Thirty-Seven

"Siward?" Rosamond croaked, then coughed. Too much smoke. "Are you all right?"

His arm stuck out at an unnatural angle, and she could feel the pain rolling off him in waves. Broken ribs, and more besides, she guessed. Much like herself. The soot-smeared man groaned.

Rosamond squirmed around until she could see his face. Yes, he was her husband. His face looked merely smoke-blackened, and his wet, woollen clothes had protected the rest of the him from the fire, but his hands...oh, his poor hands. So badly burned there was barely any skin left.

Their tumble had loosened her bonds, so she managed to get one hand free, then the other. Her feet could wait. She took Siward's bleeding, blackened hands in hers and kissed them, wishing with all her might that she had the energy to heal him. But all her magic had gone into the sapling that now lay on the paving, sprouting leaves and roots like it wished to start a forest in that very spot.

Still, she would do what she could. She seized a handful of leaves from the sapling's crown in one hand and lay her free hand over both of his. Closing her eyes, Rosamond drew every bit of power she could from the tree and poured it into Siward. She might not be their queen, but she would give her people back their king.

He let out a wordless cry and arched his back before another cry escaped, louder this time. Then..."Rosamond?" he said.

"I am here, my king," she replied. Even in her own ears, her voice sounded breathy and weak. "Healing you as best I can. It was...the least I could do. You saved my life."

"But if you heal me, who will heal you?" Siward asked.

No one.

The words seemed to echo around the square, caught by the leaves of the trees and spun into the air.

Siward seized her shoulders. "Don't you dare go back to sleep on me. In fifty years, I'll be dead. Tell me how to heal you, Rosamond. You promised to be my queen, and we have yet to share a wedding night. I won't let you break your word."

Rosamond smiled. "The rose garden. In the castle. Take me there. If anything can heal me, they will."

He lifted her in his arms and followed her directions until they emerged in an unpaved courtyard. It looked nothing like the garden where she'd spent most of her youth, for fifty years of neglect had turned her regimented rose garden into a briar patch more overgrown than the convent where he'd first found her.

"Are you sure this is the place?" he asked doubtfully.

"I am certain. I can smell my roses, welcoming me home," she whispered. "Lay me down among them."

"But the thorns..."

"My roses will never hurt me. You have carried me far enough. I thank you for all you have done." It was a dismissal, but only a half-hearted one. For her heart longed for him to stay.

"I'm not leaving you. I've spent the night with you in a bed of roses before, and I intend to do it again."

Rosamond smiled. "As my king wishes." She coughed again, then said, "I will sleep, and dream, as I work together with the plants to heal myself. If I do not wake with the dawn..."

He sounded fierce. "Then I give you fair warning. I shall kiss you until you do. Even if it takes hours."

Bliss, surely. "You are a brave man, my king. To lie alone and unprotected with a witch where her power is greatest."

Siward lay beside her on the briars, cushioned by roses, and took her in his arms. "I am not alone. I am with you."