The Bird and the Sword (32 page)

No one muttered—or even thought—a word of complaint.

W
e had little time to celebrate or rejoice.

Late in the night, boots sounded in the corridor, and Kjell pounded on our chamber door.

“Tiras. We’ve a visitor. Come quickly.”

We rose and dressed without question, rushing to the center courtyard where torches were blazing, making the shadows dance and climb, reaching toward the parapets that gaped like huge teeth above us. The captain of the watch had just begun briefing Kjell on the situation.

“She was at the city gates, demanding entrance. She says she’s Lady Ariel of Firi. She’s on foot, and she’s by herself,” the watch captain explained.

Kjell cursed and began striding for the gate that separated the inner bailey from the outer bailey.

“Where is she now?” Tiras demanded.

“The watchman told her she would have to wait until dawn, Majesty. Those are his orders.”

“She’s still outside the gates?” Kjell roared, spinning back toward the watchman.

“No, sir,” the captain of the watch hurried to explain. “He woke me, afraid that she might actually be a noblewoman. I sent guards over the wall to see that it wasn’t a trap. She was alone, sir. We lowered the gate, and she is being brought to the castle.”

As if on cue, a trumpet sounded, and we rushed through the gates to the lower courtyard, watching as the portcullis was slowly raised. Two guards proceeded her entrance, then Lady Ariel of Firi took several weary steps and collapsed to her knees. Her hair hung in matted rows, coated with dust and trailing down a crimson cloak that was torn and splattered with gore. I recognized the scent that clung to her, the streaks of green and black that sullied the pale dress that showed beneath her cloak. Not human blood. Volgar. She clutched a dagger as if she’d gone to battle herself and barely survived.

Kjell was at her side immediately, swooping her up in his arms. Her dagger fell to the cobblestones, the clatter making her jerk. When Kjell didn’t stoop to retrieve it, she reached for it desperately, as if an attack was forthcoming and she wanted to be prepared.

“Ariel. You’re safe. Be still,” he soothed, and her head bobbed against his shoulder, and her arms went limp in relief.

“There were so many,” she whimpered. “The Volgar . . . there were so many.”

“Are you alone?” Tiras asked, alarmed. “Where is your guard?”

“Scattered. Dead.” Her head bobbed again, and her eyelids fluttered.

“Firi is three days away, on horseback. Did you come by yourself?” Tiras pressed.

She’s exhausted, Tiras.

Tiras nodded, agreeing with me, but his brow was furrowed and his mouth drawn into a tight line.

“
Take her inside, Kjell.
Questions can come later, when she’s had food and rest.”

Lady Firi refused to sleep but allowed the maids to attend to her, washing and dressing her in borrowed robes before sitting her down to a pre-dawn supper at the king’s table. After a stiff draught for warmth and courage, she told us what had brought her to Jeru City under such conditions.

“My father is ill. I don’t know how much his heart can take. When we started getting word of Volgar along the seashore, he demanded I come here. He wanted me far away from any conflict, and I could not sway him.”

“We received word of sightings from your father a few days ago,” Kjell said, and Lady Firi nodded emphatically, looking between Kjell and the king as she continued.

“I started out with members of my father’s guard, but we were attacked late on the second day. It was as if they followed us.” She paused in the retelling, her hand trembling as she pressed it to her lips, and I remembered the journey from Corvyn to Jeru when I’d seen a birdman for the first time, leathery skin and enormous wings, plucking grown-men from their horses.

“We couldn’t defend against them. They just kept dropping from the sky. My horse bolted into the trees. I kept going, afraid at what I would find if I went back.”

“What happened to your horse?” Tiras questioned gently.

“He ran and he kept running. He was terrified,” she whispered. “When he finally stopped, he wouldn’t get up again. He was foaming at the mouth, and there was blood on his chest. He was injured in the attack, but I didn’t know . . .”

“And you walked the rest of the way,” Kjell finished for her.

“Yes.” She raised piteous eyes to Kjell’s, dark and luminous and so beautiful, my own breath caught. Kjell sighed and looked at Tiras.

“What are we going to do?”

You and I will go,
I said, turning to Tiras.
Kjell should stay here with Lady Firi. Someone has to stay.

“I’m the captain of the bloody guard, Lark!” Kjell inserted, tension radiating from every pore. Tiras shot a warning look at him, and Kjell threw up his hands and stalked from the room without another word.

Lady Firi watched him go with knowing eyes and stood as if to follow him.

“You must rest, Lady Firi. We will decide what should be done on the morrow,” Tiras murmured, rising and extending a hand to me. “Mistress Lorena will see you to your quarters.”

“King Tiras, have you ever acknowledged Kjell as your brother?” Lady Firi asked sharply, her brazen query making my eyes widen. She curtsied deeply, her head lowered, “Forgive me, Your Highness,” she implored, her voice thick with remorse. “I am not myself after the events of the last days, and I care very deeply for Kjell. I spoke without thought.”

Tiras regarded her thoughtfully, his mouth pursed, but I was not fooled. Her impudence bothered him. Her question bothered him more.

“I understand,” he murmured, pardoning her. “Rest well.”

But Lady Firi was not quite finished. With soft entreaty, she raised her hands and her gaze to mine.

“Majesty, please don’t travel to Firi. If something were to happen to you or the child, I would not forgive myself,” she said.

My hand found the slight swell beneath my gown, surprised that she knew. It was not visibly apparent. Perhaps word of my occasional morning sickness had started rumors among the servants. Perhaps they had let something slip to Lady Firi when they attended her.

She smiled at me kindly. “You have the look about you, my queen.”

I inclined my head, not confirming or denying, and Tiras bowed slightly.

“All things will be considered. Goodnight, Milady.” Tiras’s voice was cold, and she heard his displeasure.

Mistress Lorena stepped forward and bid Lady Firi follow her. We were silent as we watched her retreat, and when their footsteps faded, I turned to him.

If something were to happen to me, and therefore my father, who would be next in line for the throne?

“If there is no Degn and no Corvyn—” Tiras began.

But there is a Degn, Tiras. Kjell is a Degn.

“Yes. He is. But Kjell was never recognized by my father. He is Kjell of Jeru. Not Kjell of Degn,” Tiras explained.

But what if he is recognized by you? If you claim him as your brother?

“Kjell does not wish to be king. Despite what Lady Firi insinuated.”

It matters little what we want,
I quoted, remembering the words Tiras had said to me after the battle with the Volgar.

Tiras regarded me soberly, his mouth turned down.

If you recognize Kjell, then if something were to happen to me . . . and our child . . . Kjell would be the heir to the throne. One more layer of protection for Jeru.

“Yes. And Kjell would never forgive me.”

I forgave you.

“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.

T
iras spent the following day closeted with maps and men, their hushed words wafting out from behind closed doors, words I could have easily drawn to me if I’d wanted to. I didn’t. 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.

He was full of kitchen gossip, and I listened drowsily, floating in his affection, allowing myself to be coddled. When he ran out of juicy natter, he started to hum, and I joined in, allowing the voice in my head to lilt along with his.

Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,

He is coming, do not hide.

Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,

Let the king make you his bride.

Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,

Wait for him, his heart is true.

Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,

‘Til the hour he comes for you.

Boojohni stopped suddenly, his brush stalling in my hair as if he’d found a knot. When he didn’t continue singing or brushing after an inordinate amount of time, I opened my eyes and lifted my head. He was staring sightlessly at the silvery tumble of my hair, seeing something that wasn’t there.

Boojohni?
I prodded
. What’s wrong?

“Have you ever thought maybe it wasn’t a curse, Bird, but a prophecy?” he said oddly, refocusing his gaze on mine.

What are you talking about?

“The day yer mother died. The words she told ye. The words she told yer father.”

I swallowed, the memory making my throat close the way it always did.

“Maybe yer mother wasn’t forbidding ye to speak,” Boojohni hedged. “Perhaps she was just tellin’ yer father ye wouldn’t and tellin’ him to protect ye. To keep ye safe.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Meshara couldn’t do what ye do, Lark. Her gift was different. Her gift was one of knowing, of seeing, of
warning
. Ye are the one who can command.”

I shook my head, not understanding, but Boojohni only grew more adamant.

“That song . . . the maiden song. Yer mother used to sing it to ye. It reminded me of her, of the things she knew. The things she
knew
, Lark!” he repeated emphatically.

My mother was not the first to sing the maiden song, Boojohni
. I felt dizzy again. I didn’t want to talk about my mother or the day she died.

“No. That’s not what I’m tellin’ ye. The song just opened me eyes.”

I waited, knowing he would explain.

“I heard the words yer mother spoke that terrible day. I was afraid the king would strike her again. I threw me-self over her.” Boojohni’s voice grew high pitched with suppressed grief, and emotion swelled in my chest.

“Do you remember what she said, Bird?”

She told me not to speak. Not to tell.

“Yes,” he whispered, nodding. “She did. She knew your gift was dangerous. She told ye to wait until the hour was right.”

When will the hour be right?

“Yer using yer gift now, Bird.”

Then why can’t I speak?

“Maybe ye . . . can.”
Boojohni was almost pleading with me, and I could only gaze at him in disbelief.

“Ye were a wee child. Ye saw something terrible.”

I began to shake my head, but he didn’t stop.

“Ye blamed yerself. Ye became afraid of yer words.”

No! I can’t speak, Boojohni. Don’t you think I’ve tried? I can’t speak!

“Shh, Bird!” he said, wincing and patting my cheek. “There, there. Yer gonna make my head explode.”

I was going to make my own head explode. I laid it back down gingerly, focusing on slow, deep breaths, and after a moment, Boojohni resumed his gentle strokes with the brush, as if the conversation were over. I was too nauseated to pursue it, too troubled to dwell on it, and regardless of what Boojohni suggested, I still couldn’t speak.

He started to hum again, but this time I didn’t join him, letting the melody drift around me. Before long my stomach settled, and my drowsiness returned.

“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.