The Queen and the Cure (The Bird and the Sword Chronicles, #2)

Kjell tumbled from his bed, pulling on his boots as his heart leapt with joy and disbelief. Tiras? In Caarn. God be praised. Tiras in Caarn.

His brother stood beyond the castle gates, his arms folded across his brown chest, his stance wide, his jaw defiant. It was the same way he stood when he was crowned and caped. And he was stark naked.

“Raise the gate,” Kjell shouted, scrambling from the watchtower the way he’d scrambled up it.

Tiras strode into the courtyard as though the palace were his, and Kjell grabbed him up, laughing and shaking him, overjoyed and half convinced he’d finally broken under the strain of the last months.

“Where are your bloody clothes?”

“It is the burden of being a Changer, brother. You know this. I flew to Kilmorda, I swam to Dendar. Neither birds nor sea creatures have need of raiment.”

Gaspar was gaping, and the garrison had begun to empty behind them, men streaming out and greeting their king. Jerick tossed Tiras a tunic and breeches, bowing as his smile split his face.

“Welcome to Caarn, King Tiras. I’ve never been so happy to see a naked man in my whole life.”

“Lieutenant.” Tiras grinned in greeting. “Count yourself among the blessed. Now where can an ill-clad king find some supper and some ale?”

“Come, brother,” Kjell choked, too emotional to say more, and led Tiras to the west entrance to the castle kitchens, knowing Yetta would have something fit for a king in the larder. Isak ran ahead to light the lamps, a courtesy Kjell acknowledged even as he quickly dismissed his men. His composure was cracked, his emotions high, his heart full, and his mind swimming. He didn’t want his men to see him weep.

He loaded a platter for his brother, watching as Tiras shoved food into his mouth and gulped at his ale, hungry in a way that gave testament to the miles he’d come.

“How did you find us?” Kjell choked, still struggling to compose himself.

“The roads in Dendar all lead to Caarn.” Tiras swallowed and went back for more. “The Star Maker was quite proud of the fact. The bird’s eye view is quite remarkable.”

“You should not have left Queen Lark,” Kjell murmured. “She would never forgive me if you didn’t return.”

“I could not stay away. You would have come for me.”

Kjell could not deny that truth and nodded, overcome once more.

“You promised me you would return,” Tiras chided. “What happened?”

Kjell hardly knew where to start. “There was no one here when we arrived. Not a soul,” he began. He relayed the events of the last months, the wolf in the woods, the loss of the ship, and the empty bay. He told Tiras about the Spinners disguised as trees and the healing that had brought them all back. He told him how the forest had parted at his command and about the woman named Koorah who would have been queen. Finally, he expressed his fears that Lady Firi had followed him from Quondoon to Caarn.

Tiras listened with a lowered brow and thin lips, and by the time Kjell had finished his account, he had risen to his feet, his meal consumed and his third glass of ale forgotten.

“The Creator have mercy, brother. What a tale,” he whispered. “What a tale.”

“It is true. Every word. I thought I might not ever see you again.”

Tiras faced him, and Kjell could see his own feelings mirrored in his brother’s eyes.

“You are thin, Kjell,” he observed.

“I am not,” Kjell scoffed.

Tiras laughed and shook his head, relieving the emotional tension. “All right. You are not. But you are thinner. You look worn.”

“Sasha is pleased with the grey in my hair,” Kjell disputed, running a hand over his head.

“She is pleased with the hair on your arse, but don’t let that convince you it’s attractive,” Tiras retorted. Kjell glowered and Tiras groaned.

“I’m sorry, brother. I mean no disrespect to Queen Saoirse. I fear for you. That is all. There is Volgar stench in the air.”

“They are coming, Tiras. Sasha has seen it,” Kjell said, realizing he had not told his brother everything.

“Damnation, Kjell!” Tiras cursed.

“You need to leave. You need to go back to Jeru, to Lark, and to your child,” Kjell urged. “Rest tonight. Leave tomorrow.”

“Is that what you would do, Kjell?” Tiras asked softly. “We’ve fought the Volgar together many times before.”

“Please don’t do that to me, Tiras. I cannot demand Sasha leave, and I cannot leave these people to face the Volgar alone. King Aren is not a warrior. They have no army. No weapons. No bloody defenses. But this is not your fight. This is not your kingdom. And it is not worth your life.”

“I will stay until you can return with me,” Tiras replied, adamant.

It was Kjell’s turn to swear and sigh.

“We will fight them together, and you will come home,” Tiras repeated, his voice brooking no argument.

Kjell nodded wearily, bending to Tiras’s will as he had a dozen times before, but in his heart he knew he lied. When the battle was done, live or die, Kjell would not be returning to Jeru.

***





In the battle of Kilmorda, the stench of Volgar was ever-present. In Caarn, it grew, fluttering in on the breeze, warning of death and decay. Tiras, with his heightened animal senses, had been the first to detect it, but by dawn of the following day, he was not the only one. Kjell told King Aren to bring his people, every last one, inside the castle walls.

“Look at the hills, Captain,” Jerick murmured. Kjell didn’t have to. They were brilliant, the leaves vibrant in their death song.

The growers left their fields and began spinning vines, stretching them from the castle walls to the parapets, the long streamers of thorny green snagging on everything they touched. The plan was to create a net of sorts, crisscrossing the twisting vines over the castle, wrapping it in a web of green.

“How do you know the Volgar will attempt to tear through the vines?” King Aren worried as he coaxed the foliage to climb and crawl across the courtyard.

“Because we will be standing beneath them,” Kjell said grimly. “And the birdmen want nothing more than to tear our flesh from our bones.”

“They will not be able to help themselves,” Jerick agreed.