The Bird and the Sword

by Amy Harmon

  We remained camped near Kilmorda for two weeks, and we sought out the Volgar, pushing deeper into Kilmorda every day. I called to them, sitting in front of Tiras on Shindoh’s back, wooing them, coaxing them to me in small groups, only to watch them take the lure and be slain. When I grieved for the beasts, Tiras would take me to a field strewn with bones or a village where only rats, fat from human remains, resided.

  “They will kill if they are not destroyed,” he would remind me, and I believed him, even as I suffered pangs of remorse for using my gift to lure them to their deaths.

  Day after day we cleared the Volgar from the hills and valleys of Jeru’s northernmost parts, though there were stretches, sometimes only hours, sometimes two days at a time, when Tiras disappeared into the sky.

  Boojohni remarked on his absence in the second week as I rode on Shindoh, following Kjell as he circled the valley on a patrol of the areas already cleared. Boojohni trotted beside me, always the diligent servant, without ever seeming to tire.

  “Where does he go, Bird?”

  Who?

  “The king, Goose! You know who I’m talking about. The man ye are always watchin’ for, the man ye love,” he growled, as if he had no patience for protestations.

  I don’t love him.

  “Ye do.”

  He wants to make me queen.

  Boojohni tripped over his own feet, surprise making him clumsy. Then he began to hoot and clap, drawing the attention of the warriors around us. Shindoh whinnied in irritation, and I reined him in, halting as Boojohni celebrated my announcement.

  “The king is clearly a man of great wisdom,” Boojohni chortled, and he did a little jig, making Shindoh toss his head.

  I am of use to him.

  “Ah, I see.” Boojohni stopped dancing and cocked his head. “And is he of use to ye, Bird?”

  The question caught me by surprise, and I had no response. Was Tiras of use to me?

  “He has freed ye,” Boojohni prodded gently. “Surely that is worth something to ye.”

  He kidnapped me!

  “True. But he has freed ye too. Admit it, lass.”

  He taught me to read . . . and write.

  “That he did. And he sees yer gifts.”

  He is using me.

  “That seems to bother ye, Bird. Why? He doesn’t have to make ye queen to use ye. He is king. He can take what he wants.”

  He could. And he often did.

  “He knows your secrets . . . do you know his?” This time Boojohni wasn’t smiling, and I remembered how the conversation began. I nodded slowly.

  Yes. I know his secrets.

  “Ye know where he goes?”

  Yes. Do you?

  “He is very careful. But I am very quiet. And curious.”

  And protective.

  Boojohni nodded, admitting as much. “That I am.”

  Why do you ask if you already know?

  “Because ye love him. And I needed to know if ye understand who . . . and what he is.”

  I didn’t bother to argue with him. Boojohni was as stubborn as I, and he had convinced himself of my feelings.

  “Are ye afraid of him, Bird?”

  No.

  It was Boojohni’s turn to nod, and he began to walk again, as if the matter was settled. I urged Shindoh forward.

  I agreed to be his queen, Boojohni.

  “Of course ye did! He’s a fine bit o’ man flesh.”

  If I was capable of snorting, I would have done so, but Boojohni snorted enough for the both of us.

  We traveled back from Kilmorda the way we’d come, moving quickly, Tiras disappearing one full day and two of the four nights, only to ride through the next day like nothing was amiss. Though I hadn’t admitted it to Boojohni, I worried at the amount of time he spent as a bird, the tale from my childhood seeping into my thoughts. The very first Changer had eventually become what he’d surrounded himself by; the more time spent as a beast, the harder it was to become a man again.

  I tried to imagine how it would feel to be a bird, to fly above the ground, to surround myself with peace and air and freedom. I imagined it was particularly alluring to Tiras, who had so many people depending on him and looking to him for everything. Still, on the third day of our journey back to Jeru, I sought out Kjell, who stepped into Tiras’s shoes whenever the king disappeared. I was riding Shindoh, my stamina increasing every day, my body adjusting to the rigors of riding for long hours at a time. Kjell saw me coming, and his face tightened even as he slowed and waited for Shindoh to move into step beside his mount.

  He is gone so much.

  “Yes, he is,” Kjell said sharply, and anger curled around him. I ignored it, as always. I had never been particularly good at making people like me.

  Has it always been like this?

  “It is far worse.” He looked at me with such loathing that I gasped.

  Why do you hate me?

  “I hate what you are.”

  And what am I?

  “You are Gifted.” He said the words quietly, but he spat them out, the way he always did when he said “Gifted.”

  But you don’t hate Tiras.

  “Tiras isn’t Gifted,” he said simply.

  I stared at him in stupefaction, and he shook his head in disgust, as if I were incredibly slow.

  “It’s not a gift. It’s a bloody curse.”

  What’s the difference?

  “He was not born this way.”

  I wasn’t sure what Kjell was trying to communicate. I was guessing most Gifted didn’t fully-realize their abilities until they were older, though a few, like me, who had guidance from my mother, recognized their gifts earlier. Gifted or cursed, the result was exactly the same. Kjell seemed adamant about the distinction, as if one was internal and the other external.

  “I was there the day your mother died. Do you know that?” Kjell said quietly, pulling me from my own thoughts.

  I shook my head, stunned.

  “I heard your mother curse King Zoltev. I saw him kill her.”

  My throat was so tight I couldn’t swallow, and I stared ahead, unable to fathom why he would want to hurt me this way.

  My mother did nothing wrong. She did not deserve to die.

  “She damned an innocent boy! Tiras does not deserve to die either, but he is losing his life little by little.”

  King Zoltev damned himself and everything he touched. Fear is his legacy.

  “My father was trying to protect his kingdom.”

  I looked at him sharply, and he scoffed.

  Your father?

  “Don’t worry, Milady. I have no claim to the throne. I am a bastard son. You and your father can fight over it. I don’t want it. But Tiras is still my brother, and I will do everything in my power to protect him. Even from you.”

  Tiras had not explained the relationship, but now that it had been pointed out, it was easy to see. Tiras and Kjell were each striking, though Tiras was darker skinned. Once his hair had been as black as Kjell’s, making me wonder if his gift had been the cause of the whitening of his hair.

  We rode in silence for several minutes, the anger between us zinging in a hot arc. I had asked for none of this, but Kjell had already made up his mind about me. It would do no good to attempt to change it.

  “He told me he is going to make you queen. Queen Lark of Jeru. It’s fitting really, isn’t it? Tiras has always kept his friends close, and I see now he is keeping his enemies closer.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Now your father will never be king. If something happens to Tiras, you will rule the remainder of your life. As long as you are living, you will be queen. If your father were to have you killed . . .”

  He would die.

  “Yes. Tiras told me that as well. He has outflanked your father, hasn’t he?”

  Again I was silent. When I pulled up, reining Shindoh around, Kjell met my gaze with a smirk. He was confident he had bested me.

  Don’t worry, Kjell. I will keep your
secret.

  His brow lowered and his mouth tightened. “And what secret would that be, Milady? My paternity is known by most.”

  It has come to my attention that I can only communicate with the Gifted . . . and animals. So you are either one or the other. You know my opinion on which it is.

  Tiras wasted no time. The announcement was made the very night we returned to Jeru. Bells rang all over the city, and the royal crier stood on the wall and read the bans for two solid hours, repeating himself as people gathered and scattered, then gathered again, eager to spread the news.

  “Lady Lark of Corvyn, daughter of the noble Lord Craig of Corvyn, will wed King Tiras of Degn. So it is written, so it will be done on the first day of Priapus, the month of fertility. May the God of Words and Creation seal their union for the good of Jeru,” the crier shouted into the night, singing the words into my mind and heart and into the consciousness of every citizen of Jeru.

  I stood on the balcony of my room, listening to the bans being read, still half shocked that it was the truth. In response, the cry went up again and again, “Hail, Queen of Jeru, Lady Degn,” and I welcomed it, even as the words hung in the air like childish taunts and teasing truths.

  I would be Queen of Jeru, Lady Degn. No longer Lark of Corvyn. No longer a daughter of a lord, but wife of a king. But only on the outside. On the inside I would still be little Lark, brittle bones and sharp feelings, certain that I would never be able to fulfill the duties before me. When the people learned I couldn’t speak, they would talk, they would say all the words I couldn’t say, and their words would follow me, mocking me, reminding me every day that I was not up to the task.

  A message had been delivered to my father, conveyed by three members of the royal guard who’d gone directly from Kilmorda to my father’s keep in Corvyn. A royal invitation would be sent to all the members of the Council of Lords in the days to come. I was not so foolish as to believe I’d been chosen for love, but I’d been chosen, and I reveled in that, even as I trembled in fear at what was to come.

  When Tiras attempted to lock me in my tower upon our return, I warned him that I would not be a captive any longer, and he began to argue that it was for my safety. I reminded him that I could move haystacks and scale walls, not to mention open locks and control the minds of beasts.

  He actually grinned at me, as if my abilities thrilled him, and promised I could come and go freely, as long as I had a member of the guard with me at all times. I found, for the most part, it was easier to stay in my room.

  Tiras made sure I had books on Jeru’s history, Jeru’s laws, as well as Jeru’s yearly crop yield and rainfall, and I read each tome with the commitment of the truly terrified. When Tiras could, he would read with me, allowing me to follow along with his hand over mine, tracing the words he was saying as I tried to take everything in. I was desperate to learn, and Tiras seemed desperate as well, spending long hours answering my questions and quizzing me on a thousand details that past queens of Jeru couldn’t possibly have known.

  My only reprieve was when he Changed, disappearing for a day or two or three. Then I would miss him—though his presence and attention always came with a price—and the respite would feel more like a punishment than a reward.

  When I complained about the endless instruction, he grew stern and quiet, making me more nervous than I would have otherwise been. He showed little affection, beyond an occasional smile and a peck to my hand, and I grew stiffer and colder as the day of our marriage approached, wondering if the kisses he’d given me that night in Kilmorda were the last kisses I would receive, wondering for the umpteenth time why he seemed so intent on making me queen.

  It was on one such afternoon, Tiras instructing me on Jeruvian trade laws, making me follow along as he droned on about the art of negotiation, when the late summer heat and the tedium of our studies threatened to drive me mad.

  This book is a waste of parchment. I slapped it shut, narrowly missing Tiras’s fingers and dropped it beside my chair. A burst of satisfaction echoed in my chest when it clapped heavily against the floor, followed by immediate remorse when a page fluttered free.

  I can fix that, I offered meekly, but made no move to do so. Tiras sighed heavily, but rose to his feet, signaling we were through.

  “Come,” he said, surprising me, and took my hand in his, pulling me from my chair.

  Where are we going?

  “You need a break from words.”

  I practically skipped down the corridor from the library, and Tiras seemed equally as eager to escape.

  “You’ve seen the watch tower, the siege tower, the arsenal tower, and the upper, middle and lower baileys. We’ve walked along the perimeter of the wall, inspected the ramparts and the parapets, and of course you’ve seen the dungeon,” he listed, smirking slightly.

  You’ve still not taught me to fence or joust.

  “If the day comes when Jeru’s survival hangs on her queen’s ability to joust, we will already be doomed,” he retorted dryly. “But if you’d like to spend some time in the yard, I can certainly arrange it.”

  I think I would rather visit Shindoh.

  “Wise choice. We’ll see the stables and the mews today.”

  We visited the stables first, the enormous enclosure housing hundreds of horses at a time. The royal horses included mounts for the guard and the city constables, though they were quartered in separate sections. The king’s personal stables were connected to the main, providing easy access for trainers and breeders and stable hands. The scent of straw and earth and animal’s well-cared for permeated the air, and the knot of disquiet in my chest eased considerably.

  I walked along the rows, greeting the horses with words they could sense and handfuls of oats, and Tiras trailed behind me, giving me names and pedigrees, until we halted in front of Shindoh’s stall.

  “Shindoh is from a long line of Jeruvian Destriers. His sire was Perseus, whose sire was Mikiya,” Tiras said, stepping inside the enclosure and greeting the charger, who seemed happy to see us both.

  Something niggled in my memory.

  Mikiya. I know that name.

  “Mikiya was my horse when I was a boy. He was battle worn by the time I was big enough to handle him, but we were born only days apart. My mother named him. Mikiya means—”

  Eagle.

  “Yes,” he said, surprised. Our eyes met over Shindoh’s back, and my throat burned with a secret I couldn’t quite remember.

  “How did you know that? It is the language of my mother’s people, not a language of Jeru.”

  I’m not sure. It is a word . . . and like every word, it has a meaning. I just . . . knew.

  He handed me a brush and we worked without speaking for several long minutes. Shindoh radiated contentment, and it was contagious.

  Maybe the secret to happiness is simplicity.

  “There is a certain freedom in it,” Tiras agreed, and I asked the question that I’d often pondered.

  When you are a bird, are you ever tempted to . . . fly away and never return?

  “When I am a bird, I still know that I am a man. I know who I am,” he murmured, his hushed voice and the privacy of the stall making his answer seem more like a pained confession. Shindoh chuffed and butted him sympathetically.

  Tiras knew who he was, but he was constantly being transformed into something else. I wished I hadn’t asked.

  That would make it especially difficult to eat mice and rabbits. I was trying to make him laugh, and he did.

  “That is when I allow instinct to take over.” He winced. “I surrender to the bird. In the beginning it was extremely difficult.”

  I couldn’t imagine it.

  “When I first began to change, I was . . . frightened,” Tiras said, grimacing. “I didn’t know what to do with myself or where to hide. I found shelter in the mews until I started to figure out how to . . . adjust. My father’s falconer thought I’d been injured because I huddled in the rafters and wouldn’t fly. He left me dead
mice and bits of raw meat. I couldn’t make myself eat them, even though I . . . wanted to. The eagle I’d become wanted to.”

  Did you hate her? I didn’t specify who I was referring to, but Tiras knew.

  “No,” he said, and truth rang from his voice. “I wanted to. It would have been so much simpler to blame her.” He looked at me. “I blamed my father.”

  “Come,” he said, giving Shindoh a brisk pat. “The mews await.”

  I followed him eagerly. My father, like every lord, had falcons, though it was more a status symbol for him. He didn’t enjoy the hunts or the birds themselves, saying the falcons were vicious. I had been forbidden to go anywhere near the mews in Corvyn.

  Where the stables had been full of light and warm animals, the mews were shadowed and cool, the quiet interspersed by cooing, fluttering, and the occasional shriek. The main level housed the falcons and hawks and was so spacious and lofty, the birds, perched and leashed on stands that looked like inverted pyramids on posts, could fly around the interior.

  Tiras explained that an upper level—accessible by steep stairs near the entrance—was for the pigeons, trained to carry messages all over the kingdom.

  A man hurried forward, removing a falconer’s glove as he walked. He was small and neat with a pointy grey beard that matched the color of his sharp eyes, eyes that made him look like the birds he trained. When he reached us, he bowed so low his forehead nearly touched his knees.

  “This is Hashim. He is Master of the Mews,” Tiras introduced. “Hashim, this is Lady Lark of Corvyn.”

  “Our future queen,” Hashim marveled, rising and beaming.

  The title made my neck hot, and without looking down, I knew a flush was climbing up my chest and pinking my cheeks. I breathed deeply, commanding it to cease, and extended a hand to the man.

  He bowed again, kissing my hand with great flourish. “The birds are molting, my king. As you know, it makes them irritable. I’ve hooded many of the falcons, but I would keep a good distance,” he warned, and Tiras nodded agreeably. Genuflecting, Hashim retreated down the long aisle and through a tall door, leaving us to do what we wished.

  We moved through the rows of captive birds, but my eyes kept moving to the heavy beams that supported the upper floor, to the drafty corners where an eagle, who was really a frightened boy, could huddle and hide.