None came. Padrig bowed gingerly and began to make his way from the clearing back toward the wall around a kingdom that would never be the same.
“I will wait for you, brother,” Tiras assured. “And Caarn will wait.”
Sasha ate only dry bread and sipped water from the carafe Jerick brought each morning. She didn’t speak, and she didn’t raise her eyes to Kjell.
It rained but the trees bowed above them, sheltering them, and they remained dry. The nights were cold but Isak built a fire of candlenuts that never ceased burning. Two of Kjell’s guard stood watch in the darkest hours, giving Kjell a brief reprieve from Sasha’s silence and her downcast eyes. But he always woke with her hand in his. She rose only to relieve herself and slept only when she could not stay awake. She didn’t weep, but he wished she would. Her silence was part of the ritual, but her dry eyes were not.
When the three days had passed, she stood but could not walk, and he swept her up in his arms and walked for her, entering the castle for the first time as its king.
In Jeru, death was marked by processions and bells that rang at intervals of seven, marking the period of Penthos—mourning. Monuments were built on the hill behind the palace, pale sepulchers of fallen kings. But in Caarn, many of the monuments were trees, and many villagers had witnessed the royal shifting. In one fell swoop, a king had passed and another took his place. Kjell’s coronation and Aren’s transformation had occurred simultaneously, and the whole village walked in a stupefied reverence superseded only by Kjell’s own shock and awe.
He was king. Against his will and despite his reservations, Kjell of Jeru had become Kjell of Caarn, King of Dendar, saddled with a land and a kingdom he didn’t understand and a people he barely knew.
He had been given a kingdom, but the queen was another matter entirely.
For a week after her vigil ended, Sasha never left her chamber. She was attended by Tess and the blond maid who had once offered to shave Kjell’s beard. The blond was afraid of him and could never look him in the eyes, and Tess kept insisting that Sasha was well, though she clearly was not. Kjell stewed and couldn’t sleep, burdened by her behavior, by his new responsibilities, and by the continual dread that the danger in Caarn had not ended. Tiras stayed by his side, a constant in the chaos, helping Kjell to navigate a position he’d never wanted or aspired to. But it was not until Tiras prepared to leave for Jeru City that Kjell broke down and begged his brother for advice.
“Tell me what to do, Tiras,” Kjell pled, his confusion and concern teetering on the edge of anger. He needed Sasha, and she was suffering alone.
Tiras, perusing the kingdom’s holdings and various ventures—none of which Kjell cared about at the moment—looked up at Kjell thoughtfully. He closed the ledgers and rolled the maps on the steward’s desk in silence, clearly stewing over the advice he was about to dispense.
“Have you ever watched a sconce as it is lit? For a moment the torch and the wick both flare, as if spreading the flame makes each stronger. That is what happens when you and Queen Saoirse are together. I see it. King Aren saw it. All of Caarn sees it,” Tiras said.
Kjell stared at his brother balefully, waiting for him to continue.
“You have been released, Kjell. She has not,” Tiras said slowly, enunciating every word, and Kjell immediately lost his temper.
“I have been released?” Kjell repeated, incredulous. “I have not been released. I have been crowned! I wear this bloody wreath of gold and am expected to sleep in the king’s chambers listening to the queen cry when she thinks no one can hear.”
“The king is gone, and you can love his queen without constraints,” Tiras insisted. “You are freed, but she is not. She cannot simply run into your arms, brother. Guilt makes grief unbearable.”
Kjell groaned and rubbed his eyes wearily. He didn’t want Sasha to grieve for Aren. It was an awful truth, but a truth all the same.
“Suddenly she can have what her heart desires most. You. But getting what we want at the expense of someone else taints the fulfilment of even our fondest dreams,” Tiras said, his frank assessment making Kjell hiss in frustration.
“She is blameless. She didn’t cause Aren’s death or seek it,” Kjell said.
“It doesn’t matter. She loves you, he died, and the whole kingdom is watching,” Tiras contended.
“It is a never-ending round!” Kjell raged. “One thing after another. I love her. And I cannot have her.”
Kjell surged to his feet and strode around the perimeter of the library, along the rows of books he had no intention of ever reading, and ended back in front of his younger brother, dejected and deflated.
“She is yours, Kjell. Heart and soul,” Tiras said, his compassion evident. “It is obvious. She was yours from the moment you met. But you must let her mourn.”
“I cannot be King of Caarn if she is not by my side, Tiras,” Kjell whispered. “I cannot do it.”
“Time, brother, and patience,” Tiras urged. “It is something you can give her. It is something you can give yourself. When I see you again, she will be your queen and these ledgers won’t be so outdated. I have no doubt.”
And so Kjell gave Sasha patience the way he’d given her his body and his gift, the way he’d surrendered his heart and his life. Freely. Completely. He kept a guard at her door and two in the ramparts facing her window. He gave her time, and he prayed for the strength to wait.
***
Kjell’s meager belongings had been moved from the garrison to the king’s chambers shortly after his unexpected ascension. He’d quietly allowed it, knowing he could not remain where he was, bunking with his men while managing a kingdom. And he had wanted to be closer to Sasha.
King Aren’s possessions were whisked away, his rooms stripped of his presence, and the heavy furniture repositioned to make the space feel new. Kjell had never been in the king’s chamber before Aren died, and the furnishings didn’t matter to him. Still, the echo of the old king in the quarters made him feel like a usurper, and he never remained in the chamber for long.
One night, a week after Tiras’s departure, feeling over-tired and under-appreciated, Kjell walked through the queen’s gardens, staring up at Sasha’s rooms and feeling like a love-sick fool. The fruit had been harvested, the trees pruned, and the chill of fall permeated the moonlit air. He didn’t want to return to the castle or sleep in Aren’s rooms, so he tossed his cloak upon the ground and stretched out beneath an apple tree, his eyes on the flickering light from Sasha’s window and the silent sentries on the ramparts. Jerick was on the queen’s watch tonight, his bow in his arms, his shoulders straight, facing her window like he’d been instructed to do, and Kjell let his eyes drift closed, weary but reassured that all was as well as it could be.
He dreamed of Sasha and their marriage announcement in Jeru, of her gold dress and her fiery tresses, of her happiness and her soft touch. He awoke to hands on his skin and lips on his mouth, and kept his eyes closed, believing he still dreamed. But the hands that roamed his body were aggressive, the lips dry and abrasive, and the breath that fluttered against his mouth tasted of blood. When he lifted his bleary lids, it was not Sasha’s face above him.
Lady Firi’s hair still wreathed her head in a coil, evidence of her preparations and her blatant trespasses the night of the celebration, but that had been more than a fortnight before, and Kjell wondered if she’d spent the last weeks as an animal, never changing into human form. Her plaited hair only accentuated her nakedness, making Kjell long for the matted curls and wild length, if only to shield her from his eyes.