by Amy Harmon
I will not be discarded.
“What?”
She might be able to heal you. I cannot. But I will not be cast aside.
"Is that what this is about, Lady Degn?”
She is of use to you. Have I outlived my usefulness?
“You are of great use to me. I will put a child in your belly. A son who will be king.”
I hissed at his smirk, suddenly so angry I lost my ability to be coherent.
Arrogant . . . ass . . . impossible!
I couldn’t get the words out fast enough, and I stood, clenching my fists, gritting my teeth, holding myself perfectly still so I wouldn’t hurl myself at him.
Tiras laughed as he rose, and I knew he was intentionally provoking me.
“Look at you! Standing there like a bloody ice sculpture. But there is fire beneath that ice. I’ve felt it,” he insisted. “You try so hard to be indifferent, but you are anything but indifferent.”
I am not a weapon, and I am not a breeding mare! You want to use me? I won’t let you.
He advanced on me, arrogant and all-knowing.
“You won’t LET ME?”
I won’t let you!
Tiras drew so close that I had to crank my head back to see his face. Our bodies did not align—I was too small for that—but his hips pressed high on my belly and my breasts were flattened against him. His hands stayed at his sides, but he was using his size to intimidate me, and that made me even angrier.
You think because you are bigger than I am that you can force yourself on me?
“I don’t have to force myself. You know it, and I know it.”
I am your wife, but I will do as I please, I raged, and the spell rose in my head without effort.
Belt that holds my husband’s pants,
Loosen now and make him dance.
Tiras’s belt flew from his breeches like a sea serpent, slithering through the air only to strike at him with its tail. He stepped back from me, his eyes growing wide as he gripped the gyrating length of leather, holding it at arm’s length with one hand as he held up his pants with the other. But I wasn’t finished.
Boots upon my husband’s feet,
Kick him so he’ll take a seat.
Tiras fell flat on his behind as his boots shimmied and wriggled free, throwing him off balance. His boots then proceeded to kick him on his back and his thighs as he yowled in stunned outrage. “Lark!”
Shirt upon my husband’s chest,
Wrap yourself around his head.
His tunic promptly rose like Tiras was shrugging it off, only it wrapped itself around him, obscuring his angry face. I started to laugh then. I couldn’t help it. He looked so ridiculous sitting on the floor of the library, his socks hanging from his feet, his breeches falling around his hips, his shirt over his head, and his boots and belt attacking him.
Tiras lashed out and grabbed my skirts, yanking me down beside him. “Call off the hounds, Lark!” he bellowed, and I laughed even harder, shaking with mirth even as he rolled himself on top of me and valiantly fought the tunic that kept wrapping itself around his face. The tunic was slightly dangerous, the boots weren’t very accurate, and the tail end of the belt had made a welt across my cheek. I decided enough was enough.
I performed a sloppy rhyme, and Tiras let out a stream of profanities as the shirt ceased its murderous attempts and the belt and boots fell to the floor, inanimate once again.
Tiras’s breathing was harsh and fast, his hair mussed and falling over his eyes as he braced his forearms on either side of my head. His big body pressed me into the floor, making it hard to draw breath. I was well and truly trapped, but I felt like the victor regardless.
Are you injured, husband?
He was glaring and angry for all of three seconds. Then the lines around his eyes deepened and a smile broke out across his face. He laughed with me, but he kept me pinned beneath him, his face inches from mine.
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
Immensely.
“Tell me this, wife. Is there a spell to quickly remove your dress?” he whispered, still smiling, his breath tickling my mouth.
I felt my face grow hot, and I closed my eyes, trying to retreat, even as I immediately considered a spell to render us both naked.
“I will put a baby in your belly,” he promised, and the mirth was mixed with determination.
My eyes snapped open as he brushed his lips across mine, back and forth, like he was painting with his mouth. The sensation made the roof of my mouth tingle, the palms of my hands tickle, and the bottom of my stomach turn over. He didn’t increase his tempo or his pressure, and he spoke even as his lips caressed mine.
“You have all this power—you heal, you convince, you persuade, you destroy—but you want me to believe you feel nothing,” he murmured. “I know differently.”
I have all the power, but you will destroy me.
“Only your walls, Lark.” He deepened the kiss, licking into my mouth as if he knew he’d find me there hiding from him. My toes curled against the rug, and my body softened beneath his, wanting to accommodate him, even as I turned my head, denying him to prove I could. He moved his mouth to my neck, whispering as he kissed my throat.
“I said once that you are like ice. And you are. Silver and perfect . . . glistening. And hard. You’re so hard, Lark. I want you to be soft sometimes. I need you to let me in.” He was sweet and cajoling, but I knew he wasn’t referring to lovemaking so much as he was referring to the walls I was constantly disappearing behind.
I shook my head.
If I let you in, I will have nothing left. If I am like ice it is because ice is impenetrable. Strong.
He opened his mouth against my breast and shifted his weight to the side, so one of the hands that bracketed my head was free to move down my body. I clenched my hands at my sides and tamped down the growing fire beneath my skin.
“Touch me, Lark,” he commanded, picking up one clenched fist to bite playfully at my fingers.
When I touch you, I cease to be.
He groaned as if the confession only stoked his ardor, but he rolled off me suddenly, as if he were weary of the effort it took to get past my defenses. He reached for his shirt and his belt and sat forward to pull on his boots. “For God’s sake, woman. You don’t cease to be. You simply change.”
I sat up too, missing him already and unable to figure out how to give him what he asked for without giving in. I touched tentative fingers to his cheek and he froze, as if my apologetic touch was the last thing he expected.
Why must I change, Tiras? Why do you want so badly to break me? I asked, the voice in my head small and scared.
“Because there is fire beneath the ice, Lark,” he shot back. “And I like your fire.” His intensity radiated from him in the form of heat. He burned so hot all the time, I could feel him reshaping me, drip by drip.
I shook my head, suddenly close to tears, but refusing to let them rise.
No. Beneath the ice are all the words.
He looked at me, dumbfounded, one boot on, one boot off.
Have you ever thought that maybe it is better this way? That I can’t speak? If I can wield words without making a sound, what could I do if they were set free? I scare myself, Tiras.
It was such a huge confession, such a monumental crack in my defenses, that I dropped my eyes and raised my hands to my face, needing a moment to regroup. Tiras wrapped his fingers around my wrists and pulled my hands from my eyes, making me look at him.
“You don’t scare me,” he whispered. “You frustrate me. You infuriate me. But you do not scare me.”
Not now.
“Not ever. You are good to your core, Lady Degn. Maddening. But good.” He released my wrists and rose to his feet, his shirt still hanging open, his belt in his hands. I wanted to scream in frustration, to pull him back down beside me. I was a terrible wife, a terrible queen. He wanted to give me a child, and I made it into an epic battle, when in truth, I would have l
iked nothing more than to make a child with him.
Tiras?
“Yes?” he sighed, his back to me, tucking his shirt into his breeches.
Will you kiss me again?
He looked down at me, and a smile that was almost tender lifted the corners of his mouth, and heat rose again in his eyes.
“You told me once you would never ask for a kiss.”
I grimaced.
“Do you like it when I kiss you?”
Yes.
His smile deepened, but he waited, making me squirm, making me ask. I stared at him then bowed my head, surrendering.
If you kiss me slowly, for a long time, it is easier for me to . . .
“Let me in?” he finished for me.
Yes.
The word was a sigh and my cheeks were aflame, but he reached for me, pulling me from the floor and into his arms, enveloping me, making me feel full in a way I’d come to crave. I raised my face to his, closing my eyes and seeking his lips. And he kissed me for a long, long time.
Tiras didn’t suddenly become a bird at sundown. It was as if the night slowly pulled him away, leaching him, until resistance was futile. When the moon was fat and bright, he seemed more able to combat the pull, but even then he suffered to stay human, and sometimes daylight was not enough to restore him. I could ease his pain, giving him more stamina to combat the change on his own, but my words and his will proved increasingly insufficient to alter the course of his gift.
I would often wake alone in the hours before dawn, the darkness of our chamber making his absence heavier, harder, hopeless. I lived on a pendulum of extreme joy and great strain, waiting for him, welcoming him, and being left once more. The pendulum seemed to be gaining momentum instead of losing it, swinging higher and deeper even as he stayed away longer and longer, only to return for briefer and briefer periods of time.
The morning after the hearings, I awoke to sunlight and an eagle on my balcony wall. I approached him with longing and an outstretched hand, hoping the consciousness of the man was stronger than the wariness of the bird. He let me stroke his silky white head for a breath-stealing moment before turning his eyes toward the stretch of forest to the west. Then, with a swift unfurling of his wings, he left me, and I watched him fly away.
For three days I waited for the king to return, and when dawn broke on the fourth day, with no sign of Tiras, I went searching for Kjell, determined to seek out the Healer he’d followed from the castle after the hearing.
I dressed and braided my hair quickly, not bothering to wait for my ladies maid, eager to steal through the castle halls before everyone was stirring. Words slid from dreams and warmed the air, and I listened to each one before descending the stairs and following the thin thread of tension that seemed to cling to Kjell wherever he went. I found him in the stables, and he seemed almost relieved to be given some sort of task.
Kjell had discovered that the healer dwelled in the small settlement called Nivea that had sprung up around the ancient sea bed west of Jeru City. After the hearing, he’d trailed the young woman, keeping his distance. When she’d reached the western gates, she’d melded into the laborers and craftsman leaving the city and returning to their homes for the day, and he’d followed her to a humble dwelling surrounded by similar homes of artisans and jewelry makers, as well as stone cutters and masons who lived and labored outside the protection of the city walls.
We sought her out at sundown, clothing ourselves in peasant robes. I covered my face and hair with a plain veil and Boojohni balanced a basket on his little head and walked ahead of us, a perfect distraction. All eyes were drawn to him, a novelty in a city afraid of differences of any sort, and Kjell and I were able to blend into the crowd. It was easier leaving Jeru City than it would be to return. Once the gates were closed, Kjell would have to reveal himself to the watchman for re-entry, but we were more worried that the Healer would get word of our presence and hide.
“She was greeted and welcomed at every turn. She had been missed, and her family was overjoyed to see her,” Kjell murmured, and I didn’t comment on the sliver of regret I heard in his voice. “If word spreads that the queen is in Nivea, the villagers will assume the worst.”
Kjell’s fears were well-founded, for when we neared the Healer’s cottage, nestled with dozens of others along the cliffs of the cavernous sea bed, alarm wailed in the air, as audible to me as a Volgar’s shriek. We’d been spotted and identified.
She knows we are here.
Boojohni stayed with me as Kjell broke into a run, reaching the front door as a slim figure burst from the cottage, colliding with him, only to fight and scrabble, kicking and thrashing to get away.
Kjell cursed as she raked long nails across his cheek and she doubled her efforts.
“Shh, Lass,” Boojohni soothed, his little hands raised in surrender.
Can you hear me, Healer? I asked her, my voice loud in my head.
She stilled instantly, and her eyes met mine, widening with horror, as if she’d managed to convince herself that my interference at her hearing was all in her head.
“Y-yes,” she stammered. “You are the queen. You told the king to release me.”
You did nothing wrong.
“You are the queen,” she repeated, and the same surge of dismay that colored her words welled in my chest. I was the queen, and I had no idea what I was doing.
We mean you no harm. We need your help. Will you talk to me . . . inside?
We’d managed to draw the attention of a few onlookers, and we needed to take the conversation elsewhere. Kjell had not loosened his arms whatsoever, and she dangled from his embrace.
She nodded slowly, and I bid Kjell to let her go. He set her on her feet and moved between us, keeping her close. She led the way into the cottage, brushing Kjell as she passed, and with a brief hum and a soft touch, healed the bleeding wound she’d inflicted on his face. Kjell cursed like she’d run him through, his eyes spitting and his hand on his blade, but the Healer didn’t give him a second glance. She’d demonstrated her power even as she extended mercy.
The stone cottage was small and neat, a room for sleeping, a room for eating, and not much else. None of us sat and Kjell remained near the door, as if to guard against a trap. The Healer’s pale eyes clung to mine, as blue as Kjell’s and startling against her black hair and olive skin. I felt colorless beside her, and a stab of insecurity found its mark before I shored up my icy walls and focused on the task at hand.
“Are you . . . like me?” she asked.
Gifted?
She gasped when I said the word, as if she’d spent her whole life avoiding it. But after a brief pause she nodded.
“Yes. Gifted.”
I am.
“Majesty,” Kjell growled, shaking his head, and Boojohni stiffened at my side.
It isn’t something I can hide from her, Kjell.
Kjell’s distrust rose and spilled over, mingling with his fear of what he’d been taught to hate. The Healer looked at him briefly and extended her hand toward him once more, as if to ease his discomfort. He glowered, and she withdrew her hand.
“I am a Healer. But . . . what are you?” she asked, her gaze returning to me.
A Teller, though I seem to be able to command healing, to some extent.
“A Teller who can’t speak?”
I had no desire to share my story, and when I simply inclined my head, offering no explanation, her brow furrowed.
“Why are you here, Majesty? Am I to be arrested again?”
I wasn’t sure of how to proceed, of what to share, and she pressed me again, “Why did you come to my home?”
The king is not well.
“And you cannot heal him?”
No. I can’t. The truth weighed heavily on me, and she cocked her head, as if she heard my helplessness.
“You want me to heal him.” It was not a question.
I nodded again. She pursed her lips, and her eyes moved from me to Kjell to Boojohni and back a
gain.
“If I heal him, what will you give me?”
Kjell snorted as if she were a greedy money-changer. But I understood self-preservation.
What do you need?
“Sanctuary. Leniency. Not just for me. But for those like me. Like us.”
She wanted me to save an entire community when I couldn’t even save Tiras. But I didn’t hesitate to promise, I will do all in my power to make it so.
It was the best I could do, and maybe she knew that, for she nodded and I began to breathe again.
“What ails the king?”
I hesitated again, afraid of revealing something I couldn’t take back, of endangering Tiras, of endangering the young Healer with knowledge she shouldn’t have.
The king is . . . like us.
She shook her head, confused. “I don’t understand.”
He is Gifted.
The girl raised incredulous eyes and shook her head in disbelief. “The son of King Zoltev is Gifted?” she marveled. Then she laughed, a great, shaking sound that held more grief than mirth.
“The Gods are just,” she muttered, fire lighting her eyes. “May the late king burn in hell.”
“The late king was my father. You would do well to remember that,” Kjell said, baring his teeth.
The Healer turned steely eyes on him. “Somehow that does not surprise me.”
King Tiras is not like his father, I contended desperately.
“No? I am not so sure.” The Healer had not looked away from Kjell, as if his behavior made her doubt the nobility of his half-brother.
I had no response but the truth, and I gave it to her.
We are losing him to the change.
“Being Gifted is not an illness,” she argued, her head swiveling towards me. I’d told Tiras the very same thing. I can’t fix what isn’t broken.
I only ask that you try, I pled, and she regarded me doubtfully.
“I will do what I can, Your Majesty.”
The Healer’s name was Shenna, and true to her word, she returned to Jeru City with Kjell four days later. Tiras had returned as well, but his eyes were different. His eyes had always been so brown they were black. Now a warm amber circle ringed his pupils. Eagle eyes.
