by Amy Harmon
“He said that I am like him.”
I began to protest, but he stopped my lips with a gentle touch.
“I have his Gift. I can change at will. But I don’t want to be like him.”
“So what are you going to be? It’s up to you,” I said softly, kissing the fingers that still hovered near my mouth.
“I want to be a good man. A just king. I want to be your husband, Kjell’s brother, and our child’s father. Beyond that, I will be whatever you want me to be,” Tiras promised, and his voice echoed with sincerity.
“Then I think I will keep you,” I whispered.
Boojohni said if you hate you can’t heal, and Jeru had a great deal of healing to do. Jeru knew how to hate. It was something that had been taught and fostered. It was tradition and history, and it would take some time to change.
Spinners, Healers, Changers, and Tellers began to crop up in ever-growing numbers, emboldened by a new acceptance, and many people were afraid. Zoltev, with all his wondrous gifts, had given Jeru every reason to fear and revile the Gifted. He’d used his power to harm and destroy, and in the wrong hands, the Gifts of the Creator could be terrifying.
But the power to choose had been given to all of the Creator’s children, whatever their gifts. As Sorkin said, what a man chose to do with his gift was the true measure, and Tiras and I passed laws to hold Jeruvians accountable for their actions instead of their abilities.
Kjell grieved. He grieved even as he tried to let go of hate, and neither came easy to him. He’d saved Tiras and he’d healed me, but he’d denied his gift for so long that learning to accept it was harder than hiding it. And he didn’t trust his instincts. He’d been betrayed and rescued too many times by people he’d misjudged.
Lady Firi had disappeared, changing into yet another version of herself, slipping away to somewhere new. Her father passed away shortly after the attacks on Jeru City. She hadn’t lied about everything. The Volgar had attacked a group of the lord’s guard, but no one knew whether Lady Firi had orchestrated it all. No one knew how she’d struck her bargain with the Volgar Liege. We only knew she had, and nothing had turned out the way she’d hoped. Still we watched for her, comforted only by the knowledge that she couldn’t change her face even though she changed her form.
Her days as Lady Firi were finished.
The lordship in Firi passed to the late lord’s only living relative—a sister—and the Council of Lords worried and wrung their hands at the thought of a female ruling the province. But their protestations were hollow and their words weak, and they scurried back to their strongholds and fortresses, pretending control they no longer had. My father went back to Corvyn, having suffered no permanent damage from my pain.
I let him go.
Boojohni said I must.
I let hate go, I let him go, and I began to heal.
My limbs were tired, my back stiff, my steps slow. It wouldn’t be long now. The tightness in my belly was almost constant, my girth almost comical, and sleep almost impossible. As Jeru slept, I waited, standing on my balcony overlooking the city square. The night was filled with gentle words, bedtime stories, and soft goodnights.
The breeze stirred my hair, and a piece of a familiar song wafted around me. A woman’s voice, urging her daughter to sleep, sang the words of the maiden song like she’d sung it a thousand times.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
He is coming, do not hide.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
Let the king make you his bride.
I was careful with my words. I guarded them, used them prudently, and withheld them wisely. When I kissed Tiras and pressed my lips to his skin, I never marked him or left a wish behind. I’d learned how lethal a word could be. But tonight I sang the maiden song, liking the way the words fell from my mouth like tiny, white pebbles into the well of the world below me. My own daughter was coming soon. Gwyn, the old Teller, had predicted a girl. Tiras had sighed and muttered something about stubborn women, but joy limned his face, and his thoughts were ebullient.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
Wait for him, his heart is true.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
‘Til the hour he comes for you.
The hour was nigh, and yet I waited for a restless king who still loved to fly. The shadows moved and shimmered, and from above the homes and trees to the east, I saw him coming, soaring, pale head and sooty wings barely discernible in the starlight. Then he was circling and descending, finally coming to rest on the low wall with a satisfied flutter. He didn’t change immediately, but folded his wings and drew close to me, tucking his beak like he was ashamed.
I brushed gentle fingers across his tufted breast and over his downy head, forgiving him. From his heart I heard a word, and it made me smile.
Home.
She was so small. The only thing large about her were her eyes, and they filled her face, dark and solemn, like the midnight sky. Little bones, small features, a pointy chin, and elfin ears made her appear delicate, almost fragile, like a tiny bird. Her black hair—the same shade as her father’s—was silky and fine and felt like feathers brushing my face when I held her close, furthering the comparison.
She was my little Wren. The name had entered my mind the moment I held her in my arms, and I accepted it, acknowledging it from the Father of all Words, trusting the name was meant for her.
“What are you doing, Wren?”
“I’m making poppets,” she answered. Her little tongue peeked between her teeth, which happened whenever she attempted something difficult. She had a pile of ill-formed poppets beside her on the floor, and she wrapped a long piece of string around another one, creating a head, a torso, and four misshapen limbs. I crouched down beside her and picked one up.
“Tell me about them,” I urged.
“This one loves to sing.” She pointed at the lumpy doll in my hand. “And this one loves to dance—”
“Like a certain little Wren I know,” I interrupted tenderly.
“Yes. Like me. And this one loves to run.” She held up the smallest one.
“And this one?” I pointed to the poppet she’d just finished.
“This one is a prince.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The Prince of Poppets. And he can fly . . . like Daddy.”
“Without wings?”
“Yes. You don’t need wings to fly,” she chirped.
“What do you need, Daughter?” I asked softly.
She looked up at me, her big, black eyes alight with knowledge, and she smiled.
“Words.”
I hate writing these things, not because I don’t like to say thank you or because I don’t have a million people to be grateful for, but because I’m certain I won’t adequately express how very blessed I am and how humbled I am by the love and support in my life.
First, I must thank my assistant, Tamara Debbaut. I truly don’t think I would have made it through this book without her. She’s tireless, enthusiastic, unbelievably capable, and irreplaceable. Thank you, my friend. I will never be able to pay you what your worth.
Second, my editor Karey White deserves praise and presents for this one. She worked on a hairy, odd, erratic timeline, and all the odd hairiness was mine. I’m turning into a true artist. I’m completely nuts.
Third—my family deserves thanks and love and compassion. I suffer for my art, and my family suffers too, though they smile kindly and tell me they aren’t in pain. I have four great kids and a pretty amazing husband, as well as parents and siblings and in-laws that love me and put up with me. I don’t deserve them and they definitely don’t deserve me.
Fourth—and these are in no particular order—I have to thank Jane Dystel and the whole team at Dystel and Goderich. They make me feel safe and sane. Hang Le for the amazing cover. To JT Formatting for the interior files—Julie always takes such good care of me. To the talented Maxime Plasse for his beautiful map of Jeru. T
o Mandy Lawler of Lawler Literary services, you do good work, lady.
Sixth, big thanks to great bloggers, my fellow authors, and my loyal readers. I am awed by their support. The world is a good place. Thank you, HARMONIES. Thank you, Tarryn Fisher, Penny Reid, Colleen Hoover, Jessica Park, Rebecca Donovan Elizabeth Hunter, K.A. Tucker, Alison Bailey, Jamie McGuire, Willow Aster, Leylah Attar, Debbie Macomber, Katy Regnery, Mia Sheridan, Karina Halle, A.L. Jackson, Eden Butler, Claire Contreras, Renee Carlino, Rachel Hollis, Stacey Grice, Beth Ehemenn, and so many others. Thank you for being kind.
Finally, I’m just really grateful for Diet Pepsi and Jesus. I know that isn’t eloquent, but it’s true. Now I’m going to go pop a cold one and say my prayers.
Thank you for reading! Now go and do no harm.
Amy Harmon is a Wall Street Journal, USA Today, and New York Times Bestselling author. Amy knew at an early age that writing was something she wanted to do, and she divided her time between writing songs and stories as she grew. Having grown up in the middle of wheat fields without a television, with only her books and her siblings to entertain her, she developed a strong sense of what made a good story. Her books are now being published in twelve countries, truly a dream come true for a little country girl from Levan, Utah.
Amy Harmon has written ten novels - the USA Today Bestsellers, Making Faces and Running Barefoot, as well as The Bird and The Sword, The Law of Moses, The Song of David, Infinity + One, Slow Dance in Purgatory, Prom Night in Purgatory, and the New York Times Bestseller, A Different Blue. Her next novel, From Sand and Ash will be released in October of 2016, via Lake Union Publishing.
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