The Bird and the Sword (The Bird and the Sword Chronicles, #1)

by Amy Harmon

“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.”

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.

The eagle from the woods, no sign of the arrow buried in his chest, perched on the balcony rail.

She’s already telling your housekeeper that you are losing your mind.

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.

“I want her to stay,” Tiras said suddenly.

“If you recall, I said your daughter would be returned when the Volgar had been destroyed. Not before. Plus, your daughter is a Jeruvian lady of noble birth. She is of age. She could be queen.”

“Kjell is right. You are a dangerous little bird. But I think I will keep you.”

I can’t heal what isn’t broken.

“A mile as the eagle flies,” Tiras said, and Kjell shot him a look.

“I think I will keep you.”

“Because in that moment, as I watched him die, I felt something leave me too. Like he’d taken part of my soul. The best part. I’ve never gotten it back. And I miss it.”

Don’t worry, Kjell. I will keep your secret. His brow lowered and his mouth tightened. “And what secret would that be, Milady? My paternity is known by most.” It has come to my attention that I can only communicate with the Gifted . . . and animals. So you are either one or the other. You know my opinion on which it is.

Come home, Tiras, I urged. Come home.

“I have loved you every moment of every day, and I will love you until I cease to be. Bird, man, or king, I love you, and I will always love you.”

He was an eagle by day and an eagle by night. Some nights he came to me as a bird, leaving me little things, a rose, a magnificent feather, a glittering, black rock as big as my fist. Each morning there was another gift, but no Tiras.

Lark. I felt my name drift across the way and land on my chest, a feather from his breast, warm and soft. Mine, he said. Another feather. Always, I answered. Always.