“The gods save me from Seers,” he sighed, only half-serious. “She is with Shenna, in the cottage. I wanted a moment with you alone,” Kjell retorted.
“And why is that, Healer?”
“Don’t you know?” Kjell replied dourly.
“I am not all-knowing, Captain. My eyes see what they will, and I’ve never been able to choose.”
“That’s what Sasha says.”
“She is a Seer,” Gwyn said. “And she was punished for it.”
“Yes, and I healed her. She was near death. It was the first healing I have performed on a stranger.”
“The most difficult healing of all, sharing your gift with someone you’ve never met,” Gwyn remarked.
“I almost doubted it could be done.” He was comforted by the knowledge that she understood.
“Even the queen—as powerful as she is, as magnificent as her ability—is bound by certain constraints. Imagine how terrible the world would be if men were all-powerful,” Gwyn murmured. Neither of them spoke of the king who had been very powerful indeed.
“I tried to heal her twice. The first time, she was near death. The second, seriously wounded. The second time, I almost failed. It took hours and every ounce of strength I had to close her wounds.”
“You were successful?” She sounded shocked.
“Yes . . . but she still bears the scars.”
“You are a powerful Healer, indeed,” she marveled.
“I will not be able to heal her again,” he mourned. “I can feel it.”
“No. Probably not. Every gift has its limitations. We are delicate creatures, aren’t we? But our fragility makes us better people. It is good that the gift we want most is the one we aren’t given.” She paused. “A Healer cannot heal himself.”
He nodded. “Yes. I know.”
“When you heal, you give your very self away,” she explained.
“Shenna told me for every life I restore, I lose a day of my own,” he said.
“But Healers live longer than most,” she reassured. “Still . . . I’m not talking about shortening years upon the land, Healer. When you heal, especially great wounds, your life force merges with the life you save. And that person becomes part of you. A Healer cannot heal himself,” she repeated slowly. “Thus he cannot heal twice. Or very rarely.”
She smiled, her face wrinkling into a thousand lines, and Kjell resisted the urge to smooth them, simply to see if he could.
She brought his hand to her face, as if she knew he wanted to touch her and was too reticent to do so. Her skin was warm from the sun, and he held his palm there, pressed against her cheek, soothed by her presence.
“In Solemn, I healed two hundred people, most of them very ill.”
“A wonderful gift. And depending on the severity of the illness and the depth of the healing, you will not be able to give it to them again.”
“What use am I to those I love if I can’t heal them whenever they need it?” he whispered.
“The people who love you do not love you for your power, Kjell. That is their gift to you.” Gwyn patted his hand and brought it to her lap, palm up, looking at the lines there. They sat in contemplative silence for several moments.
“But that is not the only reason you’ve come, is it?” she needled.
“No.” Kjell guessed she already knew exactly why he was there.
“Then bring her to me, lad.” Gwyn grinned, swatting at his hand, a twinkle in her eye.
Kjell turned to fetch the women, but saw they were already approaching. Gwyn tipped her head toward them, as though her ears worked better than her eyes.
Sasha greeted the old Teller as she had greeted the queen, with a deep curtsy and a bowed head.
“Come, girl. I’m just an old woman. No need for that,” Gwyn protested, but Kjell could see that the greeting pleased her. “Sit beside me.”
Sasha obeyed immediately, tucking herself beside the Teller, who took her hand the way she’d taken Kjell’s.
“You’ve already seen Bartol—what can I possibly tell you that you don’t know?” Gwyn’s voice was wry.
Bartol was an entertainer, one of the Gifted who’d been a court jester before the laws had made having a gift a boon instead of a curse.
Bartol made Tiras laugh with his antics, but Kjell had mocked the man more than once for his inane talents. In his opinion, Bartol’s gift was a useless one—a weak variation of seeing that served no purpose. Bartol took great pride in telling people what they already knew, things like, “You ate lamb last Tuesday. You fear heights because you fell from a tree when you were a child. Your best mate is Garvin. Your mother was Janetta. The day of your birth there was a terrible blizzard. You’ve a mark on your arse shaped like a ship.” All of it ridiculous, all of it unhelpful.
The man had been taken a bit more seriously since the king’s edict, and Lark had asked him what he could tell them about Sasha. Bartol had immediately proclaimed Sasha the daughter of Pierce and Sareca of Kilmorda, and the queen said he spoke truth. But Bartol had known nothing beyond Sasha’s parentage, and had proceeded to rattle off a string of things Sasha could have told them herself, as well as a few things—like the color of the king’s drawers and that Princess Wren had cut a new tooth—that no one cared to know. Bartol had made Tiras laugh, and the queen had declared it a miracle, but Sasha had still insisted on dusting books and scrubbing floors. She might be the daughter of a lord, but there was nothing and no one to return to in Kilmorda. And Sasha still couldn’t remember them.
“We thought you might be able to see who Sasha is,” Kjell said.
“Who she is?” Gwyn asked frowning. “She already knows. Better than most, I would say. Who do you think you are, girl?”
“I am his,” Sasha said without hesitation, her gaze level and unflinching.
Gwyn crowed softly, as if the answer pleased her even more than the greeting, and Kjell felt his belly and his face get hot.
“No, child. He is yours,” Gwyn said, and Kjell grimaced. Gwyn ignored him, her gaze still on Sasha. “You have come a long way,” she mused.
“Yes,” Sasha answered.
“And there is a journey yet to come. Do you see it?” Gwyn pressed.
“To my home?” Sasha asked as if she already knew.
“To your home,” Gwyn confirmed.
Kjell wanted to interrupt, to protest. This was not what they’d come for. Kilmorda was in ruins. There would be no journey to the province if he could help it. But he held his tongue.
“You have the eyes of a Seer, Sasha,” Shenna said softly, inserting herself into the conversation.
“Yes. I’m not a terribly good one. It is a frustrating gift. It is a talent that rarely heals and usually frightens. It frightens me.”
“It frightens me too,” Gwyn said. “Our gifts are often burdens, aren’t they?”
Sasha wilted, her eyes on her feet, and Gwyn was silent for a long time.
“You are a Seer, but that is not your dominant gift,” Gwyn said thoughtfully.
Sasha looked surprised, even hopeful, and she waited expectantly, lifting her eyes back to the old woman.
“You magnify the gifts of others. You make them stronger. You have strengthened our Kjell many times,” Gwyn said.
“I don’t know if that is a gift, Mother Gwyn,” Sasha said slowly. “Or if that is simply . . . love.”
Kjell froze.
“But that is the best gift of all,” Gwyn said.
Kjell wanted to bolt, overwhelmed with the need to be alone and to never be alone again. He stood abruptly, and Sasha stood as well, ever his faithful shadow, gently releasing the old woman’s hand.
“We’ve made the Healer uncomfortable.” Gwyn sighed, irritated. “Go on ahead, Captain. I want to say goodbye to this girl.”
He needed no urging and turned and strode from the garden.
“Captain?” he heard Shenna call behind him. He counted the Healer as one of his friends, though she might not know it. She’d taught him a great deal about his gift. He trusted her, and he thought she’d come to trust him. Or at least respect him. He paused and waited for her to catch up to him, but he kept his back to her. She was too intuitive, and he was too disturbed.