“Yes.”
“There are dreadful scars down Saoirse’s back. How did she get them?” the king asked.
The rage swelled and bellowed in Kjell’s chest, and he forced himself to look away, flexing his hands so he wouldn’t ball them into fists. The Creator help him. He could not abide the thought of Sasha’s pale skin bare to another man’s eyes.
“That bothers you,” the king whispered. “It bothers you that I have seen her scars. She is my wife, Healer.”
“She is my heart,” Kjell shot back, unable to hold his tongue.
The king cursed and Kjell braced himself for the king to swing his stick. He would take the punishment. He deserved it. But the blow did not come.
“It is a man’s world, yet we are slaves to our women,” King Aren whispered. “I do not blame you. I do not blame her. But you will keep your distance, Captain.”
Kjell nodded, and without another word, retreated into the trees, unable to trust himself in the king’s presence any longer.
Kjell was true to his promise, staying as far from the queen as possible. He had shared his suspicions and specific instructions with his men. If they didn’t know what they were looking for, they couldn’t possibly defend against it.
Lortimer and the sailors were more amenable to staying now that there was a village to reside in. They’d been well paid to take the voyage—the people in Caarn were friendly and welcoming, and a few months was not so much to ask when conditions were agreeable. The Gifted and the tradesmen who had made the journey had always intended to stay, and they went about making arrangements for themselves in the new community.
The King’s Guard broached no complaint at the extended stay. Their lodgings were comfortable, their bellies full, and their devotion to Sasha evident. Jerick had begun calling them the Queen’s Guard when he didn’t think Kjell could hear. Kjell knew Tiras would worry when no one came back, but had no way to send him word. Hashim’s messenger birds were not trained to fly across the sea.
Kjell moved his belongings from the castle and slept in the barracks with his men. He had found it worrisome that King Aren had no soldiers of his own. He had a court and counselors, cooks and seamstresses, stewards and grounds-men. There were artisans and weavers, growers and bakers, candle makers and gamekeepers—though there was little game anymore in Caarn. But there was no army.
A string of spindly guardsmen stood at attention by the entrances and on the castle parapets, but they did little more than bow and bellow the time, bugling the general welfare of Caarn like pesky roosters. Kjell wondered which of them had been the first to spin into a trembling tree when the Volgar attacked. The guardsmen worked in shifts and went home to their cottages when they weren’t on duty. The barracks he and his men had commandeered were the least crowded corner of the entire keep.
Kjell took it upon himself to change that.
He kept a handful of guards assigned to the queen and enlisted the rest of his men to recruit and train a small army, and fortunately, there were men seeking work. King Aren had instructed the trees around the border to open, thinning them with a firm command. They had obeyed, ambling outward, creating a porous perimeter around the valley.
When Kjell had expressed concerns to Padrig and King Aren about the unprotected border, the king had nodded soberly, listening to his fears, but he had his own opinions.
“Caarn has always welcomed everyone. We only ask that if you come to Caarn, you contribute. If you want to eat, you will work. Everyone can do something. That has been our strength.”
“That is noble. But there are monsters in the world. Your strength is also your weakness. Who will keep the monsters out?” Kjell asked.
“The Volgar are gone,” Padrig protested, inspiring a growl from Kjell’s throat. For a man who could harvest memories, Padrig’s own memory was remarkably deficient.
“There are all types of monsters,” Kjell shot back. “But don’t be so hasty, Padrig. The people have returned. Maybe the Volgar will as well.”
The king nodded slowly. “Then we will do our best to defend against them.”
Kjell dedicated himself to doing just that. Empty cottages were filled, and the surrounding fields and streams continued to yield enough food to feed them. Making things grow was child’s play for the Spinners of Caarn, but harvesting required the same toil and time as it did everywhere else. But those who didn’t have a calling or a craft, a duty or a trade, were enlisted in the defense of Caarn.
With the opening of the forest wall along the border, wildlife began to trickle into the valley as well, and when Kjell wasn’t creating an army he was hunting for the Changer. He didn’t know what he thought he’d find, but he looked all the same, watching for signs and ciphers, for traces and tracks. If given the opportunity he would have to strike a killing blow. If he merely wounded her, she could change, and in changing, she would heal.
Each day, he mixed dirt with a bit of water from the carafe on his belt and darkened his skin. Then he wrapped himself in greenery and perched on a knoll beneath a sheltering tree, waiting faithfully. His size made it hard to hide, but his desire to escape the castle walls and avoid the castle’s queen gave him patience and persistence. She was his reason to evade and his reason to endure.
Two weeks after waiting day after day, he was rewarded by the presence of a doe, picking her way through the foliage, her eyes on the castle just visible through the trees. The deer was sleek and brown, the same color as the wolf in the Corvar Mountains, and Kjell’s heart leapt at the glimmer of possibility in the feminine line of her back and the deep brown of her eyes. The doe didn’t strip the bark from the trees or nose the bushes, but stared at the castle as though it called to her.
Keeping his breath locked in his chest, Kjell drew his bow, notching the arrow, feeling the tension in his limbs and in the choice before him. He released his breath as he released the shaft. It flew true, slicing the air and piercing the soft pelt of the deer, burrowing deep behind her front leg. She crumpled, her head rising and falling, her only nod to resistance. He ran, hurtling rocks and skirting bushes, his eyes never leaving the downed animal.
There was little blood, but her gaze was fixed, and in death she remained exactly what she’d been in life.
A deer.
Kjell swore, sorry that he’d killed her and angry that he would do it again, and began the untidy work of removing her pelt. The meat would be welcome even if his efforts were fruitless.
A snapping in the undergrowth had him whirling with his knife raised. Jerick appeared, his own bow looped over his arm, his other hand outstretched, offering wine like he’d offered it once before.
“I will never drink from your bottle again,” Kjell muttered.
“An unanticipated boon, I must say,” Jerick retorted. “I prefer not to share.”