by Amy Harmon
Their children spread across the land, and years became decades and decades became centuries. Their numbers grew great, and there were many with the power of words or the ability to change or heal or spin. But the power was diluted and altered by the mixing of the gifts. New gifts emerged and some gifts were lost all together. Some used their gifts to harm.
A descendant of The Changer, a king who could transform into a dragon, ravaged the countryside, destroying the land with fire and killing the people who opposed him. A powerful warrior who wanted to be king slayed the dragon and garnered the gratitude of a terrified people. He claimed that everyone should have the same gifts. He said those who could spin or tell or change or heal shouldn’t be able to use their gifts because it gave them an advantage over other men. People had grown both jealous and afraid, and many agreed with the ambitious warrior, though some did not. A woman whose son was saved by a healer argued that the gifts did benefit all. A man whose crop was saved by a teller who predicted a terrible storm and warned him to harvest early, agreed with her.
But the voices of fear and discontent are always loudest, and one by one, the Tellers, the Healers, the Changers, and the Spinners were destroyed. They burned the Tellers at the stake. They cut off the Spinners’ hands. They hunted the Changers like the animals they resembled and stoned the Healers in the village squares, until those with special gifts—any gift—were afraid of their abilities and hid their talents from each other.
The warrior became king and his son reigned after him. Generation after generation of warrior kings held the throne, vigilant in removing the Gifted from the population, convinced that equality could only be realized if no one was special, and the power of the words was eradicated.
My mother made words. She was a Teller, and her words were magic. She spoke and the words became life. Reality. Truth. My father knew it, and he was afraid. Words can be terrible when the truth is unwelcome.
My mother was careful with her words, so careful that she made them soundless when she died. Now they swarm silently all around me, like quiet watchers waiting for someone to speak them into being.
But as I walked, the forest was thick with sound.
The night whispered to me, words layered over one another. The owl cried who, but he didn’t want to know the answer. He already knew, and he watched without trepidation. The moon was huge above me, the ground soft beneath my feet, and I relished the sense of belonging among other silent creatures. We were the same. We lived, but no one really noticed us. I brushed my fingertips against the rough bark and felt an answering greeting, though it was more a feeling than a word. The world was sleeping. The forest was sleeping too, though not as deeply. There was a world coming awake here, and I leaned against the tree that felt like a friend and let the peace wash over me.
A sudden shrieking bled through the leaves and pierced the calm, making the tree retreat into itself, and the words that hovered around me quieted instantly, leaving only one. Danger. Danger, the forest rumbled, but instead of running away, I turned toward the sound.
Something was in terrible pain.
I don’t know why I ran toward it. But I did. I ran toward the cry that rent the darkness and made the hair on my skin stand up in warning. The scream quieted briefly only to rise again, a death call, and I stumbled into a clearing and drew up short. There, bathed in moonlight, was the biggest bird I’d ever seen. It lay in a heap, an arrow protruding from its chest. Feathers quivered as it drew breath, labored, gasping, and I approached carefully, one softly placed step at a time.
I couldn’t soothe it the way a mother soothes a child, but human sounds rarely soothed animals unless the animal was a beloved pet or a faithful horse. This was neither. The bird raised its glossy white head, eyes black and trained on my face, and watched me in wary desperation. Its wings shuddered with the impulse to fly, but there was no strength behind the movement.
It was an eagle, the kind you only see from a distance, if at all. It was magnificent with its regal, white head and sooty black feathers, the very tips tinged a blood red. I didn’t dare touch it, not for my own sake, but for the eagle’s. My touch would alarm, not comfort, and the bird would struggle to fly, which would only cause pain. I crouched nearby and studied it, trying to ascertain what could be done, if anything, to alleviate his suffering.
I reached out and placed a hand on the fan of the wing nearest me. Closing my eyes, I pushed a word toward him, silent energy encompassed in thought. It was the way the animals shared their essence with me, and it seemed to work in varying degrees when I wanted to get my way.
Safe, I told him silently. Safe.
His wing stopped shuddering beneath my hand. I opened my eyes and regarded him gratefully. Safe, I promised again. He was still, perfectly so, but his eyes clung to my face, and his breaths were more shallow.
He was going to die.
The arrow was buried deep in his chest, and pulling it out would kill him more quickly. I worried more about his pain and the animals that might find him and make a meal of him before he was dead.
Then there was the matter of the arrow itself. Where was the shooter?
I listened intently, pushing my senses outward, hearing the conversation of the trees, the hum of the nightlife, and the rustle of the wind. I couldn’t feel danger or fear, and I didn’t sense pursuit or hear the approach of human thought. Maybe the eagle had been able to fly a distance before he fell, escaping the archer.
Light. I felt the word rise up from the bird. Light. I wondered if his yearning was for the day, as if it would save him from his fate, as if the night was responsible for his death. Or maybe the bird saw the radiance of a shiny forever beckoning him to fly into endless skies among the Gods.
Light.
I could stay until then. I could stay until dawn, if he lasted that long. I would keep the predators at bay as he left one world to fly into the next. I relaxed beside him, moving my hand to the silken feathers of his breast.
I kept my touch light and my intentions heavy, pressing the power of my intent into his pained breaths.
Relief, I told him. Comfort. Quiet. Peace. The words were only a balm, not a cure. I was not a Healer, after all. But I urged wellness on him too, though it was only a wish. He was so resplendent, and I hated to see him die.
Boojohni would come looking for me. He would grumble and bellyache and groan about his sore feet and knobby knees, but he would come because he loved me and would worry if I didn’t return soon. My father had tied me to him when I was young. Tied, like an unruly dog. My father was so afraid something would happen to me, he had never left me unguarded. It was Boojohni’s job to make sure nothing happened to me. We were about the same height then, making us appear like two naughty children being harshly disciplined wherever we went. Boojohni hated it even more than I did. But he was compensated for his trouble and humiliation. My humiliation was not considered.
Boojohni was a troll, more closely resembling a monkey than a grown man, with a flat, rubbery nose above an impressive beard that matched the wild hair that started low on his forehead and continued down his back. He was only four feet tall, fully grown, but he wore clothing, walked on two legs, and was as wise as any man, though Boojohni was the first to disown the human race.
I was much taller than Boojohni now, but he was still my protector, though I’d outgrown the leash. I would not be caged, though my father tried. If his concern had come from love, it would have been easier to endure. But it came from self-preservation, from fear, and the resentment between us had grown deeper and deeper since my mother had died.
I sighed softly, just a huff of breath, but the eagle raised its eyes and regarded me.
Light. The word rose up from him again. Urgent. Questioning.
Soon, I soothed, stroking his head. I lied. There would be no light. Dawn was hours away. But I would stay, and Boojohni would just have to grumble. He had a nose like my father’s hunting dogs. He would find me easily enough if he insisted upon it.
I eased myself into a more comfortable position, wrapping my gown around my legs to ward off the slight chill and pulling my cloak around me. The growing time was fast approaching, and the snow was gone from the ground, thankfully. The trees were clothed in green, and the grass was thick beneath me. I curled myself in a half-moon around the bird, laying my head on my arm, and I kept my other hand soothing and stroking, urging healing with my thoughts.
I proved myself a poor protector.
I concentrated so hard, with such intent, pouring my energy into communicating peace and rest to the poor bird, that I fell fast asleep, lulled by my own mental suggestions.
I awoke to Boojohni’s fat little hands patting my cheeks and dawn weaving its way through the trees from the east, golden tendrils tickling my lids. I was stiff and cold, my left arm numb, and in my right hand I clutched a long, black feather, tinged in red.
The eagle was gone. There was blood and a few feathers and little else left behind. Had he died? I shot to my feet, startling Boojohni, who had known better than to walk through the forest calling my name. It did him no good to call when I couldn’t answer. He’d used his nose and his knowledge of my favorite places, but he looked tired and relieved when he grasped my hand, pulling my attention down to him.
“What?” he asked, noting my alarm.
I pointed at the blood and the feathers. Eagle. Injured.
I made a sloppy sign with my hand. I didn’t know if he felt the words I pressed upon him or if he understood my hand gestures. Maybe it was the language of long-time companions or all those things combined, but Boojohni and I had our own language, and primitive as it was, we managed to communicate.
“It’s gone. Looks like something dragged it off,” he grunted simply. I bowed my head in regret. But I hadn’t heard anything! I would have heard something, I was sure. Unless the eagle had died, and the wolf was stealthy.
He squatted down low and followed the path of broken twigs and disturbed fauna, leading away from the blood and feathers.
Wolf?
“No,” he grunted, like I’d spoken out loud. He did that often. “Not a wolf. A man.” He pointed at a partial heel print in the earth. “That’s not an animal.”
Arrow.
He looked up at me. I tapped my heart and drew back my arms like I was shooting a bow. The archer had found his prey after all, it seemed. I was lucky he only wanted the bird. I’d been extremely vulnerable.
Boojohni scowled at me, obviously thinking the same thing. He stood and put his hands on his hips, abandoning his tracking.
“Yer soft heart is spreading to yer brain and turning it to mush. Ye could have been killed, Bird. Or worse.”
I inclined my head, acknowledging his words. But it didn’t change anything. It wouldn’t change anything. I would do what I was going to do, and he knew it. I stayed still a moment longer, searching for the bird, for his imprint in the air, but found no trace of him. He was gone. I sighed in defeat and settled the hood of my cloak over my hair. The fat braid that circled my head felt like a crown of thorns and probably looked like one too. I’d already removed a leaf and a downy bit of a feather. I was not vain, but I did not want to draw attention when I returned to the keep.
“Please, please, for the love of trolls and other blessed creatures, stop wandering around in the forest like yer a bat instead of a wee lady!” Boojohni was building up to some serious grumbling. He spoke harshly, but the word that rose from him was love. I didn’t hear people’s thoughts the way they came out of their mouths. I heard single words, the dominant word. The way I heard the governing words of every living thing. The dominant word from Boojohni was always love, and I could endure his chastisement knowing that.
I sighed and continued walking. He hurried to get in front of me, extending his stubby arms to halt me. I side-stepped him. I wasn’t trying to be difficult, but I couldn’t argue, and I could listen and walk at the same time. Boojohni could not. His mouth and legs had difficulty running simultaneously. He tugged on my arm.
“There is a war going on only miles from here! A war! Hundreds of violent men and beasts with no scruples about dragging a woman off by her hair! Especially one sleeping in the woods like a gift from the fairies!”
I nodded, letting him know I understood. It didn’t pacify him.
“Your father would cut off me beard if he knew how often ye slip away to commune with the forest! Do you not want poor Boojohni to find true love and happiness? What troll would have me without my beard?” He shuddered in horror. I tugged on it affectionately and started walking again.
He seemed momentarily lost in the horrified speculation of his possible beardlessness, and I allowed my mind to skip to the war in Jeru, the war my father and his advisors kept a close eye on. The king himself was camped on my father’s lands near the front lines of the latest skirmish. Carrying on his father’s legacy, the young king spent more time killing on horseback than sitting on his throne. This time, however, the creatures coming against him were even more terrible than he was.
Rumors of the Volgar were probably exaggerated, but the rumors were truly terrifying. Some said they killed only to drink blood and eat flesh, believing life force was transferable. Their leader, known only as Liege, had wings like a vulture and razor-sharp talons. He flew above his armies and directed them from above.
Liege wanted the Land of Jeru, believing there was power to be consumed, though the King of Jeru, King Tiras’s father, had purged the population of magic. Liege wanted the lands of Jeru and Dendar and Porta and Willa. He’d taken Porta. Then Dendar. And he’d left nothing in his wake.
Now he was on the border of Jeru, in the valley of Kilmorda, and King Tiras and his warriors were assembled against him. My father was caught between hope and loyalty. He was a lord of Jeru, and he needed Liege and the Volgar to be defeated. But he also wanted to be King. Preferably, King Tiras would die after he defeated the Volgar Liege and his swarms of miscreants. That way my father wouldn’t have to contend with marauding monsters when he ascended the throne.
My mother had told the old king he would sell his soul and lose his son to the sky. It hadn’t all come to pass—King Zoltev was gone, his soul still in question, and his son was very much alive—but my father was banking his future on the fact that it would. He was next in line for the throne. He wanted to be king, and I just wanted to be free of him. My mother told my father I wouldn’t speak again, and she told him if I died, he would die too. He had not doubted her, and I had spent the last fifteen years caged and cornered. My father watched me anxiously for signs of health and hated me because his fate was tied to mine.
When my father looked at me, I almost always heard the same word. I heard my mother’s name. Meshara. He looked at me, and he was reminded of her warning. I would hear my mother’s name in his voice, then he would turn away. Always.
He didn’t turn away because I looked like her. My mother was beautiful. I was not. My eyes were a flat grey. Not blue like the sky or green like the sea. Grey. My skin was pale, my hair a light brown—ash, my mother had called it. Not rich. Not dark. Just a quiet brown like the little brown mouse that huddled in the corner and waited for me to sleep so he could steal the crumbs beneath my table. My coloring was as timid and unassuming as I was. Pale. Insipid. So reticent that it had never fully materialized. I was a slight, grey ghost.
“Ye aren’t as invisible as ye think, Bird,” Boojohni huffed, as if he’d heard my internal musings. “I wasn’t the only one who took note that you were missing this mornin’. Strange things are afoot. Mertin, one of the stable hands, was found naked as a wee baby lying in the hay just after dawn. One of the horses was gone too—yer father’s favorite grey. Then Bethe comes screeching down to the kitchens claiming yer room is empty and yer bed wasn’t slept in. I made her swear to be quiet about it until I could sniff ye out, which I obviously did.”
I shook my head and sighed. Bethe was my maid. She was prone to fits of alarm, but the theft of the grey was u
psetting. She was a good horse, and I hated that she’d been taken.
I touched my eyes and asked a question with my hands. Boojohni answered immediately, understanding.
“No one saw anything . . . except poor Mertin’s ass when he ran from the stables.” Boojohni snickered.
I indicated my clothing from head to toe. Everything?
“Yeah. All of it. Boots, breeches, shirt, and cloak, to be sure. I don’t think Mertin bothers with underthings.”
I winced, not liking the thought of Mertin’s underthings. He was a big man with a surly attitude and enough hair on his body to weave a small hearth rug. But he was good with the horses and not a man to mess with. I wondered that someone had stolen his things without waking him.
“Mertin thought he’d been pranked until he noticed the horse was gone. He’s not laughing now. He’ll be getting a handful of lashes fer drinking on his watch. He claims he wasn’t drinking—at least not enough to pass out. He has a huge knot on his head, so I’m inclined to think someone clocked him.”
That made more sense, and I nodded.
“Your father isn’t happy. He’s already on edge with the battle on the borders. We won’t mention that ye slept in the woods last night with thieves about.”
We hurried in silence, skirting the road and cutting through the trees, though it wasn’t the most direct route. Boojohni seemed to understand that I would like to avoid the eyes of the early risers, already about their business. I had no reason to be out and about at this hour, rumpled and hooded, looking like I’d spent a night rolling in the hay with Mertin.
My father’s keep sat on a rise with several small villages making a half-circle around it in the south, fields and forest ringing it from the north. The only road to the keep was steep with stiff drops off the craggy mountains that rimmed the upper valley of Corvyn. It was fertile land, beautiful and breathtaking, and well-fortified by the natural landscape. But the Volgar were winged men. Cliffs and climbs would do little to deter them if the army at the border failed to hold them off. We were a mere twenty miles from the front in the valley of Kilmorda, and my father, though worried and constantly in talks with his advisors, had not sent a single warrior from Corvyn to help King Tiras defeat the Volgar.