I kept my back to the king for several minutes, not knowing what to do, not daring to go near him. He’d stopped shouting, but I could hear him panting in distress. I didn’t want to feel sorry for him. I didn’t want to feel compassion. He didn’t deserve it. But I winced at his labored breathing and his obvious agony. It reminded me of the quiet suffering of the eagle in the forest.
I’d had compassion for a bird, surely I could show a shred of compassion for a man, even one I wanted to despise. I turned from the door and walked back toward him cautiously. His eyes rose—black, wounded, almost beseeching—but this time he didn’t yell or tell me to go. Maybe he couldn’t. He was shaking so hard the chains rattled against the floor.
I knelt beside him, so close he could have easily hurt me, but I found I was no longer afraid of him. I couldn’t ask him where it hurt or what ailed him. I could only slip my hands inside his open shirt and press them to his chest, hoping I could help him find relief. It had worked with the bird. His skin was hot and slick, and we both flinched at the contact. I shut my eyes the way I had with the eagle.
Relief.
His breath hissed out. I concentrated harder.
Cool relief.
“What are you doing to me?” he whispered.
Breathe. Heal. Sleep.
Breathe, heal, sleep.
Breathe, heal, sleep.
I repeated the suggestions over and over, and he was motionless beneath my hands, not shoving me away, not demanding that I go. I pushed the words outward as hard as I could, and the harder I pushed, the more measured his breathing became.
“Are you a Healer?” he asked again, and his voice was faint, exhaustion making the question long and slow. I could only shake my head. I wasn’t healing, I was telling. I was suggesting. Commanding his body to release the pain, to numb the agony. To heal itself. I had no idea if it was all in my head or if my words were escaping through my hands, but I kept my eyes closed and my palms pressed against his pounding heart.
“You’re a witch,” he moaned, but he leaned into my hands. I felt a surge of triumph and narrowed my focus further. I don’t know how much time passed, but as his shaking quieted, mine began, and I felt my strength sputter and stop. I’d done it again, and just like in the woods, I’d emptied myself completely. Only this time, I felt the crash.
I could hardly keep my head from bobbing forward onto his shoulder. I tried to open my eyes and pull my hands from his skin, but I had nothing left, no strength remained to move myself away. My eyelids weighed a thousand pounds, my arms at least a ton. I swayed against him, powerless to stop myself. Then I was lying on the floor, the cool stones impossibly smooth against my face. I felt my hands fall from his body, and darkness consumed me, washing away all awareness.
When I awoke it was midday, and I was back in my tower room, stretched across my bed, a pillow beneath my head, a blanket over my shoulders. Sunlight streamed through the windows, and my stomach complained loudly. I sat up in confusion, wondering if the shackled king had been a bizarre dream. The bottom of my feet were filthy, and I’d slept half the day away. No. I shook my head, resisting the urge to pretend I hadn’t been dragged to a chamber in the far recesses of the palace and locked inside, delivered like an offering to a violent god, the virgin sacrifice to the fiery dragon.
Although King Tiras had roared like a beast, he hadn’t hurt me. He’d been the one in pain. Where was he? Had he survived the night? Had he survived . . . me? He’d called me a witch, yet he’d welcomed my touch. Now I was here, back in my room, like none of it had happened. It made no sense.
I started at the sound of the key scraping in the lock at my door and scrambled from the bed, my hands moving instinctively to the hair that hung down my back in heavy disarray. I expected Kjell or maybe even the king himself. But it was a maid who bustled in, the girl who brought my meals each day.
“You’re awake!” Her voice was slightly sardonic, and the words lazy girl oozed from her thoughts.
I nodded. I had so many things to ask and no way to communicate.
“I brought breakfast hours ago, and you were so still I thought you’d died in your sleep. You must have been exhausted from doing nothing all day. Eat up. I’ll send porters up with water for your bath, but there’s water to wash your hands and face in the basin.” She hardly looked at me as she prattled, and I clapped my hands to draw her eyes. I mimed the act of writing, and she looked at me blankly. I did it again, adamantly, and her face cleared.
“Oh, you want paper . . . and ink?”
I nodded gratefully.
She furrowed her brow as if troubled by the request. “I’ll ask.”
I was overjoyed when she returned with three books of blank, bound paper, along with paints, ink, and charcoal, muttering about excess and glut.
“A gift from the king,” she said snidely, as if I’d done something scandalous to deserve it. “He informed Mistress Lorena that you may have whatever you desire, as long as you remain in this room.”
I bathed quickly, eager to ask my questions before I was left alone again. As my hair was dried and dressed, I drew a quick likeness of Boojohni and showed the dour maid who attended me. She combed my damp hair with harsh tugs, impatient to be done with her duties, but she eyed my picture with reluctant curiosity.
“I haven’t seen him, Milady,” she shrugged. “He’s a funny-looking little fellow. Don’t see many trolls in Jeru City anymore. The late king was certain they sheltered the Gifted and had a bit of the magic in their own blood. He ran them all out. Good riddance, I say.”
I quickly drew a picture of Tiras, a crown sitting on his pale hair. He’d never worn a crown in my presence, but I didn’t have time to make a perfect likeness and needed her to understand.
“King Tiras?” she asked, as if I was daft.
I nodded emphatically.
“What about ‘im?” she asked crossly.
I turned my palms out, hoping she understood that I was asking for his whereabouts.
“He doesn’t report to me, Milady!” she sneered. “But I’ll be sure to tell him you were askin’ about him.” She sighed and headed for the door, juggling the dishes from my meal, murmuring about “uppity ladies.”
I wondered if she was rude because I couldn’t rebuke her or if she enjoyed knowing I couldn’t voice a complaint about her. Not that anyone would care what I thought. Still, one question had been answered. The king wasn’t dead.
The next evening, King Tiras himself unlocked my door and strode into my room without warning, verifying that he was not only alive, but that he was in fine health. I’d been drawing all day at the table, enchanted with the variety of the supplies, anxious to keep busy after so many days of forced isolation, and when he had entered, I’d ignored the intrusion, thinking it was my dour attendant bringing me a meal I had no interest in. I didn’t look up until he spoke, his tone wry, his voice soft.
“I see you received my peace offering.”
I rose to my feet, eyeing him with wonder and not a little apprehension. He was clothed in a fine linen shirt and fitted breeches with tall boots. He vibrated with good health and vitality, looking completely recovered from whatever had ailed him, and I would have questioned my sanity—or at least my memory—had I any reason at all to doubt either. His thick, white hair was brushed back from his brown face, and he seemed even taller, even broader than before. Maybe it was that he stood towering over me, bearing little resemblance to the man who had been doubled over in agony on the dungeon floor.