“Help him,” he commanded tersely. “Help him, and I’ll help you.”
I stared at him in confusion, but he said nothing more as he pulled the door closed between us and locked me inside. I yanked on the handle, testing what I already knew to be true, and listened as his footsteps retreated then stopped. He hadn’t gone far. His desperation was audible, as if he stood shouting his concern through the echoing halls.
But it wasn’t Kjell who called out from the shadowed corner. It was the king.
“I told you to go, Kjell. Get out!”
I took several steps forward, unable to see beyond the heavy table bolted to the floor and laid with a simple, untouched meal. A goblet brimming with burgundy wine had me clearing my suddenly parched throat. There were sconces lining the walls here as well, but only one was lit, and the flickering flame created dancing ghosts and warning whispers on my skin. The meal was fit for a king, but these weren’t the king’s quarters. Obviously. It was the kind of room where prisoners were housed, the kind of room I’d imagined myself being held in on the journey to the city.
“Kjell? You bloody bastard. Leave me!” the king bellowed, obviously sensing my presence, but unable to see me. I crept around the table and past the partial wall lined with bolts and shackles and a heavy chain that had clearly been there for some time.
He was pressed against the wall, crouched there, as if he were too weak to stand. Manacles circled his wrists and ankles, though each manacle was attached to a length of chain that should allow him a small range of motion. It seemed more to contain than to torture, though he was definitely suffering. His shirt was opened, and his skin gleamed slickly beneath, as if he was expending great effort not to fight against the restraints. His chest heaved and his body shook. He was a big man, his muscles bulging beneath breeches that clung to his crouching legs, but he was folded into himself, his hands fisted in his long white hair, his brawny back bent in what appeared to be distress. His body cried help though he demanded to be left alone.
He lifted his eyes and peered at me through the hair that shrouded his face. He didn’t look surprised to see me, though his shoulders sagged in defeat.
“Are you a Healer?” His voice was soft. Pained.
I waited until he lifted his eyes again, and I shook my head. He groaned softly then asked, “If you aren’t a Healer, why are you here?”
I couldn’t answer, so I stepped closer.
“Stay back!”
I hesitated, frightened.
His body trembled, and his skin rippled as if the muscles of his back were caught in a violent spasm.
“Go!” he roared, the sound otherworldly, a lion or a beast given the gift of speech. “Leave!”
I couldn’t go. I couldn’t even scream. I couldn’t beg or plead or barter for my life. Still, I scurried to the heavy door behind me, pounding against it.
“Kjell!” Tiras bellowed. “Get her out of here!”
The door remained closed.
“Kjell! I’ll kill you!” he roared.
But apparently Kjell did not believe him, or maybe he intended for us both to die. I wondered if King Tiras was contagious, exposed to a deadly illness that would kill me when it finished him off. Why Kjell thought I could help him was beyond me.
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.