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

by Amy Harmon

I felt claimed without being wanted. It was a feeling I knew well. It was a feeling that made me long for Boojohni, the only soul on earth who loved me.

The king would not have my words. He was no different from my father; neither loved me and both used me for their own purposes.

“You are different with her. You are almost . . . gentle.” Kjell said the word gentle with hushed disdain. “It’s . . . strange, Tiras!” “I can’t help but be gentle with her, because she is gentle with me.” Tiras sounded embarrassed, and I felt the ice at my heart begin to thaw, even as Kjell scoffed loudly. “She isn’t even beautiful, Tiras! She isn’t tall and strong. Bearing your sons will likely kill her.” “She is strong in a different way. And your definition of beauty isn’t mine,” Tiras argued. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I sat up in the bed, my chest pounding. “You don’t like big breasts and full hips? You don’t like brown skin and thick, dark hair? Since when, Majesty? She is a pale wisp of nothing.” I winced. “She is of use to me, Kjell. Who else can boast the same? I know no other woman who is of any use to me at all.”

I had been foolish too. I had given my words to a man who could use me. And use me he had. Use me he would. Until I was no longer of use. Silence daughter, stay alive.

The word rose from the bird, a warm sensation, and my lips trembled in empathy. I didn’t cry easily. It was a badge of honor, of toughness. I was a slip of a girl, a woman with little to offer and nothing to say, but I had my dignity, and tears were undignified. Home, he said again, and I felt the urgency and the sorrow, as if he’d lost his and wanted me to know. I don’t have a home either, I said to the eagle, and closed my eyes to deny the wet that wanted to spill over.

I see you, stars. Do you see me, peeking up through velvet leaves? Keep me safe from mice and men, invisible to all but friends.

“Don’t run away from me, Lark.”

You’re a bird. “Sometimes.” You’re a Changer. “Yes.” Gifted. “Yes.” Like me. “Like you.” He hesitated. “Do you see now? Do you understand?” I stared at him blankly, lost in the maze of my unconnected thoughts. I didn’t understand at all . . . but I knew one thing. You were the eagle in the forest . . . in Corvyn. “Yes.” You were injured. You had an . . . arrow . . . sticking out of your chest. “The light helps me change, and change heals me. I just had to make it until dawn. When I changed from eagle to man, you were still lying there beside me.”

“No. You can’t heal me from this. You comfort me. You help ease the agony, but you can’t heal me.”

I can’t heal what isn’t broken. His eyes widened, and he took another step toward me. I wasn’t sure where my sentiment originated, but it seemed to stun him. “I feel broken,” he confessed bleakly. Then he shook himself and squared his shoulders, readjusting his cloak of superiority.

“The night after your mother died, I changed for the first time. It was as if she recognized it in me. She knew.”

“If you run, Lark, I will bring you back. I need you,” he said without apology. “Jeru needs you.”

I have nowhere to go, I would reassure him. “You have no reason to stay,” he would shoot back.

They wanted Jeru. They wanted Tiras. And I discovered I wasn’t willing to part with either.

I will walk. “You will rest.” I will walk. “Stubborn woman,” he murmured. “Sleep.” And I slept.

My eyes were heavy, and my awareness hung on by the thinnest of threads, but I thought I heard him mutter. “I think I will keep you.”

“Aren’t ye glad, Bird? I can’t be glad when there is so much death. I don’t want to hurt people. I don’t want to hurt animals, or beasts, or even birdmen. “But sometimes we must,” he said softly.

I pushed back my nausea and started down the little valley to the rushing water. I had to wash. If I didn’t wash I would be sick, and if I was sick then I would cry. If I started crying I wouldn’t stop.

“Your mother would be proud of ye, Lark,” he said before he stepped through the flap and let it fall behind him. I wondered if there was someone waiting for him, a woman who knew the worth of the little troll, and I said goodnight, the words sounding much like a spell. I pushed it outward and hoped he heard me, even as he walked away. Sleep my friend, with peaceful dreams, And never travel far from me.

I wondered if I was keeping him awake too. It was strange that I could. But he was getting better and better at hearing me, even when I didn’t intend for him to.

“But I saw the life leave his eyes, and it was absolutely terrifying. I wished I had let him kill me instead.” Why? “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.” I knew exactly what he meant. His innocence had been completely stripped away. Virtue had fled and left regret in its stead, even if the regret was only for what had been and could never be again.

Where does anyone go when they die? Back to the Creator of Words? Or maybe they dissipate and become part of the elements from which they were formed. I don’t know. Maybe some simply cease to be. Maybe some have earned the right to exist somewhere else or to exist again. I hope the birdmen I killed today aren’t waiting for me somewhere.

I am not a sword. “What?” he asked, surprise coloring the word. I am not a sword! I squeezed my eyes shut against the hot tears that rose immediately. I didn’t want to share any of this with him. But my thoughts were unruly, and he was listening intently. I am not a weapon. I don’t want to be a weapon! “You are what you are. I am what I am. It matters little what we want.”

“I never wanted to be king. But it is what I am. It matters little what we want,” he repeated. I turned and stared up into his face, filled with an anguish that wouldn’t abate. You’re wrong. It is the thing that matters most. “Why?” he murmured, his eyes intense. Because without desire, there is only duty. My lips trembled, and I bit down on them, bidding them to be still. He pressed a thumb against my mouth, freeing my lower lip from the grip of my teeth. “Do you desire me?”

This is not my duty. Or my desire. “It is both,” he responded, his arrogance setting my teeth on edge. NO. “Yes.” Lust is different from desire. There are women who will gladly assuage your lust. I will not. “You want me. I heard it. I feel it.” It matters little what we want, I shot back, using his words against him. I may be your weapon. But I am not your queen. He sat back on his haunches, his hands on his thighs, and he considered me. “Do you want to be my queen?” Why would I want that? “Most women would.” I am not most women. “You don’t want power? Riches?” Power only gets you killed.

“What do you want, Lark?” he asked, his voice so soft I wanted to curl into it. Instead, I rolled away from him and closed my head and my heart. I would not give him that. What I wanted, my deepest desires, my dreams, they were mine. Only mine.

I would give you this power. This gift of words. I would trade you for your ability to change, and I would become a real lark. A little bird. And I would fly away. I would make my nest high in a tree, and I would sing. Sing and fly. If I were a real bird people would lose the ability to disappoint me. I wouldn’t consider them at all. I would have only four little words in my head. Sleep, eat, fly, sing. And that would be enough for me.

“What do you want, Lark?” He asked again, and his inner elegy was so deafening it pierced my walls. There was something he was hiding from me, something I had not figured out. I want to be wanted. He stiffened, and I realized I had let him hear. I had let him in. Just a bit. He was so close, and my need was loud. “I want you,” he said, his voice sharp. You don’t want me. You need me. I am of use. It isn’t the same thing.

Maybe I will teach you to please me, I taunted him, refusing to be intimidated, though he held me as though my weight were insignificant. “What could a lark teach an eagle?” he dared, and I felt that challenge from the grip of his hands to the gleam in his black gaze. An eagle can’t sing. It was the only thing I could think of. His lips twitched. “And my lark can’t speak.” I am not your lark. “You are.”

Suddenly yearning had a flavor. It tasted like a king, a beautiful, frightening, infuriating man who flew into my life and began to free my words.

“You will be my queen.” Do I please you? I mocked him even as I wished he would continue to kiss me. He laughed, a harsh bark of disbelief. “You are not a lark. You are a great, shrieking harpy.” All the better to keep up with an eagle.

I wanted it too much. He was right. I lied. Being a mere lark would never be enough for me. He’d ruined me. He’d made me want to be an eagle. I bowed my head in acquiescence and kept my joy locked away, allowing myself to agree, but not allowing him to know the exaltation that sang through my soul.

“The king, Goose! You know who I’m talking about. The man ye are always watchin’ for, the man ye love,” he growled, as if he had no patience for protestations. I don’t love him. “Ye do.” He wants to make me queen. Boojohni tripped over his own feet, surprise making him clumsy. Then he began to hoot and clap, drawing the attention of the warriors around us. Shindoh whinnied in irritation, and I reined him in, halting as Boojohni celebrated my announcement. “The king is clearly a man of great wisdom,” Boojohni chortled, and he did a little jig, making Shindoh toss his head. I am of use to him. “Ah, I see.” Boojohni stopped dancing and cocked his head. “And is he of use to ye, Bird?” The question caught me by surprise, and I had no response. Was Tiras of use to me? “He has freed ye,” Boojohni prodded gently. “Surely that is worth something to ye.” He kidnapped me! “True. But he has freed ye too. Admit it, lass.” He taught me to read . . . and write. “That he did. And he sees yer gifts.” He is using me. “That seems to bother ye, Bird. Why? He doesn’t have to make ye queen to use ye. He is king. He can take what he wants.” He could. And he often did. “He knows your secrets . . . do you know his?” This time Boojohni wasn’t smiling, and I remembered how the conversation began. I nodded slowly. Yes. I know his secrets. “Ye know where he goes?” Yes. Do you? “He is very careful. But I am very quiet. And curious.” And protective. Boojohni nodded, admitting as much. “That I am.” Why d...

I agreed to be his queen, Boojohni. “Of course ye did! He’s a fine bit o’ man flesh.” If I was capable of snorting, I would have done so, but Boojohni snorted enough for the both of us.

I would be Queen of Jeru, Lady Degn. No longer Lark of Corvyn. No longer a daughter of a lord, but wife of a king. But only on the outside. On the inside I would still be little Lark, brittle bones and sharp feelings, certain that I would never be able to fulfill the duties before me. When the people learned I couldn’t speak, they would talk, they would say all the words I couldn’t say, and their words would follow me, mocking me, reminding me every day that I was not up to the task.

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.”

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.

“You are still here, Lady Lark,” Tiras murmured, his lips hardly moving as his eyes gleamed. And you are still an ass, I answered, finding my voice, my relief making me weak, even as I fought to remain strong just a bit longer.

When the Prior asked me if I would give my life to Tiras of Degn, if I would honor him by taking his name as mine and taking his body into mine, I could only nod, though I gave the words to Tiras. I will. When the prior asked Tiras if he would give me his name and give me his seed, he too nodded, but his voice rang through the cathedral, loud and bold, and my toes curled again. “I will.”

“What do you want, little Lark?”

I was his queen. He was my king. And he was here with me in the dark. I was strangely at peace and unafraid of what this moment meant, and I stretched my limbs carefully, not wanting to pull away from his hand on my cheek. I liked when he touched me, and I didn’t think he knew how much. I hoped he didn’t.

“I want to know that my kingdom is safe,” he whispered. “Our kingdom, Lark. That is why I chose you. You will protect her.”

“A bird cannot wield a sword, my queen. And before long, I will be nothing but a bird.”

“But not tonight . . . tonight I am still a man. Still a king. And you are my wife.”

My inner voice was calm. Level. I wanted to punch the air in triumph at my control. He would not know how much I wanted him, how much I longed for him. I would give him anything else. But not that.

I definitely wasn’t cold. I was liquid heat. I was terror and curiosity and denial disguised as indifference.

“You glow, Lark.” His hand climbed back up again and swept over my unbound hair. I swallowed, suddenly close to tears. Then why does no one see me? “I see you,” he said. And he did. I was at his mercy, naked and vulnerable. His eyes lingered over each trembling inch, taking me in. Seeing me.

“Let me in, Lark,” he whispered. I knew he didn’t just refer to my body or my mouth, though the heavy press of his flesh urged surrender, and the wet heat of his lips pled submission. He wanted me to give him my words. Body. Not soul, I told him, rebellious to the end. “Both.” His kiss seared his demand on my tongue, and for a moment I forgot to resist as our mouths moved and our bodies conversed, exchanging secrets without sound. My hands pulled him closer, and his fingers tangled in the length of my hair, wrapping the long strands around our bodies as he rolled to his back, taking my weight with him. “Let me in,” he demanded, and I could feel his yearning rise again, the yearning that had an origin separate from us. From me. From him. Tiras.Tiras.Tiras. It was the only thought in my head, and it seemed to satisfy him, though I felt sorrow rise from his skin, like a cloud had drifted across the moon.

“It pleases me,” he whispered. “You please me. And you surprise me.”

“You are easy to overlook. Slim and pale and so quiet. But now that I’ve studied your soft grey eyes and traced the fine bones of your face, now that I’ve kissed your pale pink mouth, I don’t want to look anywhere else. My gaze is continually drawn back to you.”