His beard was back, but she was gone.
He eased himself up, knowing movement would be the surest way to loosen his stiff muscles. A jug of wine and a heavy goblet sat atop the small table near his head. He didn’t bother with the goblet but took the jug with two hands and tipped it back, washing away the desert in his throat and the cobwebs in his head. It had a mild blackberry flavor with notes of cedar and pine, but like the wine in Quondoon, it was weak, a wine for slaking one’s thirst rather than escaping one’s reality. He could have used a little of both at the moment.
A pitcher of water and a shallow basin adorned the narrow chest along the opposite wall, placed directly beneath an oval mirror that reflected the light from the rear-facing window. He rose gingerly, walking to the glass and confronting his blood-shot eyes and shaggy hair. He was a man of thirty summers, and the hair at his temples was newly shot with white. He didn’t worry that his efforts had aged him, but they had clearly taken their toll. He wore the gaunt mien of a battle-weary warrior, the growth on his jaw doing little to disguise the hollows in his cheeks or the circles beneath his pale gaze.
His blade had been sharpened and a wedge of soap—cedar and pine again—was placed on a neatly folded cloth. Beside it lay a brush for his teeth, another for his hair. It was all very considerate and impersonal. He shrugged off his tunic, grimacing a little at his weakened state. Every muscle and ridge on his upper body was starkly defined, carved out by complete physical depletion. He’d scrubbed the sleep from his eyes and the film from his teeth and had begun to loosen his drawers when a soft rap sounded on his door.
A head peeped inside, not waiting for him to grant entry, eyes trained to the bed, clearly expecting him to still be sleeping. She was blond, her hair woven neatly in a braided circle around her head. He remembered her vaguely from the forest—she’d been a peach tree, heavy with fruit. She gaped at his naked chest, and her jaw dropped slightly, but she didn’t retreat.
“You’re awake, Captain!” she chirruped. “We’re bringing water for a bath. All your clothing has been washed and dried. You’ll find it in the chest there. I’ll fetch your supper. The queen said you’d be very hungry when you finally woke.”
The queen had thought of everything. He wondered if this girl had been instructed to follow him around and see to his every need the way Sasha had once tried to do. An image of Sasha in Enoch, clothed only in moonlight, flashed through his head and made him flinch.
“Are you all right, Captain?” the blond inquired hesitantly.
“Fine,” he answered, and picked up his blade, preparing to scrape away his beard.
“I can do that, sir,” she offered.
“Did the queen demand it?”
She blushed. “No, Captain.”
He dismissed her, certain that she would find a listening ear and report on the boorishness of the Healer from Jeru. When the water and the large tub were brought into his quarters, he made use of them before he ate everything on the heaping platter delivered and placed beside the empty jug of wine. It had been refilled. A pang of guilt pierced his chest. So much of the limited supply had been allotted him—there were now several hundred people to feed within the environs of the castle—but he ate with gratitude and gusto, promising himself he wouldn’t take more than his share again.
He detected the sounds of a castle reawakened, the murmur of voices, the patter of shoes against stone, the clang and racket of industry. When he could find no reason to tarry, he left his chamber, resolving to find his men and move his things back into the garrison. He would not be waited on by the queen’s handmaidens.
The floors gleamed and the wood glowed. The dust was gone, the tapestries beaten into brilliance, and the spiders made homeless. Every corner and crevice had been cleaned and scrubbed; even the air boasted a fresh scent and soft laughter. The healed had been busy.
Kjell trusted that Jerick had carried out his commands, keeping one of his men assigned to Sasha at all times. He found himself listening for her even as he avoided the places he thought she’d be—the wide halls and the great rooms, the kitchens and the library, the galleries and the porticos. But he hadn’t thought to avoid the king.
Aren was surrounded by men—a steward who took endless notation as the king spoke, clearly compiling lists and taking direction, and several others who appeared to be listening intently and offering opinions when asked. They were surveying the outbuildings and had just exited the stables where the horses brought from Jeru were housed. Padrig huddled at the elbow of the king and was the first to draw attention to Kjell who had tried unsuccessfully to slink into the shadows.
The men began to bow in reverent gratitude, and the king, his crown sitting comfortably on his white hair, inclined his head as well.
“I trust your strength has been restored, Kjell of Jeru?”
Kjell nodded. “Yes. I took far more than my share. The supplies brought from Jeru won’t last long with our numbers.”
“They will be more than sufficient,” the king answered graciously.
“The countryside has been stripped of livestock and wildlife. There is nothing to eat, Majesty,” Kjell contended.
“We brought seeds, Captain,” Padrig reminded him. “Fortunately, all the seeds were on Lortimer’s ship. There will be plenty to eat.”
“Seeds?” Kjell asked, incredulous. The people would be dead before seeds would be of any use.
“Ah. He doesn’t understand,” the king said slyly. “Come, Captain. You will enjoy this, I think. Today we plant.”
Kjell trailed after the eager Spinners to the fields west of the castle, wishing he could see Jerick and inquire after the welfare of the queen. He shoved the thought away. You will not be able to sleep outside my door.
“Your Earth Mover was most helpful,” the king said. “We have spent the morning clearing rocks, but we have many hands and he’s saved us weeks of labor.”
“My . . . Earth Mover?” Kjell asked.