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

by Amy Harmon

The music began, a song I’d known once, long ago, a song my mother had sung, and her mother before her, and her mother before that. It was the maiden song of Jeru, a song of celebrations and rituals. A song for women. But there’d been so few opportunities in my twenty summers to celebrate or sing, tucked away from the world where I would not harm or be harmed, that the song was like a long-lost sister—part of me, but a stranger still.

“Look at you! Standing there like a bloody ice sculpture. But there is fire beneath that ice. I’ve felt it,” he insisted. “You try so hard to be indifferent, but you are anything but indifferent.”

“You have all this power—you heal, you convince, you persuade, you destroy—but you want me to believe you feel nothing,” he murmured. “I know differently.” I have all the power, but you will destroy me. “Only your walls, Lark.”

“I said once that you are like ice. And you are. Silver and perfect . . . glistening. And hard. You’re so hard, Lark. I want you to be soft sometimes. I need you to let me in.” He was sweet and cajoling, but I knew he wasn’t referring to lovemaking so much as he was referring to the walls I was constantly disappearing behind. I shook my head. If I let you in, I will have nothing left. If I am like ice it is because ice is impenetrable. Strong.

“Touch me, Lark,” he commanded, picking up one clenched fist to bite playfully at my fingers. When I touch you, I cease to be.

Why must I change, Tiras? Why do you want so badly to break me? I asked, the voice in my head small and scared. “Because there is fire beneath the ice, Lark,” he shot back. “And I like your fire.”

“You don’t scare me,” he whispered. “You frustrate me. You infuriate me. But you do not scare me.” Not now. “Not ever. You are good to your core, Lady Degn. Maddening. But good.”

“You told me once you would never ask for a kiss.” I grimaced. “Do you like it when I kiss you?” Yes. His smile deepened, but he waited, making me squirm, making me ask. I stared at him then bowed my head, surrendering. If you kiss me slowly, for a long time, it is easier for me to . . . “Let me in?” he finished for me. Yes. The word was a sigh and my cheeks were aflame, but he reached for me, pulling me from the floor and into his arms, enveloping me, making me feel full in a way I’d come to crave. I raised my face to his, closing my eyes and seeking his lips. And he kissed me for a long, long time.

It was glorious and ghastly, triumphant and tragic all at once. I fought the urge to weep and throw myself into the space where he had been that I might become what he was.

Lost. The eagle’s word made me ache. No. Not lost. I know who you are, I pressed, stroking the feathers on his breast. Lark. My name rose from him, and I knew he was telling me the same. He knew who I was too. He was still Tiras, beneath it all, and that was almost worse.

“No, not that. Why do you walk in the forest at night, all by yourself? I see you, even as an eagle. I watch you. And I am afraid for you.” His voice was suddenly so gentle that my will crumbled like the dry leaves beneath Shindoh’s feet. I know you watch me. That’s why I do it. I am looking for you.

“I am losing myself. Piece by bloody piece,” he whispered. “And you have to let me go. Jeru needs a queen. Someone who is strong and wise and powerful.” That is not me. “Of course it is. I knew it the moment I met you.”

You chose me because I am of use. But I chose you because I wanted you. All I ever wanted was for you to love me in return.

“You were not supposed to love me, Lark. I did not set out to make you love me. And I was not supposed to love you. But I do. And it is terrible.”

“Every second I am a bird, I long to be a man. For you. For me. For the child I was so desperate to create. Not for Jeru. For us. You said I chose you because you are of use to me. And I did. But know this, Lark.” Tiras’s voice broke on my name, but he didn’t pause. “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.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he confessed. “I don’t know what is right or wrong anymore. And I’m afraid I’ll never see my brother again.”

“You are not acting like a queen,” he scolded as he lifted me off my feet and buried his face in my hair. “The people will think me soft.” I couldn’t answer, couldn’t form words at all, and clung to him as he embraced me in return.

“Without desire, there is only duty,” Tiras whispered, quoting me as I quoted him. “But sometimes our greatest desire is to do our duty.” Then he closed his eyes, as if offering up a prayer for strength, though I heard only his yearning, and it made my heart tremble.

I’d awoken with a lurching stomach and a pounding head, and I kept to my chamber with dry toast, peppermint tea, and Boojohni to comfort me. I laid across my bed, my hair streaming over the side, and he brushed my locks gently, as if he’d been a lady’s maid in another life and an exceptionally good one.

“What word did ye give the prince that day, Lark? I’ve always wanted to know,” he muttered. I was sure I hadn’t heard him right, sure it was just the pull of dreamy sleep, but in my mind a memory swelled and kissed the backs of my lids, a memory of an enormous horse and a black-haired, dark-eyed prince.

“Tonight I will acknowledge you as my brother,” he said to Kjell. “I will claim you. You will be Kjell of Degn, and as my brother, you will be in line for the throne.”

If you cannot keep me, let me go. I felt his heart pounding against my cheek, but his arms fell to his sides, and he stepped back, as if he were truly mine to command. “Where? Where do you want to go?” he asked, his voice so heavy I longed to call the wind again to lift us up and carry us away. Wherever you are.

“Shh, my queen. It is me.”

“Tiras.” His name felt bigger than life on my tongue, and it rolled through my mouth like a growing storm. I realized his name wasn’t just in my head but in my throat and on my lips. It sprang forth and rang in my ears.

“Tiras?” I whispered, his name finding my lips like he’d never been lost. I said his name again, and it trembled there before slipping silently past my chin with the tears streaming from my eyes and scurrying down my cheeks.

“You’re crying,” he whispered. “You’re . . . s-still a . . . bird,” I stuttered. His smile grew, creasing his cheeks. His joy confused me. “You’re speaking,” he marveled. “You’re still a bird,” I repeated, undeterred. His eyes clung to my mouth, his thumb tracing the swell of my lower lip. “I am,” he whispered, nodding. My eyebrows lowered in confusion, and my lips pursed in question, inviting a kiss. Tiras took it, raising my face and ducking his head, kissing me with all the impatience of long separation and the devotion of long suffering.

“My father was right about one thing,” he said. I tipped my head, waiting. “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.

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.