The Bird and the Sword

by Amy Harmon

  “I think I will keep you.”

  When I awoke again, darkness had fallen, or maybe it had simply come and gone and come again. The sounds of revelry and laughter trickled into my tent, accompanied by the smell of meat and men, and all of it made my stomach turn. When I’d lost consciousness, I’d been surrounded by broken bodies and torn flesh, and the scent was still clinging to me.

  I was warm, comfortable even, though I still wore the tunic and breeches the king had insisted I wear into battle. The shirt of mail was gone, along with the ill-fitting boots, and my hair was loose around my head. Tiras was gone too, though there were signs of him everywhere. The bed of piled furs covered in silk and the size of the tent, along with the richly appointed simplicity of my surroundings left little doubt that he had done as he vowed he would. He’d kept me near. I sat up slowly and stretched my body experimentally. I was among the living, but my heart ached, and I wanted to weep.

  The smell of boar on a spit and something earthy, like yeasty bread, tickled my nose once more, and my stomach growled even as it revolted. I was filthy and thirsty and in desperate need of a chamber pot. I crawled from the corner pallet where I’d been laid, a simple coverlet spread over me, and flinched when the flap of the tent rustled and someone entered.

  I would have felt Boojohni before I saw him had I not been so discombobulated. He was singing a little tune beneath his breath, and his beard was braided neatly with a little bow at the tip, as if he’d spent time being cared for and primped by nimble fingers. There was celebration in his step, and he smiled widely when he saw that I was awake.

  “Ye slept so long! King Tiras told me ye saved everyone.” He whispered the last part, and his eyes darted right and left as if he worried someone might hear. He should. No one but Tiras and Kjell and maybe, to some extent, Boojohni knew what part I had played. I was the king’s pet. I’d heard the men refer to me that way.

  I need to wash. I pulled on the boots near my pallet, ignoring Boojohni’s congratulations.

  Boojohni tilted his head and looked at me with pursed lips.

  “Aren’t ye glad, Bird?

  I can’t be glad when there is so much death. I don’t want to hurt people. I don’t want to hurt animals, or beasts, or even birdmen.

  “But sometimes we must,” he said softly.

  I nodded, but I had a hard time looking him in the eye. I fumbled in my satchel and pulled out a gown, silky and smooth, and shook it out. It was too fine for the circumstances in which I found myself, but it would feel good against my skin once I was clean. Boojohni followed my lead, grabbing up a wedge of soap, a blanket, and a cloth for drying, and folding it all into a pouch that he balanced on his head. He led me from the king’s tent and past the smaller shelters and groups of men toward the stream on the edge of camp.

  Revelry abounded. There was nothing more raucous than men who’d faced death and lived to see another day. Men who’d killed to keep slaughter from their lands, men who still had gore on their weapons and blood on their clothes. They drank and laughed, and some crept off to be with the small band of women who followed the king’s army whenever they traveled. It was understandable. But I wondered how those women felt embracing men with death on their skin. Maybe they were grateful.

  I didn’t know. But I couldn’t celebrate. I couldn’t laugh, or smile, or drink from the community flask and kick up my feet, though many smiled at me and even bowed when I passed, as if I’d gained a certain measure of celebrity. I kept my head high and my hands to my sides, and Boojohni hurried behind me, his eyes darting left and right at the celebration, and I saw him accept a cup brimming with something red. I pushed back my nausea and started down the little valley to the rushing water. I had to wash. If I didn’t wash I would be sick, and if I was sick then I would cry. If I started crying I wouldn’t stop.

  The water was bracing, and I washed my hair twice, scrubbing at it until my brain was half-numb from the cold. Numb was good, numb was welcome. Once my hair was clean, I waded out into the middle of the creek until the water lapped against my chest. I slipped the soiled tunic from my shoulders and stepped out of the breeches as well; the water and the darkness were enough to hide me, and the clothing reeked of guilt and gore. I gathered it above my head and tossed it ashore.

  I washed under the water, the coarse soap and the difficulty of the task demanding speed and attention. Boojohni stood nearby and kept his eyes pinned just beyond my head, giving me privacy and security at the same time. He drank from his cup, not trying to converse with me, and when I approached the shore, my hands crossed over my chest, he simply turned his back and held out the cloth for drying and the scratchy blanket that smelled of ale and horse. Still, it covered me from head to toe, and I pulled it around my shoulders gratefully as I blotted my hair with the cloth.

  “Ye need to eat, Bird,” he said quietly. “Ye slept for an entire day. You’ll get sick if ye don’t,” he added.

  I was already sick, but I nodded and pulled the blanket higher, creating a hood to shroud my face. Boojohni tottered behind me as I returned to the king’s tent, his goblet emptied, his hands full of my wet, borrowed clothes and what was left of the soap.

  While I dressed and braided my wet hair, Boojohni found me dinner and sat with me quietly while I did my best to show him my appreciation by eating as much as I could. He stayed until the king returned and the revelry outside quieted. Then he kissed my hand and patted my cheek and bowed to the king as he turned to go.

  “Your mother would be proud of ye, Lark,” he said before he stepped through the flap and let it fall behind him. I wondered if there was someone waiting for him, a woman who knew the worth of the little troll, and I said goodnight, the words sounding much like a spell. I pushed it outward and hoped he heard me, even as he walked away.

  Sleep my friend, with peaceful dreams,

  And never travel far from me.

  I didn’t attempt to converse with the king, but rolled into the blankets of my pallet and faced the wall, awkward and unsure of what to do with myself if I wasn’t sleeping. I listened to him move about, pretending disinterest and feigning sleep, until he lowered the wick and settled on his furs. Restless energy hummed in the air, and I knew he was troubled. Or maybe I was confusing his emotions with my own. It was I who was troubled, and I certainly wasn’t tired anymore. I listened as his movements stilled, and I thought he was asleep when he spoke, startling me.

  “I know you’re awake. Your mind is loud.”

  I wondered if I was keeping him awake too. It was strange that I could. But he was getting better and better at hearing me, even when I didn’t intend for him to.

  I’m sorry.

  I tried to quiet it, and for a moment I thought I’d succeeded.

  I heard him shift, his movement fluid, and remembered that he’d been hurt.

  How is your wound?

  “Gone. You stemmed the bleeding and eased the pain. Changing healed me completely.”

  Silence rose between us once more, but questions tiptoed around us.

  I sat up, irritated and restless, and threw off my covers. I rose from my pallet and walked to the opening of the tent, needing to escape but not wanting to be alone. I heard him rise as well, though he kept his distance. After a moment, he began to speak.

  “I remember when I killed a man for the first time. I was fifteen. He tried to abduct me and hold me for ransom. He was one of my father’s advisors, and he was desperate. But I knew my father would let me die before he succumbed to blackmail or threats. He didn’t negotiate with anyone.”

  King Zoltev, with his black eyes and his shining sword, rose in my memory, and I shuddered as Tiras continued.

  “I knew I would have to save myself. I took the man’s sword—he’d completely underestimated me—and I remember the way it felt to plunge the blade into his belly. There was very little resistance in his flesh . . . or maybe my fear gave me power.” He paused. “But I saw the life leave his eyes, and it was absolutely terrifying
. I wished I had let him kill me instead.”

  Why?

  “Because in that moment, as I watched him die, I felt something leave me too. Like he’d taken part of my soul. The best part. I’ve never gotten it back. And I miss it.”

  I knew exactly what he meant. His innocence had been completely stripped away. Virtue had fled and left regret in its stead, even if the regret was only for what had been and could never be again.

  “Where do you think he went?” he asked soberly, and I started, realizing he meant the man he’d killed. I struggled to offer possibilities.

  Where does anyone go when they die? Back to the Creator of Words? Or maybe they dissipate and become part of the elements from which they were formed. I don’t know. Maybe some simply cease to be. Maybe some have earned the right to exist somewhere else or to exist again. I hope the birdmen I killed today aren’t waiting for me somewhere.

  “Is that what’s troubling you? Are you afraid of Volgar vengeance in another time and place?”

  No. That isn’t what troubles me.

  He waited for me to offer more, but I was holding myself tightly, refusing to think at all, so I wouldn’t share more than I wanted to.

  “They would have killed us. All of us. You saved so many.”

  I killed so many. My inner voice snapped back at him, lashing out like a snake. He left his bed and came toward me. I turned and braced myself for his touch, but he stopped before he reached me.

  “Yes. You did. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” His tone was frank. Admiring. I wanted to scream. My fingers curled into fists at my sides.

  I am not a sword.

  “What?” he asked, surprise coloring the word.

  I am not a sword!

  I squeezed my eyes shut against the hot tears that rose immediately. I didn’t want to share any of this with him. But my thoughts were unruly, and he was listening intently.

  I am not a weapon. I don’t want to be a weapon!

  “You are what you are. I am what I am. It matters little what we want.”

  I am not a weapon. The words were a cry in my mind, mournful and resistant. I felt him draw closer, but still he didn’t touch me, and for that I was grateful. If he touched me I would break down.

  “I never wanted to be king. But it is what I am. It matters little what we want,” he repeated. I turned and stared up into his face, filled with an anguish that wouldn’t abate.

  You’re wrong. It is the thing that matters most.

  “Why?” he murmured, his eyes intense.

  Because without desire, there is only duty. My lips trembled, and I bit down on them, bidding them to be still.

  He pressed a thumb against my mouth, freeing my lower lip from the grip of my teeth. “Do you desire me?”

  I jerked, resisting the coiled need that suddenly sprang from my belly and filled my chest. His eyes flared and his breath caught, and I wondered what word I’d given him. I could only guess. I stepped around him, but he caught me up, lifting me off the ground, one arm beneath my hips, one braced around my back. He walked back to the thick furs where he slept and laid me down on them.

  This is not my duty. Or my desire.

  “It is both,” he responded, his arrogance setting my teeth on edge.

  NO.

  “Yes.”

  Lust is different from desire. There are women who will gladly assuage your lust. I will not.

  “You want me. I heard it. I feel it.”

  It matters little what we want, I shot back, using his words against him. I may be your weapon. But I am not your queen.

  He sat back on his haunches, his hands on his thighs, and he considered me.

  “Do you want to be my queen?”

  Why would I want that?

  “Most women would.”

  I am not most women.

  “You don’t want power? Riches?”

  Power only gets you killed.

  He recoiled but rallied quickly. “What about adoration?”

  Whose? Whose adoration?

  He tipped his head, eyeing me with speculation.

  “The adoration of a grateful people, of course.”

  Why would they be grateful? You don’t intend to tell them I am Gifted, do you?

  “No. It might frighten them,” he admitted.

  I shook my head wearily.

  “What do you want, Lark?” he asked, his voice so soft I wanted to curl into it. Instead, I rolled away from him and closed my head and my heart. I would not give him that. What I wanted, my deepest desires, my dreams, they were mine. Only mine.

  “You won’t tell me?” I could hear the frustration in his voice. I resisted the question, mentally changing the subject.

  I would give you this power. This gift of words. I would trade you for your ability to change, and I would become a real lark. A little bird. And I would fly away. I would make my nest high in a tree, and I would sing. Sing and fly. If I were a real bird people would lose the ability to disappoint me. I wouldn’t consider them at all. I would have only four little words in my head. Sleep, eat, fly, sing. And that would be enough for me.

  He had the audacity to laugh.

  “You lie. That would not be enough for you.” I felt him move up behind me, lying next to me on the thick furs. He moved so close I could feel his heat and the feel of his breath moving my hair. He propped himself above me, looking down at me.

  “Your hair has a silvery sheen. It’s strange because it’s brown. But it isn’t brown. Not really.” Confusion rose from him. Confusion and something else. I listened, not believing the word that came to my mind.

  Yearning.

  Yearning? What did he yearn for? I was not foolish enough to think he yearned for me.

  Ash. My mother said my hair was like ash.

  “Ash.” He stroked his hand over it, from top to tips, and his yearning became mine.

  “What do you want, Lark?” He asked again, and his inner elegy was so deafening it pierced my walls. There was something he was hiding from me, something I had not figured out.

  I want to be wanted.

  He stiffened, and I realized I had let him hear. I had let him in. Just a bit. He was so close, and my need was loud.

  “I want you,” he said, his voice sharp.

  You don’t want me. You need me. I am of use. It isn’t the same thing.

  “I want you to be my queen.”

  I would be a terrible queen.

  “I can teach you what you need to know. I can teach you how to please me.” His voice was so low and soft the hair rose on my neck. I shivered and rose from the furs. I didn’t have to lie there. I was angry at my response to him and angry that he felt I needed to be taught to please him.

  He followed me. I turned, warding him off with an outstretched hand as he rose, stepping back to create distance between us. The upper part of his face was in shadows, but the light touched his mouth as if directing my gaze. I shivered again.

  Why do I have to be taught?

  “Because you just said you know nothing about being a queen. Because I am king. And because it is your duty to please me.”

  I laughed, and wished I could howl my frustration at the fat, lazy moon who looked on us through the flaps of the big tent like a drunken voyeur, too sauced to hide his riveted attention.

  Why don’t I please you as I am?

  Tiras reached forward and without warning, lifted me off my feet, his hands encircling my waist and raising me up until our eyes were level.

  His black eyes were unreadable, but frustration sang in the air between us.

  Maybe I will teach you to please me, I taunted him, refusing to be intimidated, though he held me as though my weight were insignificant.

  “What could a lark teach an eagle?” he dared, and I felt that challenge from the grip of his hands to the gleam in his black gaze.

  An eagle can’t sing. It was the only thing I could think of.

  His lips twitched. “And my lark can’t speak.”
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  I am not your lark.

  “You are.” He brought my body against his, and I felt a charge zing from my toes to my heart before it flared in his eyes. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me in place against him as his fingers twisted in my hair.

  “You are,” he repeated, and his lips came down on mine so softly that I hardly realized he’d arrived. His mouth hovered there, tender and tentative, and completely at odds with the sharp ache at my scalp, where he gripped my hair in his fist.

  Mine.

  I didn’t know if the word came from his kiss or from his thoughts, or maybe the word was mine alone, but I took it and swallowed it whole, planting it deep inside my belly where desire, need, and longing grew and flowered.

  His kiss was warm and persuasive, and completely different from the first time he’d kissed me. He still took—demanded even—but laced with his power was something sweeter. Something I needed from him. Something I longed for. Yearning. There it was again. Suddenly yearning had a flavor. It tasted like a king, a beautiful, frightening, infuriating man who flew into my life and began to free my words.

  He pulled at my hair again, tugging me back from his lips as if he needed to impart something of great importance.

  “You will be my queen.”

  Do I please you? I mocked him even as I wished he would continue to kiss me.

  He laughed, a harsh bark of disbelief. “You are not a lark. You are a great, shrieking harpy.”

  All the better to keep up with an eagle.

  “You will be my queen,” he insisted, setting me back on my feet, releasing me like the matter was settled. I felt almost bereft, until he tipped my chin up to meet his fierce gaze, forcing a response.

  “Lark?”

  I couldn’t say no.

  I wanted it too much. He was right. I lied. Being a mere lark would never be enough for me. He’d ruined me. He’d made me want to be an eagle. I bowed my head in acquiescence and kept my joy locked away, allowing myself to agree, but not allowing him to know the exaltation that sang through my soul.

  Yes, Tiras. I will be your queen.