Just before sundown the king instructed the trumpets to sound and the drums to rumble, announcing the court of honor to be conducted in the main courtyard, where the guard could stand at attention and the villagers could fill the lower bailey. Kjell played his part, bowing his head and dropping to one knee, allowing King Aren to pronounce him a defender of the realm. He kept his eyes on the king’s boots as Aren laid his staff against Kjell’s shoulders, one at a time, knighting him. The people rubbed their hands together in appreciation, creating a sound that mimicked the whisper of the leaves in the forests that surrounded them, crying his name and declaring him an honorary son of Caarn.
Kjell didn’t know the custom but remained kneeling, his eyes level, trusting that he would be instructed to rise when the court of honor was complete. The king turned to his queen and extended his hand to bring her forward beside him.
Sasha curtsied deeply before Kjell, but when she placed the palm of her hand demurely on his bowed head, Kjell didn’t look up. He was afraid his eyes would give him away, dishonor the queen, and insult a king who had done nothing to deserve the offense.
Her voice was strong when she began to speak, but he felt the tremor in her hand where it lay against his hair. He knew the words she spoke were part of the ritual, but they seared his soul, echoing love denied and oaths unraveled.
“You belong to us and we belong to you. Our roots will anchor you, our leaves cover you. From this day forward, there is a branch on the tree of Caarn that bears your name.”
“Rise, Healer,” the king said, projecting his voice. The queen’s hand fell away and the people made their palms whisper once more.
“Let the feast begin!” The king bellowed, and the people cheered.
Kjell rose, keeping his eyes slightly averted, looking beyond the king and his queen, and he saw a flash of movement that chilled his blood. Perhaps it was the slope of her neck, her heavy black tresses, or the way she turned her head. But the glimpse was instantly gone, like his mind was playing tricks on him. He stared at the press of onlookers, at the dancing shadows created by the sinking sun and the newly-lit torches that encircled the courtyard. It was not yet dark, and the gloaming was pink and soft and mild, no brilliant colors and violent shades. Caarn was grey and green and deep brown—colors that spoke of earth and sky and things that grow. He separated himself from the celebration, slipping in and out of the spinning villagers and the dancing feet, searching.
Pale candlenuts as big as a child’s palm would burn for hours, and everywhere Kjell looked, pyramids of the flammable seed on rock pedestals were being lit, permeating the castle and the grounds with their amber light and fragrant oil.
When Isak found him, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed, Kjell knew he hadn’t been imagining things.
“Captain, I saw her. The woman from the Jandarian plain. She is here,” Isak gasped.
“Tell me.”
“She was not a snake this time . . . not in animal form. She was on the edge of the crowd, dancing and drinking. She was clothed in silks and her hair was . . .” Isak tried to indicate with his hands, doing a poor job of description, and gave up. “It wasn’t wild or snarled. It was coiled like a crown. She is beautiful . . .” he gulped. “I was near the queen, and didn’t dare leave my post to follow the woman. She looked right at me, and she smiled.”
Kjell cursed the press of people and the inability of his men to communicate effectively.
“You did well. You don’t ever leave the queen to pursue the enemy.”
Isak nodded but continued with his report. “The feast has begun. Jerick is guarding the queen. There are sentries at every door of the Great Hall and lining the walls. The king is asking for you, Captain. You are the guest of honor.”
“I’ll be there shortly. Spread the message. Tell the men the Changer is here.”
“She can do little harm in human form, right Captain?” Isak asked, anxious.
“One would think,” Kjell said. “But her confidence is concerning.”
“Where did she come from? Where did she get the clothes . . . and the jewels?” Isak asked.
“I think I know,” Kjell replied grimly. “Go Isak. Do as I said.”
Kjell climbed the stairs with more haste than was seemly. He didn’t want to draw attention, but he had no time for decorum. He strode down the long corridors to the wing of the castle where the royal chambers were located, the king’s quarters on the left, the queen’s on the right. Kjell hadn’t slept outside Sasha’s door, but he knew every inch of her room, every item within it, and every habit and practice of the queen. Sasha was tidy, prone to simplicity, and seldom took great pains or much time with her appearance. From the current state of the chamber, one would think someone else resided there.
The Changer had flown in. A small window, high on the wall, had been cracked to air the space, and a black feather, sooty and short, lay near an open chest of jewels. Kjell could picture Ariel of Firi perched there in the form of a crow, peering at all the shiny things before changing into a woman and helping herself to a few.
Sasha’s tub had not been emptied after she’d bathed. A dirty footprint was outlined against the pale stone floor beside the huge iron basin. Lady Firi had washed herself in the queen’s bathwater and upended the salts and oils when she was done, creating a perfumed cloud that made Kjell wheeze and retreat quickly.
Sasha’s gowns were pulled from their hooks and scattered about the floor as well. A few of them were shredded and soiled, as if Firi had shifted into a beast and torn them apart for sport. Sasha was taller and slimmer than Ariel of Firi. The dresses would not have been a good fit. But clearly Lady Firi had found one and poured herself into it, dressing herself, fixing her hair, and donning her pilfered jewels. Then she’d walked from the chamber and down into the courtyard, joining the celebration of the people of Caarn who, for weeks, had been welcoming strangers into their midst. No one had stopped her. No one had sounded an alarm until she had safely slipped away.
The feasting had gone on much of the day, but in the banquet room long tables were arranged in a large rectangle for honored guests. The members of his council and their wives, as well as Padrig, Captain Lortimer, and a handful of respected villagers had all received invitations to dine with the king and queen. Kjell was seated as a guest of honor beside the king, eating food he couldn’t taste, tasting food he didn’t eat.
His men stood on high alert, necks craned and eyes peeled, but the night was one of the longest he’d ever spent. As the hours passed, the wine continued to flow, the villagers grew more and more merry, and King Aren regaled his audience with tales of Caarn from decades past, while Sasha, a storyteller who surpassed them all, sat stiff-backed and quiet beside him.
When she suddenly stood, her eyes black and her hands gripping her skirts, the king’s voice trailed off and his eyes rose to her face.
“Saoirse?” the king asked, reaching a hand to steady her. She stared down at him blindly, her crown tipping over one ear, but she didn’t right it or answer him. Kjell rose from his place beside the king and stepped toward her, unable to look away.
“They are drawn by our heartbeats. By the blood in our veins,” she murmured.
“Who, Majesty?” Padrig asked from his seat on her left side.
“There were no bones,” she continued, her voice hollow.