She and Kjell had not escaped the storm after all.
She couldn’t breathe, and she couldn’t speak. Each grain of sand was a shard in her skin, a terrible truth that completely changed the landscape. All that was became all that is, churning and changing, rearranging, until Sasha was swept away and Saoirse took her place, no longer plagued by who she’d been, but completely destroyed by who she was.
***
Kjell climbed the broad staircase, Sasha in his arms, Lark on his heels. Tiras would see to the Spinner. He would see that justice was done. And if he didn’t, Kjell would. But for now he could only whisk her away, his heart in his throat, fear in his veins, Sasha weeping against his chest. Lark commanded the door to his chamber to open before they even arrived, she ordered the covers to toss themselves aside before he crossed the room, and when he laid Sasha across his bed, the queen’s mouth moved around words of comfort.
“What is past is done and gone,
Ease the torment of this one,
In her heart and in her mind,
Let her rest and forget time.”
Lark couldn’t heal and she didn’t compel, but her powers of suggestion and her ability to command were unmatched. Regaining her speech had made her considerably more powerful, yet she wielded her words so carefully.
Sasha quieted, her trembling becoming an occasional shudder, her tears slowing. Her hands released the cloth of his shirt, her muscles relaxed, finding reprieve in sleep, and Kjell collapsed beside her.
“I will stay with her. The memories are with her now, and whether she sleeps or not, she is processing,” Lark volunteered.
“I should not have allowed it,” Kjell said.
“You sound like your brother,” Lark said softly.
“No. He sounds like me,” Kjell argued. But he sighed and rose from the bed, looking down at the woman curled in tormented slumber.
“Go, Kjell. Sasha will be here when you return. You need answers and at this moment, she can’t give them to you.”
When Kjell returned to the Great Hall, Tiras sat on his throne, surrounded by empty space and high, arching windows that framed the night and the silence in the room. His face was like stone, his hands gripping the arms, his feet braced wide like he was preparing to stand.
“Sit, brother,” he said.
“Where is the Spinner?” Kjell asked, unwilling to comply.
Tiras leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him, meeting his older brother’s gaze.
“Sit,” he asked again.
“Just speak, Tiras,” Kjell shot back.
“Sasha is not Lady Saoirse of Kilmorda,” Tiras stated, his eyes never leaving Kjell’s.
“What?” Kjell asked, impatient, wishing Tiras would cease babbling and start beheading.
“She is Queen Saoirse of Dendar,” Tiras said.
Kjell stared at his brother, dumbfounded, too many pieces of the story still unaccounted for. Tiras began to speak again, trying to explain.
“King Aren of Dendar is a powerful Spinner—his people are Spinners, but most of them don’t spin objects into illusions or straw into gold. They make things grow. They are able to spin themselves into plants and trees and bushes and grass.”
“Caarn means tree. Tree. They spin themselves into trees,” Kjell whispered. He reached for something to hold on to, and collapsed to the dais of his brother’s throne, obeying Tiras after all.
“Sasha’s story. It wasn’t a story. It was real,” Kjell breathed. No. Not Sasha. Seer-sha. Queen Saoirse. The name rolled around on Kjell’s tongue like burnt sugar, sweet and bitter, inviting and unwelcome.
“Dendar was overrun by Volgar. Porta and Willa were decimated first, then Dendar. Then Kilmorda. Padrig is a Spinner, but his gift is different from the other people of Caarn. Because of this, when the Volgar came, the king—Padrig’s nephew—charged him with keeping Saoirse safe. She could not protect herself . . . nor could she hide,” Tiras continued, tripping over the explanation like he hadn’t had time to process it himself.
“She’s a queen,” Kjell said, lightheaded and tempted to laugh. He should have known. No wonder he wanted to worship at her feet.
“You don’t understand, Kjell,” Tiras interrupted softly. He moved down to the dais and sat next to his brother, his eyes on the floor. His compassion demanded it. “She is not the heir to the throne. She is not related to the king. She is the wife of the king. She is King Aren’s . . . queen.”
Kjell raged through the castle hallways, demanding access to the Spinner, Tiras following behind like he was a toddler in danger of falling.
“Where is he, Tiras?” he shouted.
“You will hurt him,” Tiras said. “I can’t allow that.”
“I will kill him!” he confirmed, searching mindlessly, slamming doors and frightening the staff. Dawn had come, but the castle had just gone to bed.
“You cannot kill a man for telling painful truths, Kjell.”
“I can kill him for letting me believe a lie!” he bellowed.
“There were no lies, Kjell.” Tiras shook his head. “Nobody lied to you.”
Kjell shoved past his brother, and Tiras finally let him go.
He paced the hallway outside her room, not able to sit at her bedside, not able to sit still at all. Lark kept a vigil, just like she’d said she would, but when Sasha finally woke, she refused to see him.
Lark stepped out into the corridor, her face drawn, her hands stretched out to him, ready to comfort, armed with excuses. But he would not be comforted or denied. He pushed into the room, and Lark didn’t stop him. Sasha lay very still with her eyes closed.
He waited by her bed, sprawled in a chair like a drunken fool, muttering to himself and waiting for her to open her eyes and look at him. Lark had taken down Sasha’s hair and helped her to remove the golden gown she’d spent the whole night tempting him in. She was awake behind her closed lids. He’d watched her sleeping often enough to know. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and her hands were clenched.
She couldn’t look at him. Only days before, he had made love to her and she couldn’t look away.
She turned her head into the pillows and in a voice that barely resembled the Sasha he knew, she asked him to go.
“Please, Captain. I need you to leave.”
And he could not deny her.
Days later, he was called into the library, summoned like a royal courtier, and he obeyed again, paying special attention to his appearance, combing his hair back from his face and carefully shaving the growth from his jaw. He had a maid press his tunic and a porter shine his boots. Then he strapped on his anger and his disdain and made sure he was late.
She was waiting alone, as carefully coiffed as he, no feather duster or ladder to climb. No sweet pleading for another kiss. There wouldn’t be another one. She’d seen the truth all along.
And still she didn’t look at him.
“You are Queen Saoirse of Dendar.” It was the only thing he could think to say.
“Yes,” she replied. He expected her to elaborate. To cry. To fall into his arms. But she sat primly, her hands in her lap, her back straight, her face forward, and her eyes focused beyond his head.
“Should I kneel? What is customary when speaking to a queen in Dendar?” he asked.
Her face remained immovable, but her throat convulsed briefly.
“You may stand,” she whispered. “You owe me no fealty.” She swallowed again, but her eyes stayed averted.