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

by Amy Harmon

Corvyn was weak, but he wasn’t evil, though I wondered if weakness wasn’t just as dangerous. The weak allowed evil to flourish.

“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.”

I can’t make words. I can’t make a sound. I have thoughts and feelings. I have pictures and colors. They are all bottled up inside of me because I can’t make words. But I can hear them. The world is alive with words. The animals, the trees, the grass, and the birds hum with their own words. “Life,” they say. “Air,” they breathe. “Heat,” they hum. The birds call “Fly, fly!” and the leaves wave them onward, uncurling as they whisper “grow, grow.” I love these words. There is no deception or confusion. The words are simple. The birds feel joy. The trees feel it too. They feel joy in their creation. They feel joy because they ARE. Every living thing has a word, and I hear them all. But I can’t make them.

In the beginning, He gave each child a word, a powerful word, which called down a special ability, a precious gift to guide them in their journey through their world. One daughter was given the word spin, for she could spin all manner of things into gold. The grass, the leaves, a strand of her hair. One son was given the word change, which gifted him the ability to transform himself into the beasts of the forest or the creatures of the air. The word heal was given to another son, to cure illness and injury among his brothers and sisters. One daughter was given the word tell, and she could predict what was to come. Some said she could even shape the future with the power of her words.

The Spinner, The Changer, The Healer, and The Teller lived long and had many children of their own, but even with blessed words and magnificent abilities, life in the world was dangerous and difficult. Often-times, grass was more useful than gold. Man was more desirable than a beast. Chance was more seductive than knowledge, and eternal life was completely meaningless without love.

The Healer could heal his siblings when they grew ill, but he couldn’t save them from themselves. He watched as his brother, The Changer, spent so much time as a beast—surrounded by them—that he became one himself. The Spinner, who loved The Changer, was so crazed with grief, she spun and spun, round and round, until she’d spun herself into gold, a statue of sorrow next to the well of the world she’d climbed up from. The Teller, realizing she’d predic...

My mother made words. She was a Teller, and her words were magic. She spoke and the words became life. Reality. Truth. My father knew it, and he was afraid. Words can be terrible when the truth is unwelcome.

My mother was careful with her words, so careful that she made them soundless when she died. Now they swarm silently all around me, like quiet watchers waiting for someone to speak them into being.

He’d been given every word he needed, and every word had been stripped from me. I wanted them back. All of them.

“The Art of War?” he asked. “This is the book you want?”