“Koorah was my mother’s name,” Kjell murmured, his throat too constricted for greater sound.
“I know,” she answered, her voice as hushed as his. “You told me once. But I didn’t even remember my own name then. Today, when you told the trees to move and they obeyed, Padrig asked you where your mother was from.”
“And you remembered her name,” he supposed.
“Yes.” She nodded. For a moment they were quiet, contemplative. Kjell’s mind pulsed with possibilities he discarded almost as quickly as they came. But Sasha wasn’t finished.
“I remembered your mother’s name, and I remembered the story of Koorah, the Healer, who would have been queen,” she said.
“The Healer?”
“Yes, Captain, a Healer.” Sasha lifted her eyes to his, and he could only gaze back, suddenly seeing another slave woman in a foreign land. He’d never known what his mother looked like. He still didn’t, but he gave her blue eyes and golden hair like the portrait on the wall. He gave her a stubborn jaw and a mouth that looked like his.
“Koorah is not a common name,” Sasha murmured.
“No,” he agreed.
“The trees obeyed you,” Sasha reminded.
“Yes.” There was no denying it.
“She was a Healer. You are a Healer.”
He nodded again.
“If you are Lady Koorah of Caarn’s son, then . . . you are the King of Caarn.”
He began shaking his head, adamant and disbelieving. This is where they would not agree. “It could never be proven. And I don’t have any desire to be king.”
“Kell means prince in Dendar,” Sasha whispered.
“I was named after the Kjell Owl! The midwife named me,” Kjell argued.
“Is it possible . . . Koorah . . . named you?” Sasha asked.
“I know only what I was told,” he whispered, and turned away from the painting. “It makes no sense. My father—Zoltev—would have married her if she was heir to a throne. It would have been an advantageous match.”
“Maybe she never told him . . . maybe, like you, she had no desire to be queen, and maybe Zoltev was not the man she followed to Jeru.”
“Or maybe she simply loved . . . badly, and realized too late,” he acquiesced, and his eyes found Sasha’s. “We will never know.”
“No. Not for certain. But I had to show you. It would have been wrong to keep it from you.”
“Keep what from me? Her name was Koorah. It means nothing to me! She means nothing to me. There is no one here, Sasha. We are surrounded by trees and little else.” He ground his palms into his eyes. He was tired, overwrought, and the words that he uttered next were not words he was proud of. “Come back to Jeru. Come back with me, Sasha. Please.”
She bowed her head, and he felt her agony even as he cursed his own weakness. He clenched his fists and looked for something to break.
“I cannot turn my back on these people,” she said.
“What people? They are all gone!” he roared. “The king, the villagers. They are all bloody trees in a damned forest. It’s been four years, Sasha. You tell me I might be the King of Caarn? King of an empty castle and endless trees? I am a king of trees?” He was so frustrated he couldn’t spit the words out fast enough, and snatched the portrait of the family from the wall and heaved it down the hall, watching it cartwheel before it skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs, completely intact. Sasha did not protest or try to calm him, but watched him the way she always did, like she couldn’t listen hard enough, like she couldn’t possibly love him more than she already did, and that made him even angrier, because her feelings were as futile as his own.
“There is only one thing in this whole, godforsaken world that would make me want to be bloody King of Caarn. One. Thing.” He raised a finger and jabbed it toward her. “You! I would be the court jester and wear striped hose and paint on my face if it meant I could be near you. But if I am King of Caarn, then you wouldn’t be queen. You would simply be the wife of my uncle. Now that is funny! Maybe I should play the fool. This whole, bungled situation is just rich with hilarity.”
He slammed his palms against the empty space where the portrait had hung and pulled at the cloak he wore around his shoulders, a cloak that suddenly felt like an anvil around his neck. Sasha’s touch was light against his back, and he turned on her with a groan and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet. He buried his face in her hair, pressing his lips to the soft skin of her throat before finding her mouth and taking what he could before it was too late. He kissed her, imprinting the shape of her lips on his mouth, tasted her, committing her flavor to his tongue, and swallowed her sighs, taking the heat of her response into the coldest corners of his heart.
But the kiss did not douse his fury or quiet the flame of frustration in his gut. It simply accentuated the hopelessness of his desire. He pulled away slightly, and for a moment breathed her in, his eyes closed, his resolve hardening. Sasha would not turn her back on Caarn, and she would not deny him. But his need was hurting her. His presence was hurting her. Uncertainty was hurting them both. And it had to end.
Releasing her, he grabbed the torch from the sconce on the wall and strode from the corridor, not waiting to see if she followed, trusting she would. He resisted the urge to burn the picture resting precariously against the bannister, but let it be, if only for the young woman named Koorah who observed him with painted eyes.
Down the broad staircase, across the echoing foyer and through the iron doors he flew, determined to be done with it all, to end the torment of hope.
“Healer!” Padrig shouted, coming out of the darkness like a phantom. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to set fire to the forest, Spinner,” he mocked, not slowing. He’d alerted the watch, and it wouldn’t be long until the whole castle was stirring. He quickened his pace, desperate to begin without onlookers. Sasha was running behind him, her breaths harsh. He was scaring her. The thought brought him up short.
“Which one, Padrig. Which one is the king?” he asked, moderating his tone.
“Why?” Padrig gasped, his eyes glued to the flame.
“You want me to heal them. That is why I’m here. That is why you helped me. You knew this is what we would find.”
“I . . . suspected,” Padrig confessed.
“How?” Sasha asked. “How did you know, Padrig?
“Your memories, Saoirse. When I showed Lady Firi your memories, I didn’t tell you everything we saw.” Padrig turned toward Kjell, beseeching even as he raised a hand to ward Kjell off. “We saw you touching the trees, Healer. And we saw the trees becoming . . . people. Ariel of Firi didn’t understand. But I did.” He placed a trembling hand over his heart. “I did.”
“When you gave me back my memories, that one was gone,” Sasha whispered, anger and realization making her eyes glow in the dancing torchlight.
“Yes,” Padrig replied, not denying it.
“But you didn’t tell me,” Sasha said.
“You love him, Majesty. He loves you. If there was nothing to come back to in Caarn . . . I didn’t believe you would . . . come back,” Padrig offered timidly.
Instead of Padrig’s confession making him angry, it gave Kjell an odd reassurance. Padrig was a manipulator. Even the trees judged him harshly, but Kjell couldn’t see how knowing Caarn slept would have changed anything.
“Sasha. If Padrig would have told you, you would still have come. And I would have followed.” Sasha’s eyes clung to his, defeated and despairing, clearly torn between her duty and her desire to shield him. That also had not changed.