“I am more lost than I have ever been. Padrig told me I would lose nothing when he restored my memories, but he knew that was not true.” She stared at him, agonized. “I lost you,” she whispered, and his heart grew sharp branches and roots that unfurled and pierced his chest.
“I remember, but I have not forgotten,” she repeated.
“Please, Sasha,” he panted, trying to breathe around the briars.
“I am Saoirse. But I am Sasha too. And Sasha loves Kjell.”
The words reverberated between them, round and reverent, and Kjell could only marvel and mourn that they’d been uttered at all. He couldn’t bear to hear them, yet he repeated them over and over in his mind, hearing Sasha say them, reveling in each syllable.
“And Kjell loves Sasha,” he admitted in return, each word a tortured confession. He’d never told her, and now he could only speak as though he were someone else.
Sasha hung her head and wept, beyond speech, the tears so heavy and wet she was doubled over with their weight. He couldn’t watch anymore. He swept her up, embracing her, pressing her cheek to his and burying his nose in her hair.
“I would heal you if I could.” He pressed his hands over her heart, to her cheeks and her brow, trying to soothe the sting of remembrance, but it wasn’t a pain he could ease even if he’d never touched her before.
“I have given Sasha to you, but she was not mine to give,” she wept. “I am so sorry, Captain.”
“I know,” he said, nodding, forgiving her. “I know.” And in that moment he wondered if he’d actually known all along. Maybe knowing was his Gift. Because he’d known, deep down, from the very first, that she didn’t belong to him.
He fell back into the straw, holding her, letting her grieve, grieving with her. She cried for a long time, laying in his arms, his cheek resting on her head, but there was no more speaking, no more apologies. And when the shuddering ceased and her eyes closed, he settled her carefully on the straw and told the stable master to make sure she was not awakened or disturbed. He was quite certain she hadn’t slept since Lark had cast her spell. He certainly hadn’t. The sleep would have been a glorious reprieve, but waking up and remembering was too hard. He winced at his musings. Sasha had been caught in a cycle of constant remembrance for three days.
He would not sleep . . . but he would drink. And he would think.
“You’re sending her off with ships and supplies,” Kjell accused, holding his flask in one hand while he held his head in the other. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough to endure Tiras’s presence.
“Yes. I should have sent ships long ago,” Tiras said, unapologetic. Someone had ratted Kjell out, he was certain of it. One of his men had seen him and told the king he was holed up in the tavern, and Tiras had come running. Tiras never drank in the hostelry. When Tiras needed to escape, he changed. Kjell could not escape himself, no matter how hard he tried.
Kjell stared at his brother stonily, and Tiras sighed.
“Four years ago, refugees started trickling into Jeru from the lands north. Men, women, and children who climbed aboard anything that would float just to escape the Volgar. Somehow some of them made it to Jeru only to find that we were in a hell of our own. But we’ve come out of it, Kjell. It is time to see what remains beyond the sea. It is long past time.”
“How convenient then. Let’s all celebrate this amazing opportunity to explore and settle new worlds,” Kjell mocked.
“It is not a new world for Queen Saoirse. I couldn’t stop her if I wanted to. She is a woman of means. All that her father owned—and he was a wealthy lord—is now hers. She brought a ship full of riches to pay for an army to go back to Dendar. But there was no army to spare, and we know what happened in Kilmorda. The treasure was brought here to Jeru after the first battle in the valley of Kilmorda—you remember, don’t you? Ten chests marked with the emblem of the tree. She described them to me. They belong to Dendar, and she will be taking them back with her,” Tiras explained.
Kjell flung his heavy flagon at the wall and watched it erupt, spewing ale in a half-moon spatter before hitting the floor. The tavern owner looked balefully at the mess and then addressed the king with a small bow.
“The captain’s been talking to the dog, Highness. Calling her Maximus of Jeru and nursing that same pint for hours. It might be time for him to go home,” he suggested cautiously, mopping up Kjell’s temper and admirably controlling his own.
Leaning down, Kjell sank his fingers into the thick fur behind the mutt’s ears, scratching briskly. The dog’s eyes rolled back in ecstasy, and her tongue fell from her mouth and flopped against the floor. She’d been his companion since he’d arrived.
“Ah Gilly. Ye’ve traded your dignity for pleasure, haven’t you, girl?” the tavern owner sighed, talking to his dog. “Be careful, Captain. The bitch will follow you now. Ye’ll never get rid of her.”
Kjell shot up from the floor with a roar, and with his brawny arms, cleared the adjacent table of its contents, spilling spirits and overturning platters.
Tiras stood, narrowly avoiding being struck by a flying dish. He set a small pouch, heavy with coin, in the tavern owner’s hand, grabbed Kjell’s arm, and dragged him from the establishment.
The sun was so blinding Kjell stumbled and almost fell. He closed his eyes, not even caring where they walked, and let Tiras lead him.
“Are you really that sloshed, or are you just using it as an excuse to wreak havoc and talk to dogs?”
“I told you I was past pretending, brother,” Kjell reminded, repeating his sentiments from the night of the masquerade, the night of the unveiling, hers and his. But he hadn’t yet donned a new disguise, and he didn’t think he ever would.
They walked to the mews, the shadowy quiet welcoming them. Tiras loved the mews—he felt safe there—and Kjell didn’t have the energy to tell him that the mews made him think of unhappy changes, of losing his brother to a curse neither of them could control.
Hashim, the Master Falconer, approached with a tidy bow and prayerful hands. He was a Changer like Tiras, and he trained the royal carrier birds to fly to all corners of the kingdom, delivering missives and communications from the king. Years before, Hashim had found Kjell and Tiras on the road to Firi, sent on a false errand, and turned them back. Without him, Zoltev would have toppled Jeru.
“Majesty,” Hashim greeted. “I’ve just received a message from Corvyn. All will be in order for the voyage to Dendar when the caravan arrives.”
Kjell dropped to the long bench that lined the far wall, waiting for the conversation to end. Tiras thanked Hashim and spoke with him quietly for a moment before the falconer bowed and retreated once more.
Kjell watched his brother walk among the shrouded birds, noting his broad shoulders, his calm presence, his hands clasped behind his back like folded wings, resembling the eagle he never completely shrugged off.
“She leaves the day after tomorrow. It will be easier for you then,” Tiras offered after a weighty silence.
“No. It won’t. Because I am going with her.” Kjell had told the dog. He’d told his ale. He’d told his heart and his head. Now he had to tell the only person in the world who would truly mourn his absence.
“Kjell . . .” Tiras protested, his voice falling off in disapproval. “You are drunk, and that isn’t wise.”
“I have never claimed to be wise. That has always been you, Tiras. Not me. And you and I both know I’m not at all drunk.”
“Half of the bloody guard has volunteered to go. She will be in good hands,” Tiras said.
Kjell scoffed, the chortle not quite lifting his lips. “Of course they have. But they are my men. I will lead them.”