creepy trees & winter kings

I pushed away from the wall and came to stand next to him as he finished selecting a bottle green coat with bronze embroidery around the sleeves and collar. He shrugged into it, wincing a little as he maneuvered his right arm but turning to hide it from me. His scar must have been hurting him—my rush healing job had been far from perfect. I bit my lip and said nothing.

I wondered if he saw me biting back replies whenever we spoke. Part of me felt that I had earned the right to question and bicker after saving the Dragon’s life twice in the Wood, but since our arrival in Kralia I was too restless and exhausted to find satisfaction in prodding him. When we argued at the Tower he would often retreat to the library or some other remote room, allowing me time to spend as I pleased. Here, I shuddered to think of him leaving me to my own devices.

He seemed tired too, though he was careful to hide the cause. Perhaps nightmares of the Wood woke him in the night as they did me. Perhaps he had yet to recover his energy after such severe injury followed by a week’s travel. Perhaps he was simply worn out by whatever meetings kept him busy for long stretches of the day. Whatever the reason, both our sharp edges were dulled enough by our present situation that our time together was mostly civil, and I didn’t comment on the room or his winces.

“All right, let’s practice. Change your gown.”

Once again passing over an old argument for the sake of efficiency, I complied. “Vanastalem.” My already-dirty dress from that morning, a “simple” rust-colored gown with a lace overskirt, rustled and swirled as more petticoats blossomed beneath the skirt. The sleeves ballooned like sails as the fabric transformed into pearly white silk with deep green and bronze brocading to match his coat. I felt cold emeralds at my throat and a weight that told me more jewels had appeared in my hair.

“Good.” He nodded with an air of frank approval that was rare for him and I felt the back of my neck grow warm. “You certainly look the part—let’s see if you remember the motions too.”

Look the part of your lover? I wanted to ask. Of a castle-born noblewoman? The thought was irritating for reasons I didn’t care to examine closely.

He cleared his throat and indicated his arm, which I had not realized he was offering to me. I stepped next to him and took it, gingerly placing my hand on his forearm.

We both looked at our reflections in the small mirror on the opposite wall. I stood slightly taller than the Dragon, although my hair and jeweled headpiece made the difference look greater. He looked stiff and stern, as though he was posing for a portrait. I looked like I was obliged to hold something distasteful, like an overpoweringly scented bouquet of flowers gifted by someone you don’t wish to offend. An uncomfortable laugh bubbled out of me at the sight.

His reflection raised its eyebrow. “Is something funny?”

“We don’t look convincing.” I fidgeted with the jewels at my neck, which were starting to feel like a collar.

He frowned. “The dress looks fine. You just need to practice your bearing.”

“No, I mean no one will believe that we’re—together. Unless you want people to think that we’ve formed some kind of reluctant power alliance.” I gestured to the mirror, indicating our postures and the space between us. I tried a smile to show that I was making a genuine suggestion. “It looks like we hate each other.”

This time I felt his arm shift under mine as his frown deepened. “We look appropriate for hinting something at court. This isn’t a dance in the Dvernik square. Just stand up straight.”

I scowled at him but straightened my spine. “Fine. Good enough?”

“Adequate. Now watch me.” He stepped one foot in front of him and sank down as he bent deeply at the waist, pausing for a moment with his forehead pointed to the floor. “For a formal court appearance, you should bow this deeply. If this were a first introduction you would wait to be instructed to rise. Since it is not, you need only hold the position for a breath.” He straightened, his eyes on mine in the mirror. “Show me.”

Stepping one foot forward like he had, I curtsied low, sliding my hand down his arm slightly as I did. He bit off a hiss and I felt him tense. I stood up quickly enough to see his wince.

“You’re still hurt.” It was meant to be a question but it came out as a statement.

He jerked his arm away from mine. “It is healing.”

“Let me look at it, I might—”

“Just try to focus for once, please. I really don’t have time for—”

“Sarkan.” His eyes widened and he stopped trying to speak over me. I had only used his name sparingly since he had shared it with me, and each time he reacted the same way: surprised and almost confused, as though he felt the same power I did when I spoke it. It made me wonder why he had told me, but it was useful when I needed his attention. “I used Jaga’s spell for burns but it was meant to be a quick solution. I might be able to do more now.” I grabbed for his arm and this time he glared but didn’t stop me—possibly still stunned from me speaking his true name.

He watched as I gingerly pushed back his sleeve. “I haven’t relied solely on your work. I have applied Grosho’s [?] spell for burns, but the burn itself is healed.” He was correct: his arm was smooth and pale as always. Only that gnarled silver scar remained like a vine growing under his skin.

“And it still hurts? Here?” I pushed away the memory of what had caused the scar in the first place and the heart-pounding fear it conjured and brushed my fingers over the raised silver skin.

This time he didn’t bother to stifle his hiss of pain. “Yes,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “It would seem that there is still magic bound up in the wound. Magic that I cannot control,” he added pointedly.

I frowned. “You think my working is preventing it from healing fully?” I had never heard of such a thing, but then again, I had little experience with healing. My magic did seem to have a mind of its own at times. “Let me try something.”

Surprisingly, he made no protest, though I could feel his gaze burning through me as I stroked my fingers over his arm again. I mentally flipped through Jaga’s spellbook. The scar was like a vine, but I didn’t want anything for killing plants—or for growing them, for that matter. Tracing the raised shape again, another similarity came to mind: it looked like my haphazard attempts at sewing when my mother had decided I was old enough to mend my own dresses. I recalled Jaga’s spell for hiding seams and smoothing edges. It was as good a place to start as any.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I took a slow breath through my nose and centered my focus where my fingertips rested against Sarkan’s feverish skin. “Mikew,” I breathed. “Mikew, mikew, mikew,” encouraging the skin to smooth and soften and forget that it had ever been split.

[She senses the remains of the working that she did with Solya to heal the Dragon in that field after the Wood.] There was a seam between my magic and the Falcon’s, like the line where one river feeds into another and the waters don’t quite mix.

[While casting, she manages to communicate that Sarkan should join her working. Together they heal the remaining damage and cast a unified healing in the way that A and Solya couldn’t. Their magic combines in that same way it always does, although not quite as intense as the rose illusion, and they move closer. A feels a pull to finish the working by kissing his wrist and looks away, confused and resisting the instinct.]

[She sees them in the mirror as they stand now, heads tilted together, her hands gently cradling his arm, bound together by power, and sees how they could appear convincingly as a couple, just as the working ends]

[In the pause after the spell ends, before Sarkan can pull away and roll down his sleeve, she tells him to look and comments that they look convincing now. He flushes and leaves, telling her not to be late meeting him for the event tonight and they will just have to make do with the practice they’ve had]