The Bird and the Sword

by Amy Harmon

  “It’s the Well of Words. Or some believe it is. Where the children of the God of Words climbed up from the lesser world. People stand around the well all day and take turns shouting into it. Their wishes, their desires. Wealth, health, love, eternal life.”

  I cocked my head and listened, trying to hear the things people were asking for.

  “No one really knows if or when the wish will be granted. But sometimes they are. So people keep coming back.”

  I wanted to look down into the dark and write one of my words in the condensation on the wall. I would ask the well for my voice. But the line was long and I wouldn’t know how to tell Tiras what I wanted without feeling incredibly foolish. He took my arm, and we turned back toward the castle, walking without conversation once more. Once inside the walls, we meandered through the courtyard and into a little garden off the great hall where Tiras heard the complaints of his citizenry. If I looked up I could see the balcony of my room.

  “I only hear the words you give me, you know. It is your power. Not mine,” Tiras offered suddenly, his voice mild, his eyes trained on the trees. I thought about that for a few minutes then took a tentative step, asking him a vain question that I could easily spell.

  What does my voice sound like in your mind?

  His eyes shot to mine and he smiled widely, as if I’d given him something of incredible value. He answered immediately, proving it wasn’t a fluke or an illusion. We could actually converse.

  “You have a low voice. It’s warm. Feminine. But not overtly so. And it’s slow, like you are searching for the words to say.”

  I was searching. I was spelling. He seemed suddenly uncomfortable and scratched the back of his neck like he’d been too expressive. I took a deep breath and asked a question that was much more pressing.

  Are you going to kill me?

  His head reared back like he was shocked, and he halted, grasping my arm so I was facing him. “Why would you ask me such a thing?”

  I’ve seen what happens to the Gifted. I am strange. I have a . . . power. I used his word with a little push for emphasis. Power was something to fear and disown. He knew that well. I shouldn’t have to explain it to him. His eyes narrowed, and I knew I’d made my point. When he spoke again, he chose his words carefully.

  “It is strange. But how is it different from speaking? You use your head to speak. I use my mouth.” He shrugged like it was a trifle. I suddenly wanted to slap him. He was being purposely obtuse.

  Do you know anyone else who speaks with their mind?

  “No.”

  I stared at him balefully, my point made.

  “Do you know anyone who can wield a sword equally well in either hand?”

  I raised an eyebrow disdainfully. I didn’t. But I wasn’t wildly impressed. He was an accomplished killer. Bravo.

  Do you?

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” He smiled wickedly and my breath caught. He was beautiful and terrifying, and he knew it. I looked away, afraid the words would escape my head. But he didn’t seem to hear me. Maybe he was right. Maybe he only heard the words I gave him.

  “I can wield a sword with either hand. I know no one who can do it as well, if at all.”

  Yet no one has struck you down for your gift.

  He pursed his lips and stepped back, considering my words. “It isn’t a gift. It is a skill,” he said softly and maybe a bit defensively. “And many have tried to kill me for it. Make no mistake.”

  And speaking to you with my mind is a skill . . . not a gift? It was semantics, and he had to know it.

  He stared off in the distance for several long moments. He didn’t answer, and I could almost hear his mind churning.

  He turned abruptly and commanded me to remain where I was in the garden. I obeyed, though I wanted to take to the sky. How was it that I could make a dress dance but I couldn’t make myself fly? A moment later Tiras was back with a maid, the young girl who brought my meals and occasionally dressed my hair. Trailing behind them was Kjell, sweat-soaked and breathless, like he’d been pulled from the training yard.

  “Sit,” Tiras commanded the girl. She sat on a nearby stone bench, looking fearfully from her king, to me, to the sweating warrior beyond.

  “Ask Lark a question—something you don’t know, something she could answer in a few words.”

  “Wh-wh-who is Lark?” she squeaked.

  Something flashed in Tiras’s eyes, and a word rose in the air, filling my mind. Shame. He felt shame. I didn’t know why.

  He looked at me solemnly, and the girl followed his gaze. “This is Lark,” he said, looking at me, his voice strangely apologetic.

  What is her name? I pressed the words into him.

  “Uh. What is your name?” Tiras asked the girl, who was quaking in her seat. I wondered if Tiras knew any of his servants’ names.

  “Pia,” she answered, her eyes so wide I worried she would strain herself.

  “Are we going to have a visit in the garden with the ladies, then?” Kjell growled impatiently. “What the hell is going on, Tiras?”

  Tiras spun on his heel and glowered at his friend. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Sit.” He pointed at the bench. When Kjell was seated, filling the space with the smell of perspiration, horseflesh, and dust, Tiras spoke again, repeating the question.

  “Ask Lark a question, Pia. This is not a test. You won’t be punished or harmed. Ask her a question.”

  “Er . . . How do you do, Lady Lark?” she chirped nervously.

  Kjell groaned like he was being tortured. “She’s a mute. Not a lady. What in the bloody hell are we doing?”

  “Enough!” Tiras roared, making us all jump. The word rose from him again. Shame.

  “No, Pia. Something specific. Ask her what her mother’s name was. What her favorite color is.” Kjell swore under his breath, and Tiras shot him an outraged sneer.

  “What is your mother’s name, Lady Lark?” Pia repeated obediently.

  I glanced up at Tiras, and he inclined his head, wanting me to answer the only way I could.

  I thought of my mother’s name, the letters, the syllables. Meshara. Then I focused my thoughts on the crinkled forehead of the confused servant and urged the word outward. The girl stared at me blankly, and shot a look back at the king.

  “Do you hear her?” Tiras asked her.

  “Wh-what?” the girl stammered, her eyes widening once more. “She’s not even speaking, Highness.”

  Tiras looked at me as if I weren’t concentrating hard enough. I gazed back steadily.

  “Leave,” Tiras commanded the girl, and she stood and fled from the garden without further prodding. I winced. I was sure the rest of the castle was going to hear all about “Lady Lark” and the king’s request.

  “What is this, Tiras?” Kjell rumbled, his voice more measured.

  He rose from the bench and stood next to Tiras, his arms folded suspiciously. He still didn’t like me. I could feel the disdain coming off him in waves. No words necessary.

  “Ask Lark a question, Kjell. Something you don’t know the answer to. Something only she can provide.”

  I was having serious concerns about this experiment. I’d been relieved when Pia had been unable to hear me. I looked at Tiras and shook my head, entreating him.

  If he can hear me it will only endanger my life.

  “He can be trusted,” Tiras said, arms folded, quartering no argument.

  Says you. Could Pia be trusted? She’s already telling your housekeeper that you are losing your mind.

  Tiras’s eyes widened in affront. “He can be trusted,” he insisted stubbornly.

  “Tiras!” Kjell hissed. His brows were lowered over his blue eyes, and his hand gripped his sword like he wanted to draw it. Tiras was staring at me, talking to me, and it appeared as if I wasn’t responding.

  “I can hear her, Kjell,” Tiras explained, his gaze moving to his friend. “She can’t speak aloud. But I hear her in my head.”

  “What?” K
jell roared. He couldn’t have looked more stunned if Tiras had told him I was actually a lark and could lay eggs.

  “Ask her a question,” Tiras demanded.

  I felt like a spectacle, a freakish novelty, but I kept my gaze steady on Kjell who was glaring at me like I’d scrambled his king’s brains.

  He drew his sword slowly, and Tiras sighed. “Kjell,” he warned.

  “I’ll ask the little lark a question then,” he hissed. “How about this? If I toss you over a cliff, will you fly or will you fall, because that is where you’re going.”

  I clenched my teeth so hard, I felt something pop in my jaw. My words were as sharp as glass, and they could have cut through the hedge they were so loud in my head.

  I am neither a bird nor a beast, so I would fall. But judging from the way you smell and the way you act, if I throw you in among the pigs you will be right at home.

  There was a stunned silence for several heartbeats. Then Tiras started to laugh, his shoulders shaking with mirth at Kjell’s outraged expression.

  “I’m guessing you heard that, Pig Man,” he hooted, gasping for breath.

  Kjell extended his sword toward my throat.

  “Are you Gifted?” he hissed.

  “Kjell!” All the laughter fled Tiras’s voice, and I heard him draw his sword as well, though I dared not move my eyes from the furious warrior before me. The word coming off his skin was destroy.

  Destroy.

  “Are you like your whore mother?” Kjell whispered, his eyes never leaving mine.

  My mother was a Teller. Not a whore.

  “A Teller,” he whispered, confirming that he could, indeed, hear me loud and clear. The tip of his sword tapped the underside of my chin. I tried not to gasp when I felt the sharp nick, and in my mind I heard my mother whispering into my tiny ears before she closed her eyes for the last time.

  Swallow, Daughter, pull them in, those words that sit upon your lips. Lock them deep inside your soul, hide them ‘til they’ve time to grow. Close your mouth upon the power. Curse not, cure not, ‘til the hour. You won’t speak and you won’t tell. You won’t call on heav’n or hell. You will learn and you will thrive. Silence, daughter. Stay alive.

  I hadn’t hidden the words well enough. I hadn’t stayed silent. Now I would die.

  A drop of blood slid down my neck and between my breasts. Then another.

  “Will you kill me too, Kjell?” Tiras asked, his voice a strained whisper. I didn’t understand the question. Obviously, the king’s life was not in danger at the moment.

  Kjell looked to his king, his throat working, and I saw the horror and indecision in his face. He was afraid of me and afraid for Tiras.

  “I would give my life for yours,” Kjell told Tiras, and truth rose around him. I did not doubt him. He would save the king at all costs, and he wouldn’t hesitate to run me through.

  “You can’t kill her, Kjell. Put down your sword,” Tiras warned.

  “But the law . . .” Kjell protested.

  “You were willing to break the law when you thought she could heal me,” Tiras interrupted.

  “You said she couldn’t,” Kjell argued, his voice rising.

  “She can’t. Not the way we hoped.”

  I was bleeding, they were talking around me, and I didn’t understand all the things they weren’t saying.

  “Put down your sword, Kjell,” Tiras commanded again, and his voice harbored no argument.

  Kjell lowered his weapon reluctantly, but he didn’t sheath it. The blood continued to slide down my neck and pool between my breasts, but I didn’t wipe it away or lower my gaze.

  Why would he kill you? I asked the king. Kjell sneered at my bravado.

  “The question is, what good are you to us? We are losing the king, just as your mother foretold. And you are unable to heal him.”

  “Kjell!” Tiras warned softly.

  I’d forgotten my mother’s curse. Suddenly, I could hear her voice the way it echoed across the courtyard of my father’s keep, warning the king as he told her to kneel before him.

  You will lose your soul and your son to the sky, she’d said.

  Tiras was that son.

  And there was something terribly wrong.

  We were interrupted by a clattering of boots and shouts, and several of the king’s guard burst into the garden, genuflecting even as one began to speak. The king stepped neatly in front of me, shielding me from their view.

  “Your Highness. The members of the delegation are starting to arrive. The Lord of Corvyn and the Ambassador from Firi along with representatives from several other provinces and their entourages. Should we escort them individually?”

  My father was in Jeru.

  “How many men?” Kjell asked.

  “Two score and ten, sir,” someone answered.

  “Allow them to enter,” Tiras said calmly. “Escort them here and provide them room and refreshment. Make sure there is a guard detail on each member of the delegation, just as we discussed.”

  “Yes, Majesty,” the men replied and left the garden as hastily as they’d arrived.

  “Go to your room. I will send Boojohni to attend you,” Tiras commanded me, throwing the words over his shoulder as he strode away, Kjell on his heels. I sank down to the bench, disregarding his command. My legs wouldn’t hold me. I was trembling from the confrontation, from the sword at my throat, and from the strain of revelation, my own and the king’s. I wasn’t safe, the king was cursed, and the world was upside down. I wanted to use my words to right it, to fix it, but I couldn’t. That much was abundantly clear.

  And now my father was in Jeru. I had no doubt he’d come to demand my return. My stomach knotted and my hands shook, and I wiped at the trickle of blood that refused to congeal. The bodice of my dress was stained, and my hands were streaked with it.

  I had three choices: I could go home, I could stay here, or I could run away. Far, far away. I could run to the forest of Drue. Boojohni said it was filled with creatures. The odd, the strange, the Gifted. Maybe I could build a life for myself among other outcasts now that I could speak. The thought brought me up short. I couldn’t speak! I could put words in people’s heads. I wasn’t a creature. I was something else entirely.

  They would kill me.

  My father was the only one who had any incentive to keep me alive. I should return to Corvyn. I should go back home and hide in my father’s keep and pretend the words hadn’t come alive inside of me. I could pretend that all was as it had been before, and maybe in pretending, I would save myself. But pretending wouldn’t save Tiras.

  I heard a sniffling and a shuffling, and Boojohni appeared around the hedge, a smile of greeting peeking out from his shaggy beard.

  “The king told me ye were in your chamber, but I could smell ye out here.” His eyes narrowed on my neck, and his smile disappeared. “What happened, Bird?”

  I pressed my hand to my throat and shook my head.

  “Come with me. I’ll take care of ye.” He reached for my arm, but I shook him off. I didn’t want to be taken care of. I wanted to run away from all the men who sought dominion over me, who thought they could own me, imprison me, use me, cut me. I wiped a furious hand at the blood on my neck and the tears on my cheeks that I hadn’t realized I’d shed.

  Can you hear me, Boojohni?

  He hissed and stepped back, his eyes filled with horror.

  I bowed my head in defeat, sorrow making my chest constrict and my eyes overflow. Boojohni could hear me, and he was afraid. I felt the air around him swell with revulsion and dismay. His breathing was harsh, and I tried again, my inner voice broken and sad even to my own ears.

  Are you afraid of me, my friend?

  I felt his hand touch my hair, just a tentative brush of his fingertips, but I didn’t look up at him.

  “Bird?” he whispered, as if he still wasn’t sure about the voice in his head. “Bird, is that ye?”

  Yes. It’s me. I nodded as I spoke, and he gasped again, like he
couldn’t believe it. He reached toward my lips, and his hand fell away like he’d changed his mind at the last second. He took several steps back, and I rose on quaking legs and followed him, wanting to plead with him, needing to convince him of things I wasn’t sure of myself.

  I found my voice, I tried to explain. At least . . . a piece of it.

  He nodded slowly, his eyes still impossibly wide, but the horror he had exuded was abating.

  You can hear me now. I can talk to you.

  “I have always been able to hear ye, Lark. But before it was a feeling. An instinct. Now I hear a voice . . . your voice. And it’s going to take some getting used to.”

  I understand. I’m afraid too. I’m so afraid, Boojohni.

  His mouth trembled, and his compassion sang sweetly in the air. It was like a salve to my soul. He wiped at his eyes and pointed to the wound on my neck.

  “Did the king do that?”

  I shook my head. No.

  “Good. I don’t want to hate him. He’s different from what I expected. Different from his father.”

  I don’t want to hate him either, I confessed, and Boojohni looked at me sharply. I don’t know what he saw, but I allowed him to take my hand and lead me out of the garden and up the wide, winding staircase to my tower room. “You need to prepare yourself, Lark. Yer father is here, and there are rumors afoot,” he whispered, his eyes darting right and left like there were ears and eyes everywhere.

  Tell me.

  “The king is young. The members of the Council of Lords think he is too lax on the Gifted.”

  My eyes shot to his, and he grabbed my hand, comforting me. He said no more until we were alone in my chamber.

  He doctored the wound at my throat as he talked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “They blame him for the rise of the Volgar. They say he has encouraged revolution. He has led the Volgar to believe he is weak and lenient.”

  I thought of the way Tiras and Kjell had fought the terrifying bird people, hacking them out of the sky, and wondered at the delegation’s definition of lenient.

  The Volgar are not . . . Gifted. They are monsters.

  “The council believes there is no difference,” he said.