“What people? They are all gone!” he roared. “The king, the villagers. They are all bloody trees in a damned forest. It’s been four years, Sasha. You tell me I might be the King of Caarn? King of an empty castle and endless trees? I am a king of trees?” He was so frustrated he couldn’t spit the words out fast enough, and snatched the portrait of the family from the wall and heaved it down the hall, watching it cartwheel before it skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs, completely intact. Sasha did not protest or try to calm him, but watched him the way she always did, like she couldn’t listen hard enough, like she couldn’t possibly love him more than she already did, and that made him even angrier, because her feelings were as futile as his own.
“There is only one thing in this whole, godforsaken world that would make me want to be bloody King of Caarn. One. Thing.” He raised a finger and jabbed it toward her. “You! I would be the court jester and wear striped hose and paint on my face if it meant I could be near you. But if I am King of Caarn, then you wouldn’t be queen. You would simply be the wife of my uncle. Now that is funny! Maybe I should play the fool. This whole, bungled situation is just rich with hilarity.”
He slammed his palms against the empty space where the portrait had hung and pulled at the cloak he wore around his shoulders, a cloak that suddenly felt like an anvil around his neck. Sasha’s touch was light against his back, and he turned on her with a groan and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet. He buried his face in her hair, pressing his lips to the soft skin of her throat before finding her mouth and taking what he could before it was too late. He kissed her, imprinting the shape of her lips on his mouth, tasted her, committing her flavor to his tongue, and swallowed her sighs, taking the heat of her response into the coldest corners of his heart.
But the kiss did not douse his fury or quiet the flame of frustration in his gut. It simply accentuated the hopelessness of his desire. He pulled away slightly, and for a moment breathed her in, his eyes closed, his resolve hardening. Sasha would not turn her back on Caarn, and she would not deny him. But his need was hurting her. His presence was hurting her. Uncertainty was hurting them both. And it had to end.
Releasing her, he grabbed the torch from the sconce on the wall and strode from the corridor, not waiting to see if she followed, trusting she would. He resisted the urge to burn the picture resting precariously against the bannister, but let it be, if only for the young woman named Koorah who observed him with painted eyes.
Down the broad staircase, across the echoing foyer and through the iron doors he flew, determined to be done with it all, to end the torment of hope.
“Healer!” Padrig shouted, coming out of the darkness like a phantom. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to set fire to the forest, Spinner,” he mocked, not slowing. He’d alerted the watch, and it wouldn’t be long until the whole castle was stirring. He quickened his pace, desperate to begin without onlookers. Sasha was running behind him, her breaths harsh. He was scaring her. The thought brought him up short.
“Which one, Padrig. Which one is the king?” he asked, moderating his tone.
“Why?” Padrig gasped, his eyes glued to the flame.
“You want me to heal them. That is why I’m here. That is why you helped me. You knew this is what we would find.”
“I . . . suspected,” Padrig confessed.
“How?” Sasha asked. “How did you know, Padrig?
“Your memories, Saoirse. When I showed Lady Firi your memories, I didn’t tell you everything we saw.” Padrig turned toward Kjell, beseeching even as he raised a hand to ward Kjell off. “We saw you touching the trees, Healer. And we saw the trees becoming . . . people. Ariel of Firi didn’t understand. But I did.” He placed a trembling hand over his heart. “I did.”
“When you gave me back my memories, that one was gone,” Sasha whispered, anger and realization making her eyes glow in the dancing torchlight.
“Yes,” Padrig replied, not denying it.
“But you didn’t tell me,” Sasha said.
“You love him, Majesty. He loves you. If there was nothing to come back to in Caarn . . . I didn’t believe you would . . . come back,” Padrig offered timidly.
Instead of Padrig’s confession making him angry, it gave Kjell an odd reassurance. Padrig was a manipulator. Even the trees judged him harshly, but Kjell couldn’t see how knowing Caarn slept would have changed anything.
“Sasha. If Padrig would have told you, you would still have come. And I would have followed.” Sasha’s eyes clung to his, defeated and despairing, clearly torn between her duty and her desire to shield him. That also had not changed.
“I knew something had gone wrong. They were trees too long, Healer. They couldn’t—they can’t—spin back,” Padrig rushed to expound, obviously relieved by Kjell’s pardon. Kjell pushed the torch into the Spinner’s hands and approached the nearest tree.
“How do we know whether the tree is a Spinner or simply a tree of Caarn?” Kjell asked.
Padrig inclined his head toward the trunk. “Touch it.”
Kjell pressed his hands to the bark and immediately withdrew them. This tree was different from the trees blocking the road into the valley. The sensation was like standing on the deck of the ship again, swaying on stormy seas, his stomach tossing to and fro.
“You feel it!” Padrig crowed, jubilant. “It is not simply a tree. It is a Spinner.”
“Yes.” Kjell nodded, but he immediately stepped away. He didn’t want to touch the tree. “But I am not.”
“You are a Healer. They need healing. And you have proven you can talk to the trees.” Padrig’s eyes were bright with knowing, and Kjell wondered if his loss of temper in the gallery had been overheard by the inquisitive Star Maker.
Kjell approached the tree again, addressing it with flattened palms and a clear command. The sensation traveled up his arms, filling Kjell with nausea, but unlike the trees on the road to Caarn, the trunk didn’t quake or shift, the roots didn’t unfurl, and the leaves were silent. It didn’t seem to hear him at all. He tried again, adjusting his message, but all he got for his efforts was a whirling head and a churning belly.
“Talking to them is not enough,” he said, dropping his hands and stepping away. He breathed deeply, attempting to calm his stomach and quiet his nerves.
“You have to try to heal them, Captain,” Padrig pled. “These are not simply trees of Caarn. They are people. Some of them were children so young they’ve been trees longer than they were babes. They were hiding, and they don’t know how to stop.”
Kjell placed his hands on a different tree, one of the smallest in the grove, its bark pale and thin and remarkably smooth. The swaying sensation welled immediately, and Kjell planted his feet to keep from falling. If the smallest tree in the wood made him feel this way, he had no hope of success.
“I will help you,” Sasha said, and took one of his hands, pulling it from the trunk, just like she’d done in the unforgiving village of Solemn. She laid her other palm against the tree next to his, pressing her fingers into the smooth bark. Her eyes clung to his face, brimming with tears that began to streak her cheeks and drip from her chin.
“I need you to help me find compassion, Sasha,” he murmured. “You loved these people once.”
“I love them still. But I love you more,” she wept. “May Caarn forgive me, I love you more.”