The Bird and the Sword

by Amy Harmon

  “I still come here sometimes, when I change,” Tiras said quietly. “Hashim is a good man. Gentle. He is always glad to see me. He believes he has tamed an eagle, and even gave me a name.” We stopped near the stairs to the loft where the pigeons were kept and turned to retrace our steps.

  Mikiya? The name was simply a nod to our earlier conversation, but the burning sensation rose in my throat again, and I wondered if I was growing ill. I touched it gingerly, but the discomfort was already beginning to ease.

  “Mikiya,” Tiras repeated, his voice a whisper. Then he shook his head. “No. Hashim calls me Stranger. More and more, that is what I’m becoming.”

  The day of the nuptials dawned crisp and clear, and the city came awake with a rush. For most of the day, I was prepped and buffed and smoothed and tweaked, and finally, wrapped in a dress of the most luxurious, pale blue silk I’d ever seen. When the preparations were complete, the women stood back and nodded gravely, like arrogant artisans. Their work was done. They retreated with instructions that I “not touch anything” until the guard arrived to escort me to the castle gates to begin my procession.

  But no one came.

  The bells began to chime, a signal for the start of the ceremonial march, and I debated leaving my room and descending the stairs on my own, impatient that I must always wait for men. I imagined myself beginning the slow walk to the cathedral through the gathering crowd without following the proper protocols. But ceremony was everything to Jeruvians, and I dismissed the thought immediately. Something was amiss.

  Then the whispers began, floating up from the streets below through my balcony doors. I cursed the ability that drew the conversations to my consciousness, as if the words belonged to me. They swarmed my tower room and stung me like angry hornets.

  There is not going to be a wedding.

  The king has changed his mind.

  Her father objects.

  Lady Ariel from Firi should be queen. She is the most beautiful woman in all of Jeru.

  The Lady from Corvyn doesn’t even speak.

  She’s a mute, poor thing.

  The king is missing . . . again.

  Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. The talk was incessant and painful. I shut the balcony doors and opened a book, replacing the gossip that whirred in my brain with something of my choosing, but I couldn’t concentrate, and I was suddenly afraid. I heard boots in the hallway, and Kjell rapped on the door before entering alone.

  He was decked out in his finest, his boots gleaming, his hair slicked back from his handsome face, but he looked especially grim.

  “I can’t find Tiras, Lady Corvyn.”

  I set my book aside and rose with as much calm as I could muster, and I stated the obvious.

  He couldn’t change.

  He grimaced. He didn’t like that I knew the truth, yet his relief warred with his fear. He’d borne the brunt of the king’s secret for a very long time.

  “I believe that is what has happened,” he agreed softly.

  Have you seen him?

  His gaze lifted, and I knew he understood. I was asking if he’d seen the eagle.

  “No.”

  It is not against Jeruvian law to kill such a bird. What if something happened to him?

  Kjell swore and stomped to the balcony, flinging the doors wide as if begging Tiras to fly through.

  “Can you call to him? The way you did to the Volgar?”

  I was stunned that he knew and wondered how many of Tiras’s warriors had heard me beckon the enemy in Kilmorda.

  He is more man than an animal. The Volgar are simple. Tiras is not.

  “He is not simple. But he is a bird as often as he is a man. Maybe more often,” he murmured, and my heart grew heavier in my chest.

  I walked to the open doors and raised my face to the sky. Then I closed my eyes and thought of the white-capped bird with the sooty black feathers. I saw the span of his wings with the fiery red tips, unlike any bird I’d ever seen, and I asked those wings to bring him to me.

  I concentrated on the word he’d given me when I’d followed him from branch to branch, wall to wall, as we walked through the night to the cottage in the woods. Home, he’d said. Home.

  Come home, Tiras, I urged. Come home.

  But I felt nothing. No tendrils of connection, no whisper in the wind, no heartbeat. No warmth. The sun was beginning to sink toward the western hills, and wherever Tiras was, he was not within my reach.

  I cannot feel him. If he is close by, he is not a bird.

  Kjell swore, stepping back from the balcony doors and drawing me with him.

  “The lords are insisting that the procession begin.”

  They know the king is unaccounted for?

  “Yes. And they want to publicly humiliate him.”

  And me.

  “They don’t care about you, Milady.”

  Of course not.

  “Their goal is to take down the king, by whatever means necessary, and tradition dictates that you must walk in order to be queen.”

  I don’t understand.

  “The bans have been read. The date set. The bells have tolled, the hour has come. You are to walk, before sunset, through the crowds and kneel at the altar in the cathedral and wait. If the king does not arrive, you will not be queen. Ever. It is a public statement that the king has . . . changed his mind.”

  And if I don’t walk?

  “It is an open declaration that you are refusing the king and his kingdom. The result is the same. You will never be queen.”

  But I will have some dignity.

  “Yes.” His mouth tightened. “And the king will be publicly rejected. This is what the council is hoping you will do.”

  My father will retain his position.

  “Tiras will be shamed. You will never be queen, and therefore, your father is still next in line for the throne. Brilliant, really.”

  Frustration and futility beaded on his skin. The room was warm, and Kjell’s tension made it warmer.

  “What do you want to do, Lark?”

  It was the first time Kjell had addressed me by my name, and the quiet desperation in his voice eased my own disquiet. He was asking me to make the decision.

  I will walk. And I will wait at the altar.

  “And if Tiras doesn’t come?”

  Then I will walk back.

  His lips twitched at my simple response, and he relaxed into a deep breath.

  “So be it,” he agreed, bowing slightly. He held out his arm, and I took it, and together we made our descent.

  At the castle gates we were greeted by members of the Council of Lords who were assembled to give their blessing before they began the procession. They’d come to Jeru City days before, bearing gifts and proper congratulations, but beneath the shiny veneer I felt the intrigue and collusions, the words they said to each other and sought to keep from the king.

  My father immediately stepped forward and held out his bejeweled hand. Kjell bowed and stepped back, his eyes immediately scanning the skies.

  “Daughter,” my father greeted, his gaze glancing off mine and fixing just beyond my shoulder. He leaned in, as if to embrace me, but his mouth rested by my ear, and the words he spoke made the flesh rise on my neck. “I promised your mother I would keep you safe. Will you make me betray her?”

  Will you betray me? I pressed, but he continued to talk, unable to hear me.

  “The king is not what he seems, Daughter.”

  Then what a perfect pair we will be.

  “I will take you back to Corvyn. You only have to make the walk, and it is over. The king will never arrive.” His grip on my arm was bruising, his hoarse voice in my ear almost shrill, and death clung to his conscience once again.

  What have you done, Father?

  “Lord Corvyn, it is almost time. Let us give our good wishes to your fair daughter,” Lord Bin Dar purred, suddenly at my father’s shoulder, Lord Bilwick and Lord Gaul flanking him. My father stepped back obediently, and Lord Bin Dar bo
wed so low, his nose almost touched his knees, and his voice was thick with mockery.

  “Soon you will be queen. I’m sure your father thought this day would never happen.” His lips twisted, and he snapped his fingers to someone behind him.

  “I’ve brought you a present, a gift for the queen-to-be.” A servant stepped forward, staggering under the size and heft of the item he carried. With a dramatic flourish, Lord Bin Dar unsheathed a beautiful, gold birdcage. It was empty.

  “I thought about giving you a songbird from Bin Dar, something colorful and sweet. But I thought you might want to make that decision. So the cage is my gift, Milady. The bird you choose is up to you.” Dread curled in my belly. “We will be waiting for you in the cathedral, Lady Corvyn,” he murmured, bowing again.

  Lord Bilwick looked at my breasts and my hips and sneered even as he, too, bowed to my father and dabbed at the line of sweat collecting on his upper lip. Lord Gaul seemed pensive, and his thoughts were centered on the bell tower. The tolls had begun again, and he counted the chimes, the chant rising from his thoughts, even as he placed a cold kiss on my hand.

  The remaining lords and ladies did not approach me at all, other than to bow with deference as they took their places in the line. Lord Firi was too ill to walk, and he’d sent his daughter once more. She was a brilliant rose amid thorns, standing with the eight lords of Jeru. The people would wonder again why she wasn’t being crowned. Her presence made me square my shoulders and lift my chin. I would not draw pity. Yet.

  The Council of Lords would walk first. I would follow at a distance, and Tiras would walk last, the bridegroom following his bride. Archers lined the walls, and the guards stood in full regalia, ready to accompany the procession.

  The people of Jeru lined the long road leading from the cathedral to the castle, and I walked all the way, my back stiff, my eyes level, the long train of my pale blue dress trailing behind me for a full thirty feet. The people cheered and threw flower petals on my train, symbolizing the goodwill and wishes they wanted me to take with me on this new journey. White and pink and yellow and red, petals of every color imaginable, and so thick that my train was completely obscured and a few pounds heavier. I walked slowly, lifting my hands in regal greeting as I’d been instructed.

  The people had already lined the path before me with the same flowers, protecting my bare feet—a representation of my vulnerability and humility as I walked among the people I would rule. My head was heavy with the jewels woven through my hip-length hair, but I didn’t allow it to droop, and I didn’t lower my eyes.

  When I reached the cathedral on the hill, I was met by a veiled matron, the oldest woman in Jeru city, who knelt at my blackened feet and washed them with trembling hands. In a voice that cracked and broke as she spoke, she bestowed a blessing of long life upon me and the feet that would carry me through it.

  The oil from her flask dribbled into the dirt as she anointed one foot and then the other, muttering about patience and zeal and health in every step. When she finished her blessing she peered up at me and said simply, “Wait for him.”

  She raised her arms like a child asking to be lifted up, and immediately two guards stepped forward to assist her. She clutched my hands in hers and repeated her advice, an old woman telling a young woman to take care of her husband.

  “Wait for him,” she pressed, and there was an urgency that belied her simple advice.

  Wait for who? I asked, unable to help myself, even if she couldn’t hear my question.

  “The King, Milady,” she answered instantly, and a smile broke across her face, creating a thousand creases to hide her secrets. And mine. I smiled back.

  For how long?

  “As long as it takes.”

  She inclined her head, a regal nod, and stepped back from me, letting the guards draw her away. I wished she would return and tell me more, tell me how to wait when I wanted only to run. I needed a mother, or at the very least a guide, and I had neither. I took a deep breath, filling my chest with the courage to move forward. Then I stepped into the cool darkness of the cathedral, the sinking sun at my back.

  The horizontal rays pierced the stained glass on either side of the huge arched door and made kaleidoscope colors on the black stone aisle that led to the raised altar. Circular stone benches in ever-widening rings created a ripple effect from the center where I was to kneel with my back to the entrance, waiting for the king to arrive. He was not to see my face until he knelt across from me, and I was not to see his.

  The benches were filled with the rich and well-connected from every province, the Council of Lords sitting on the first rows, Lady Firi and four others to my left, four to my right. The prior, a royal advisor appointed by the king to perform Jeruvian rituals and rites, stood at the altar, waiting for me to approach. His robes were black with an emerald undertone of Jeruvian green. He wore a tall, gold dome on his head, carved with the ancient symbols of Jeru. The mouth, the hand, the heart, and the eye—the Teller, the Spinner, the Healer, and the Changer.

  The prior greeted me by name and bid me kneel as he touched my lips, my hand, my chest, and each closed lid, bestowing blessings on each, and lighting a candle over incense that made my temples throb and my throat itch.

  Then he stood back and faced the entrance expectantly. The heads on every man and woman in attendance swiveled as well, watching eagerly, awaiting the king. Except my father. He did not turn his head. Neither did Lord Bin Dar or Lord Gaul. In fact, not a single member of the council turned toward the door. They all sat with their faces forward, waiting. A black knowledge sat on their features like ink, and I read it with growing alarm. They couldn’t know for certain that Tiras would not arrive unless they knew the king’s secret and had trapped him with it.

  We waited in silence, the room a tomb of growing speculation. The questions of the congregation became so engorged, they burst the confines of private thought and pressed against me, stealing my space. Seconds became minutes, and minutes became an eternity. The curiosity in the cathedral reached its peak and started to wane, the burning query clearly answered. The king was not coming.

  “Holy Prior, have mercy on the girl,” my father said, rising. “Dismiss the gathering.”

  The prior nodded, his eyes wide beneath his domed hat. “Of course, Milord. As you wish.”

  He raised his hands, bidding the people to be useful and well, a Jeruvian blessing, and the congregation rose, almost as one.

  I did not rise from the altar.

  “Milady, are you well?”

  I lifted my eyes to his and nodded once, slowly, precisely.

  “Do you understand, Milady? The king is not coming.”

  I nodded again, in exactly the same manner, but I did not rise.

  “Can you not even whisper?” the prior chided me.

  I couldn’t. My lips could form words, my tongue could move around the shapes and sounds, but I could not release them, not even on a whisper.

  “Is she deaf as well as dumb?” the people murmured, and Lord Bilwick repeated the question, raising his voice so it bounced off the stone walls. A few people gasped and some laughed, stifling uncomfortable giggles into the palms of their hands.

  “Lady Corvyn, the king is not coming. You will rise,” Lord Bin Dar demanded.

  I will wait.

  He couldn’t hear me, but the words gave me courage, and I said them again, making them a mantra.

  I will wait.

  “You have been dismissed,” Lord Gaul insisted.

  I will wait on the king, just as I was instructed.

  “The law states the lady must reach the altar before the sun sets. But there is no law that dictates when the king shall arrive. Let her wait.” It was Lady Firi, her voice rising above the fray, and for a moment the congregation was silent.

  Boojohni spoke my name from a dark corner, his worry making the word fly like an arrow through the assembly and pierce my quaking heart, but I didn’t turn toward him, though I took courage in his prese
nce.

  “Rise, daughter.” My father gripped my arm, his fingers biting, attempting to force my withdrawal.

  I heard the hushed grate of metal hissing against the leather of a sheath. Then another sword was drawn nearby, and another.

  “The lady will wait as long as she wishes. I will stay with her,” Kjell called out, and I could hear him approaching from the entrance where he’d stood to await the king.

  “As will I,” another warrior cried out.

  “And I,” Boojohni cried, moving toward the altar.

  “Stupid girl.” My father’s desperate hiss was a sharp slap, far worse than his grip. He released my arm and stepped away. But he didn’t leave.

  No one left.

  I bowed my head and closed my eyes, and the murmuring around me faded with my concentration. I’d called the Volgar birdmen. I could ask the birds of Jeru to help me save the king.

  All the birds in Jeru come,

  Sing a song of martyrdom.

  Every cage and every tree,

  Set the birds of Jeru free.

  If the king among you flies,

  If the king among you dies,

  Lift him up and bring him here,

  To claim his troth to every ear.

  I don’t know how long I sang the summons, the words pouring from my head, but when I felt the approaching wave, I raised my head, searching for Tiras among the throng. A sound, not unlike a sandstorm filled the cathedral, and within seconds became an ear-splitting cacophony of bird calls accompanied by the deafening clap of countless wings of every size and strength. Those in attendance began to rise in alarm or cower beneath their upraised arms. The door of the cathedral still stood wide, an invitation to an absent king, and with a whoosh and a roar, the cathedral was filled with birds moving in concert, the soaring ceilings obscured by a tornado of rushing wings. I searched for red tips and a silky white cap among the throng, praying for a miracle, my eyes clinging to the whirlwind spinning round and round over my head, but I could not make out one bird from the next, so great was the churning mass. A few of the onlookers ran from the church, screaming and fighting to get out the doors. Several of the lords pulled their cloaks over their heads and the guards raised their bows, letting arrows fly into the swarm. I searched for Kjell, anxious for him to call off the guard, but he was nowhere to be found. I set up a spell, urging the birds to exit.