The Bird and the Sword

by Amy Harmon

  I winced, and Boojohni patted my hand again. It was what King Zoltev, Tiras’s father, had believed. But my mother was not a monster. I was not a monster.

  We continued with our conversation, my words slow and small as I did my best to assemble them in my head. Boojohni listened in wonder as I answered his tentative questions, and at one point, wiped his eyes and smiled at me tearfully.

  “Ye sound like a nightingale, Bird. Yer voice is beautiful. Sweet. I could listen all day.”

  Before long, Greta and the maid I’d just learned was Pia brought steaming buckets of water to my room and pulled a gown from my wardrobe. Boojohni informed us all that he would be waiting outside my door to escort me to the Great Hall when I was ready.

  He shot me a sheepish gaze as he excused himself, and I pressed a frantic question on his mind that he studiously ignored. He wasn’t telling me all that the king had communicated.

  Pia’s eyes grew round at the blood on my dress, and Greta was less abrasive than usual as I was bathed and primped, then dressed in a silvery silk that made me feel like a raindrop—grey, small, and all but invisible. Pia wrapped a diamond choker around my neck to hide the thin slice Kjell had carved into my throat. They didn’t ask about the wound, and I wondered if it was because I couldn’t speak or because they regularly saw things in the king’s employ that they were forced to ignore. Pia informed me the choker had belonged to the king’s mother, Aurelia, and that it suited me. It didn’t. But it was beautiful, and its weight gave me courage.

  Pia brushed a drop of lavender oil into my heavy hair so it would shine and held the length back from my face with a thin band of braided silver studded with diamonds that matched the jewels at my neck. The lavender eased my nerves, and I tried to focus on the scent so I wouldn’t think about the evening ahead as Greta lined my grey eyes with kohl, blackened my lashes, and stained my lips and cheeks with rose-colored face paint.

  I had the distinct impression I was being prepared for something I was not at all ready for, and when Boojohni rapped on the door and urged us to hurry, the maids stepped back and admired their handiwork like I had been the ultimate challenge, and they had succeeded with their task.

  When Boojohni saw me, he seemed proud and pleased, and I shot him a question I’d been saving throughout the long beauty session.

  What is happening in the hall?

  Boojohni winced and covered his ears, as if that could keep me out.

  “Hellfire, Bird!” he whined. “Adjust your tone. Ye don’t have to yell.”

  My mouth dropped open, and I halted in surprise. I hadn’t realized I could control my volume. But it made sense. Just like a person could moderate their voice, I too could ‘speak’ quietly, even whisper, so only the person next to me could hear. That meant I could also raise my voice in a crowd and deliver a message to a group.

  I repeated myself more carefully, and Boojohni nodded, indicating I had been successful.

  “There is a feast for the dignitaries. Ye are attending to show your father that you are in good health. Ye are to nod and smile and sit near the king. Ye are to keep yer words to yourself.”

  I had no intention of revealing my gift, but Boojohni’s instructions bothered me. You are suddenly the king’s messenger?

  “I have no loyalty to your father, Lark. I never have. My loyalty was to your mother and now to ye. I believe ye are better off here in Jeru.”

  Preparations for the arrival of the lords had been occurring all week, and the chandeliers dripped with hundreds of candles, the flame flickering in the crystal drops that reflected rainbow light across the walls and domed ceiling of the hall. I’d only seen the hall from the garden, and daylight didn’t do it justice.

  Huge tables draped in royal blue were laden with roasted fowl and entire pigs, still rotating on spits. Cheeses and berries, melon and pears, and delicacies from every province were arranged in towers and teetering displays. Breads of every hue were braided, brushed with sweet butter, and sprinkled in herbs and spices, making the air smell like a bazaar. The hollow drum of my stomach began to growl.

  I poked carefully at members of the assembly, testing the limits of my voice.

  May I serve you, madam? I asked the beautiful ambassador to my left, and without raising her eyes, she declined.

  “I have all I need, thank you,” she responded easily. I bit my lip and ignored Tiras, who had also heard my question.

  More wine, sir? I asked the man sitting next to her, my eyes trained on him only long enough to pose my query. He didn’t raise his head either, and he didn’t respond. I asked again, raising my mental volume.

  The man next to him looked around in confusion, his glass raised for a topping off.

  Tiras growled.

  I ignored him and tested my ability on the three people to the left of Kjell, just across the table. None of them, except Kjell, responded or glanced up at all. Kjell scowled and shot a warning look at the king.

  “Stop that,” Tiras whispered.

  Why do you think some people can hear me and some can’t?

  “You look quite beautiful this evening, Lady Lark. Have I told you lately how much I enjoy your silence?” he murmured, ignoring my musings.

  Have I told you lately what an ass you are? I didn’t think ass was the most accurate word for the king, but it was easy to spell. I tripped over my comeback a little and the king snorted softly, indicating he’d heard. I stopped talking to him—we were surrounded by curious eyes and ears—and I lapsed into quiet study of the people assembled at the long table. The king sat to my right, at the head, and Kjell sat directly across from me, though the distance across the table was at least six feet, providing some much needed distance between us.

  The Ambassador from Firi was the only representative who was as youthful as the king, and her beauty rivaled his. Her skin was dark—darker than Tiras’s—and her hair was a wild, curling mass, embedded with tiny, sparkling gems that twinkled as she moved her head. Her ears were slightly pointed, as if she’d descended from elves. She was tall and voluptuous, her breasts round, her waist small, her legs tapering to tiny feet wrapped in silvery slippers. Kjell watched her with equal parts distrust and fascination, and I wondered if he ever relaxed. He was the most irascible man I’d ever met, and his presence made me want to run from the hall. The Ambassador from Firi eyed him with pursed lips and laughing eyes, as if she knew he was intrigued. At one point, Tiras engaged her in cordial conversation, his eyes resting appreciatively on her face, and I felt a sting of something unwelcome and unwieldy pierce my breast. I didn’t want him to like her.

  Kjell wants to bed the beautiful ambassador, and he despises himself for it.

  My silent observation zinged between us, and the king choked, grabbing for his empty goblet. I felt my face flush and didn’t meet his eye. I couldn’t believe I’d shared such a thing, and I doubted I’d spelled all the words correctly, but I’d gotten his attention. He put down his empty goblet with a grimace and reached beneath the table and pinched me, hard.

  My father had grown more gaunt and grey in the weeks that I’d been away. Six weeks was insufficient to truly age, but age he had, and I felt a sliver of compassion for him before he met my gaze and immediately looked away. Why did he dislike me so much?

  “There hasn’t been an execution or even a banishment of the Gifted in Jeru City in a year.” Lord Gaul spoke up from the far end of the long table, and the conversation immediately quieted.

  “Why, Lord Gaul, do you enjoy such things so much?” Tiras answered easily.

  “It is not a matter of what I enjoy, Majesty. It is what I expect. We must have order. Fairness. Equality. The Gifted are a threat to all of us. If we allow them to flourish, they will enslave us. It is what the Volgar are seeking to do. Their numbers have grown exponentially in the last thirty years. They are no longer content to stay in their own country. They want ours as well.”

  “We have had banishments. Executions. Imprisonments as well, Lord Gaul. Many of t
hem. In fact, I grow weary each week meting out punishment. There is not one week that goes by that some Jeruvian isn’t attempting to steal or harm or violate. And so far, none of them have been Gifted, though many of them are quite skilled. I am far more worried about those people who are actively committing offense than I am about rooting out the Gifted with swords and accusations and punishing them for things they might do. Someday. Possibly.”

  “How would you know what they have done? They could be spinning gold and selling it on the streets under your very nose. They could be healing citizens and claiming it is skill instead of sorcery. They could be transforming into wolves and attacking another man’s sheep, or changing fates with a mere word!”

  “Animals who attack other animals are killed. Changers who do such a thing will receive their just punishments. So far we’ve not killed a single animal who was a Changer in disguise.”

  “You are clearly resistant to enforcing the laws your father and the council put in place.”

  Tiras looked from one representative to the next, his expression bland but his eyes glittering.

  “Tell me, why are you all here? It is not yet time for our bi-annual assembly. And I did not invite you . . . though I am happy to entertain you.” The king’s tone was so dry he had the entire delegation clearing their throats and chugging their wine to ease the drought. No one answered the king’s question.

  After several seconds of heavy drinking, Lord Gaul began to speak once more. Tiras cut him off with a wave of his hand.

  “I’ve heard your opinions already, Lord Gaul.”

  Lord Bilwick, the ambassador from the province east of Corvyn, a close confidant of my father’s and a man I’d known all my life, seemed eager to change the subject. He was jovial and corpulent, but his merry eyes didn’t quite contain his quick temper. I’d seen him slap his wife when he lost at cards. His daughters cowered in the corners—not unlike me in that regard—and his oldest son was as bad as his father. My father had hoped for a betrothal between us. Thankfully, the son had laughed in his face. He considered me broken, and I was incredibly grateful for all my jagged pieces that kept him away.

  “How do we fare in the battle against the Volgar, Highness?” Lord Bilwick asked with a burp and a self-deprecating smile. “That is the only reason I am here. And to offer my demand that you return Lord Corvyn’s daughter.” He took a giant bite from an apple he’d selected, and looked so much like the roasted pig laid out before him that I almost missed what he said. My father spoke up immediately, taking the opening.

  “I have put men on the border, just as you requested, Your Majesty. I would like to bring my daughter home.”

  Tiras met my father’s gaze, and there was speculation on his face. I could feel him considering, feel his questions and his distrust of my father. My father squirmed and looked away, and something cold slithered down the center of my back, and wrapped its tentacles around my waist. It contracted, and I felt sick. Odd. Breathless. My father was exuding a word that scared me, a word that was stronger than it had been before. Death. He was exuding death.

  “I want her to stay,” Tiras said suddenly.

  The table grew oddly hushed and the tentacles tightened as everyone strained to look at me. I took little breaths, sipping the air, and locked down every emotion, every expression. I was ice. No one would know the havoc being waged under my skin.

  My father’s brow rose, and his face flushed, and Lord Gaul regarded me with raised brows. Lord Bilwick laughed out loud.

  I commanded the apple in his hand to slam into his gaping mouth. It obeyed with ferocity, and the fat lord choked and pawed at the glistening red globe wedged between his horsey teeth. His wife gasped and began pounding at his back. The apple came free with a wash of spittle, and the lords and ladies around him turned away with disdain.

  The king turned on me with narrowed eyes, but my father rose from his chair with regal affront.

  “I have done as you demanded, Majesty. I have put all able men from Corvyn on the border, while the harvest ripens in the fields with only the women and children to see to it. I expect you to be true to your word.”

  “If you recall, I said your daughter would be returned when the Volgar had been destroyed. Not before. Plus, your daughter is a Jeruvian lady of noble birth. She is of age. She could be queen.”

  Kjell cursed, a low hiss that found its way to my ears and wormed into the ice I’d created around myself. I dared not look his way. I dared not look at my father. I dared not come out of my ice fortress at all, but I trembled behind the façade, my heart pounding, my blood thick and hot, threatening to melt my glacial control.

  “But . . . she is . . . a mute!” my father stammered, clearly as stunned as I.

  “Yes, she is.” The king smiled around the words, and his tone was wry and laced with humor. “A wonderful quality in a woman. She will keep all my secrets.”

  The assembled lords and ladies laughed uncomfortably, and goblets were once again drained. The king reached for his newly re-filled glass as well, but didn’t partake.

  I do not want to be queen.

  He turned his head, giving me a scant sweep of his black eyes as his lips barely moved over hushed words.

  “You lie.”

  I want to go home.

  “Another lie.”

  You can’t hold me prisoner forever.

  He looked me full in the face, and his eyes held mine as he murmured, “Your father’s prison holds no books. No words. No conversation.”

  I had no answer to that, and gazed back at him helplessly, wishing I could read his thoughts like I was learning to read his books, that I could examine the words he didn’t say, piece by piece, until they made sense. Instead, I felt only his indecision, a blank question behind his eyes.

  I don’t understand you.

  “That makes us even, then,” he said, reaching for his goblet. He seemed to reconsider his wine and took my goblet instead. He sipped it carefully then downed it as if his gullet was on fire. His hand shook as he released it, and he gripped the edge of the table to steady himself. My heart began to pound in my ears.

  Are you ill?

  “I want you to go back to your room. Now,” he commanded harshly, and he stood, dismissing me, addressing the assembly with complete control. “Please excuse me for a moment. Continue to enjoy your meal.”

  My eyes swung to Kjell, who was once again staring at the beautiful ambassador.

  Kjell! His head snapped to me and his eyes widened in outrage as if my voice was a violation of his privacy.

  The king is not well.

  Tiras had already turned away from the table, and Kjell was immediately at his side holding his arm and speaking urgently into his ear, as if something of utmost import had just arisen, and the king was needed elsewhere. Tiras walked swiftly, straight and tall, his head bowed toward Kjell. The assembly watched momentarily then relaxed back into their conversations and their drink, unconcerned.

  The king collapsed in the doorway.

  Kjell dragged Tiras from sight, and no one even raised their eyes from the feast in front of them. I was all but invisible, and suddenly I was grateful for the scant attention I was generally paid. I stood and stepped away from the table, moving sedately away from the banquet, my eyes fixed on the arched doorway where I’d last seen the king, but suddenly my father was there, halting my progress. He wrapped his hand around my elbow and tugged me in the opposite direction.

  “Lark. Come with me, daughter.”

  I panicked briefly, resisting and digging in my heels. My father had grown gaunt over the years, but he towered above me, and there was desperation in his grasp and fear in his face. I could only stumble along beside him.

  Let me go, Father.

  I pushed words into his head, forming them carefully, trusting that his sense of self-preservation would force him to guard my abilities, but he didn’t react at all. He didn’t look around in confusion, trying to ascertain who was speaking. He simply walked, a
nd he pulled me along with him.

  Let go of me, Father. The words wailed in my thoughts, but I was the only one who winced. He didn’t hear me. Like Pia, he was completely impervious.

  He headed toward the archway at the far end of the hall, pulling me along with him as I pushed furious words against the concrete wall of his mind. I’d been rendered mute once more.

  Two footmen from Corvyn stood at the base of the broad staircase that led to the guest quarters on the farthest wing of the castle. They straightened and greeted my father as he approached.

  “Lock my daughter in my quarters. Prepare to depart, just as we planned. We leave within the hour. There are rumors of Volgar movement, and we are needed at home. I’ve been away too long,” my father instructed smoothly.

  I yanked my arm from his grasp, but as always, I was utterly ignored, completely dismissed, and I could do nothing to free myself from those who could easily subdue me.

  Yet.

  The thought gave me comfort, and I walked agreeably with the two footmen, my hands folded demurely, my eyes straight ahead, making a plan.

  When the door to my father’s quarters was shut behind me, I waited, listening for the scrape of the key and the retreat of the two footmen. But they stayed, talking quietly among themselves, guarding the door. I paced uneasily, and worry clawed in my chest. I told myself Tiras meant little to me, that his suffering was not my concern. He’d become an odd savior of sorts, opening my mind even as he kept me locked away. He’d become a friend, though I would never admit that to him. To anyone. But I was afraid, and my mother’s prophecy rang in my head. Kjell held me accountable. I held myself accountable. My mother had been slaughtered by Tiras’s father. But my mother had died because of me. I did not want to be the cause of Tiras’s death. Impatient, I ran to the window and commanded it to open, flinging the words out desperately.

  The window shattered, spraying glass in every direction.

  I covered my face and fell to the ground as the door burst open behind me, the footmen crying out that we must be under some sort of attack. They ran to the jagged opening to peer up into the sky, cautiously navigating the broken glass. When they could see nothing that would cause further alarm, they helped me to my feet. I was covered with glass but mostly uninjured, and I shook myself gingerly, sprinkling shards from my dress and my hair, and surveyed my clumsy attempt at escape. I started fires and broke glass. I needed a great deal more practice or I was going to hurt myself.