life, his path was set. Just as mine was set the moment I saved yours.”
“He deserves happiness,” Tiras said.