For a moment he thought they would be overcome or tossed aside, the heaving and crashing behind them was so great, but the roaring ceased as suddenly as it had begun. They lay unmoving, waiting, listening. The forest continued to groan and quake, branches falling and leaves shaking, the shift and slide of unstable earth sending clattering sprays over the path they’d recently abandoned.
When silence finally ensued, Kjell drew back, his eyes on the woman beneath him, running his hands over her hair and down her body, making sure she was whole. She did the same, her hands searching.
“Are you all right?” she murmured.
“Yes. But Lucian is gone and the grey’s leg is broken.”
The grey tried to rise and fell back to the ground, its left hind leg bent oddly below the knee. Kjell shifted, easing himself away from Sasha and crawling to the injured horse. It whinnied piteously and tried to rise once more.
“Shh,” he soothed, stroking her head, listening for a note to cling to but hearing only the horse’s pounding heart.
Kjell didn’t know if the grey would lay still long enough to let him heal its leg. He’d never tried to heal an injured animal before, but Sasha moved beside him with perfect faith and placed her hands over his. The horse shuddered but allowed Kjell to shift his hands down its flanks, bringing Sasha’s hands with him as he searched for a song. He heard the grey’s heartbeat, scared and strong, and filled his head with the rhythm, not knowing what else to do. Immediately his palms grew unbearably hot, then impossibly cold. Minutes later the horse straightened its leg, panting in relief, and Kjell withdrew his hands, the blood rushing from his head and making him sway, almost euphoric beside the quivering horse. The healing had been different, but a new threshold had been crossed.
“Kjell,” Sasha said, her voice hushed in warning. “Look.”
From the crater of broken branches and severed trees crept a lone wolf, moving toward them, head lowered, tail down. The wolf stopped, watching them, eyes yellow, teeth bared as if they had caused the destruction in the woods it called home. The wolf didn’t draw closer, but stared as Kjell and Sasha rose and urged the grey to its feet beside them. Gingerly they began moving toward the river and the sounds of the caravan, their hands on the grey’s mane, reassuring him while keeping their distance from the lurking wolf.
“She’s gone,” Sasha murmured.
“She?”
“The wolf.”
“Maybe the rock slide separated it from its pack.”
Sasha didn’t reply, but turned her head again, her eyes scanning the woods.
“She will be back,” she murmured.
They spent the remainder of the night on the banks of the Nehru, huddled around a fire Isak started, too shaken to sleep but unable to travel in the dark. Two wagons had bent wheels, Jerick’s stallion sustained a jagged cut to his foreleg, and the blacksmith had dislocated his shoulder trying to restrain the horses hitched to his wagon. Kjell let others worry about the wagons and the wheels and saw to the injuries, pressing his hands against the bloodied gash on the stallion’s lower leg—earning a knot on his forehead for his trouble—and resetting the dangling arm of the blacksmith, who was considerably more grateful than the horse.
“It’s better than new, Captain,” the smithy marveled, circling his arm and rolling his shoulders. “I will build you something in my forge when we get to Dendar. I will repay you, Captain. I’m not Gifted, but I have skills.”
“Skills are better than gifts because you have to earn them,” Kjell said quietly, uncomfortable as always with the attention.
“We suffer for our gifts, Captain. And in suffering, we earn them too,” Sasha said softly, not looking away from the fire, and Kjell had no response.
“What is Dendar like, Majesty?” a maid asked, her eyes peeling back the forest where the rocks had nearly put them all in an untimely grave. The journey had suddenly become very real for the young woman.
“Yes, Milady. Tell us,” Peter begged. He was young and less aware. The other men had kept a wider berth, a more respectable tone, and Sasha had seemed to regret the distance. “Mistress Sasha tells the best stories,” Peter added.
“You will address her majesty as Queen Saoirse,” the Star Maker demanded, and Sasha immediately interceded.
“I am simply Sasha to these men, Padrig. They may call me what they wish.”
“They will call you Queen Saoirse,” Kjell said, standing watch near the forest, his back to the group, and the travelers fell silent, cowed by his terse order. It was Jerick who dared speak up, as usual, making a new request.
“Tell us your story, Majesty,” Jerick prodded softly. “Tell us about Caarn.”
Sasha began reluctantly, clearly feeling an obligation to soothe the feelings Kjell had injured, and Kjell stepped deeper into the woods, leaving the banks behind. But her voice still found him.
“The people are kind,” she said, “and the hills and trees are vast. I’ve been to Porta and Willa and to all corners of Dendar, but Caarn is where the king lives, where all kings of Dendar have lived, and where we will go.” Her voice faltered, as if trying to find something to share that wouldn’t hurt, and she rattled off a list of inconsequential details Kjell cared nothing about.
“The flag of Dendar is white and red, but the flag of Caarn is a tree on a sea of blue. The castle is not made of Jeruvian ore like King Tiras’s castle, but from the rock that is almost as plentiful as the trees.
“When I was a girl, I would lose myself in the palace. In each wing there are ten rooms for sleeping. In the main house there is a grand entrance, two libraries, a great hall for feasts, a ballroom for dancing, a throne room to govern, and a hall for the king to welcome the lords from all of Dendar, Porta and Willa. An enormous kitchen sits on the back of the house overlooking the gardens with a place to breakfast in the mornings, a dining hall for the servants and a private hall for the king. There are three sitting rooms, one chamber for music, one for painting, and another for sewing and weaving where the light is especially good. The halls of Castle Caarn are hung with beautiful tapestries.”
“Do you paint or weave, Highness?” the little maid asked again.
“No. I’m not . . . particularly good . . . at anything. My tutors were terribly frustrated with me most of the time.”
“You’re a Seer, Majesty,” Padrig huffed, as if that was gift enough.
She was quiet then, and Peter rushed to encourage her, posing questions better left unasked.
“Is Dendar like Jeru? Is the king Gifted like King Tiras?”
Kjell winced and Peter yelped as if someone had swatted him.
“We are not warriors in Caarn,” Sasha said diplomatically, covering the awkward question with a calm reply. “The people of Caarn are growers. Planters. Their gifts are of the earth, not of the body. But when I left, the castle was preparing for an attack.”
“Why did you leave, Majesty?” someone asked, and Padrig rushed to her defense.