The Bird and the Sword Read online

  On the third night of my odd imprisonment, my covers were thrown off me, and I was dragged from my bed by a desperate Kjell. He didn’t explain himself or tell me where I was going, but his grip was bruising and his expression tight. He hurried me through empty corridors and down winding stairs lit by blazing sconces until he stopped in front of a huge, metal door that made me think of dark dungeons and tortured souls. My toes curled against the cold stone floor, and my teeth began to chatter. I gritted them stubbornly and refused to cower when Kjell unlocked the door with a heavy ring of keys and shoved me inside.

  “Help him,” he commanded tersely. “Help him, and I’ll help you.”

  I stared at him in confusion, but he said nothing more as he pulled the door closed between us and locked me inside. I yanked on the handle, testing what I already knew to be true, and listened as his footsteps retreated then stopped. He hadn’t gone far. His desperation was audible, as if he stood shouting his concern through the echoing halls.

  But it wasn’t Kjell who called out from the shadowed corner. It was the king.

  “I told you to go, Kjell. Get out!”

  I took several steps forward, unable to see beyond the heavy table bolted to the floor and laid with a simple, untouched meal. A goblet brimming with burgundy wine had me clearing my suddenly parched throat. There were sconces lining the walls here as well, but only one was lit, and the flickering flame created dancing ghosts and warning whispers on my skin. The meal was fit for a king, but these weren’t the king’s quarters. Obviously. It was the kind of room where prisoners were housed, the kind of room I’d imagined myself being held in on the journey to the city.

  “Kjell? You bloody bastard. Leave me!” the king bellowed, obviously sensing my presence, but unable to see me. I crept around the table and past the partial wall lined with bolts and shackles and a heavy chain that had clearly been there for some time.

  He was pressed against the wall, crouched there, as if he were too weak to stand. Manacles circled his wrists and ankles, though each manacle was attached to a length of chain that should allow him a small range of motion. It seemed more to contain than to torture, though he was definitely suffering. His shirt was opened, and his skin gleamed slickly beneath, as if he was expending great effort not to fight against the restraints. His chest heaved and his body shook. He was a big man, his muscles bulging beneath breeches that clung to his crouching legs, but he was folded into himself, his hands fisted in his long white hair, his brawny back bent in what appeared to be distress. His body cried help though he demanded to be left alone.

  He lifted his eyes and peered at me through the hair that shrouded his face. He didn’t look surprised to see me, though his shoulders sagged in defeat.

  “Are you a Healer?” His voice was soft. Pained.

  I waited until he lifted his eyes again, and I shook my head. He groaned softly then asked, “If you aren’t a Healer, why are you here?”

  I couldn’t answer, so I stepped closer.

  “Stay back!”

  I hesitated, frightened.

  His body trembled, and his skin rippled as if the muscles of his back were caught in a violent spasm.

  “Go!” he roared, the sound otherworldly, a lion or a beast given the gift of speech. “Leave!”

  I couldn’t go. I couldn’t even scream. I couldn’t beg or plead or barter for my life. Still, I scurried to the heavy door behind me, pounding against it.

  “Kjell!” Tiras bellowed. “Get her out of here!”

  The door remained closed.

  “Kjell! I’ll kill you!” he roared.

  But apparently Kjell did not believe him, or maybe he intended for us both to die. I wondered if King Tiras was contagious, exposed to a deadly illness that would kill me when it finished him off. Why Kjell thought I could help him was beyond me.

  I kept my back to the king for several minutes, not knowing what to do, not daring to go near him. He’d stopped shouting, but I could hear him panting in distress. I didn’t want to feel sorry for him. I didn’t want to feel compassion. He didn’t deserve it. But I winced at his labored breathing and his obvious agony. It reminded me of the quiet suffering of the eagle in the forest.

  I’d had compassion for a bird, surely I could show a shred of compassion for a man, even one I wanted to despise. I turned from the door and walked back toward him cautiously. His eyes rose—black, wounded, almost beseeching—but this time he didn’t yell or tell me to go. Maybe he couldn’t. He was shaking so hard the chains rattled against the floor.

  I knelt beside him, so close he could have easily hurt me, but I found I was no longer afraid of him. I couldn’t ask him where it hurt or what ailed him. I could only slip my hands inside his open shirt and press them to his chest, hoping I could help him find relief. It had worked with the bird. His skin was hot and slick, and we both flinched at the contact. I shut my eyes the way I had with the eagle.

  Relief.

  His breath hissed out. I concentrated harder.

  Cool relief.

  “What are you doing to me?” he whispered.

  Breathe. Heal. Sleep.

  Breathe, heal, sleep.

  Breathe, heal, sleep.

  I repeated the suggestions over and over, and he was motionless beneath my hands, not shoving me away, not demanding that I go. I pushed the words outward as hard as I could, and the harder I pushed, the more measured his breathing became.

  “Are you a Healer?” he asked again, and his voice was faint, exhaustion making the question long and slow. I could only shake my head. I wasn’t healing, I was telling. I was suggesting. Commanding his body to release the pain, to numb the agony. To heal itself. I had no idea if it was all in my head or if my words were escaping through my hands, but I kept my eyes closed and my palms pressed against his pounding heart.

  “You’re a witch,” he moaned, but he leaned into my hands. I felt a surge of triumph and narrowed my focus further. I don’t know how much time passed, but as his shaking quieted, mine began, and I felt my strength sputter and stop. I’d done it again, and just like in the woods, I’d emptied myself completely. Only this time, I felt the crash.

  I could hardly keep my head from bobbing forward onto his shoulder. I tried to open my eyes and pull my hands from his skin, but I had nothing left, no strength remained to move myself away. My eyelids weighed a thousand pounds, my arms at least a ton. I swayed against him, powerless to stop myself. Then I was lying on the floor, the cool stones impossibly smooth against my face. I felt my hands fall from his body, and darkness consumed me, washing away all awareness.

  When I awoke it was midday, and I was back in my tower room, stretched across my bed, a pillow beneath my head, a blanket over my shoulders. Sunlight streamed through the windows, and my stomach complained loudly. I sat up in confusion, wondering if the shackled king had been a bizarre dream. The bottom of my feet were filthy, and I’d slept half the day away. No. I shook my head, resisting the urge to pretend I hadn’t been dragged to a chamber in the far recesses of the palace and locked inside, delivered like an offering to a violent god, the virgin sacrifice to the fiery dragon.

  Although King Tiras had roared like a beast, he hadn’t hurt me. He’d been the one in pain. Where was he? Had he survived the night? Had he survived . . . me? He’d called me a witch, yet he’d welcomed my touch. Now I was here, back in my room, like none of it had happened. It made no sense.

  I started at the sound of the key scraping in the lock at my door and scrambled from the bed, my hands moving instinctively to the hair that hung down my back in heavy disarray. I expected Kjell or maybe even the king himself. But it was a maid who bustled in, the girl who brought my meals each day.

  “You’re awake!” Her voice was slightly sardonic, and the words lazy girl oozed from her thoughts.

  I nodded. I had so many things to ask and no way to communicate.

  “I brought breakfast hours ago, and you were so still I thought you’d died in your sleep. You must hav
e been exhausted from doing nothing all day. Eat up. I’ll send porters up with water for your bath, but there’s water to wash your hands and face in the basin.” She hardly looked at me as she prattled, and I clapped my hands to draw her eyes. I mimed the act of writing, and she looked at me blankly. I did it again, adamantly, and her face cleared.

  “Oh, you want paper . . . and ink?”

  I nodded gratefully.

  She furrowed her brow as if troubled by the request. “I’ll ask.”

  I was overjoyed when she returned with three books of blank, bound paper, along with paints, ink, and charcoal, muttering about excess and glut.

  “A gift from the king,” she said snidely, as if I’d done something scandalous to deserve it. “He informed Mistress Lorena that you may have whatever you desire, as long as you remain in this room.”

  I bathed quickly, eager to ask my questions before I was left alone again. As my hair was dried and dressed, I drew a quick likeness of Boojohni and showed the dour maid who attended me. She combed my damp hair with harsh tugs, impatient to be done with her duties, but she eyed my picture with reluctant curiosity.

  “I haven’t seen him, Milady,” she shrugged. “He’s a funny-looking little fellow. Don’t see many trolls in Jeru City anymore. The late king was certain they sheltered the Gifted and had a bit of the magic in their own blood. He ran them all out. Good riddance, I say.”

  I quickly drew a picture of Tiras, a crown sitting on his pale hair. He’d never worn a crown in my presence, but I didn’t have time to make a perfect likeness and needed her to understand.

  “King Tiras?” she asked, as if I was daft.

  I nodded emphatically.

  “What about ‘im?” she asked crossly.

  I turned my palms out, hoping she understood that I was asking for his whereabouts.

  “He doesn’t report to me, Milady!” she sneered. “But I’ll be sure to tell him you were askin’ about him.” She sighed and headed for the door, juggling the dishes from my meal, murmuring about “uppity ladies.”

  I wondered if she was rude because I couldn’t rebuke her or if she enjoyed knowing I couldn’t voice a complaint about her. Not that anyone would care what I thought. Still, one question had been answered. The king wasn’t dead.

  The next evening, King Tiras himself unlocked my door and strode into my room without warning, verifying that he was not only alive, but that he was in fine health. I’d been drawing all day at the table, enchanted with the variety of the supplies, anxious to keep busy after so many days of forced isolation, and when he had entered, I’d ignored the intrusion, thinking it was my dour attendant bringing me a meal I had no interest in. I didn’t look up until he spoke, his tone wry, his voice soft.

  “I see you received my peace offering.”

  I rose to my feet, eyeing him with wonder and not a little apprehension. He was clothed in a fine linen shirt and fitted breeches with tall boots. He vibrated with good health and vitality, looking completely recovered from whatever had ailed him, and I would have questioned my sanity—or at least my memory—had I any reason at all to doubt either. His thick, white hair was brushed back from his brown face, and he seemed even taller, even broader than before. Maybe it was that he stood towering over me, bearing little resemblance to the man who had been doubled over in agony on the dungeon floor.

  “You have a Healer’s touch,” he said softly. His tone was nonthreatening, but I shook my head, denying his claim. I was not a Healer. I would not be accused of being one.

  “Sit.” He extended his hand toward the chair I’d just vacated and pulled out the one across from it, clearly settling in for further discussion on the matter. I did as I was told, my back stiff, my hands folded demurely in my lap. I eyed him warily, and he stared back with frank curiosity.

  “What is your name, Lady Corvyn? Your given name?”

  I touched my throat impatiently. He knew I couldn’t respond. He seemed to have forgotten that.

  “Write it.” He shoved a blank sheet of paper toward me.

  I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders, indicating I could not.

  “You can’t write?” his voice rose in incredulity. “How will I talk to you?”

  I tugged at my ear. He could talk to me just as he was doing now. I could hear just fine.

  “You can hear me, yes. But you can’t respond.”

  I shrugged once more.

  “What do I call you?” he asked, irritated. “I refuse to call you Milady forever.”

  I picked up a piece of charcoal and the paper he’d provided, and began to sketch rapidly.

  “A bird?” He was confused.

  I nodded and tapped the page then pointed to my chest.

  “You’re named after a bird?”

  I nodded again, eagerly. I added details to the small bird, so he would recognize it.

  “A lark?”

  I nodded once more.

  “Lark? That’s not a name,” he argued gently, almost as if he were offended on my behalf.

  I lifted my eyes to his, because it was a name. It was my name.

  He must have seen my affront and been amused by it, because his lips quirked infinitesimally.

  “Why don’t you know how to write? You are the daughter of a nobleman. You should know how to read and write. Why did no one teach you?”

  I drew my father’s face, crude but recognizable. I’d had practice drawing him. I tapped it. Tiras stared at it thoughtfully.

  “Your father wouldn’t allow it?”

  I nodded. I turned to the paper again and drew a quick image of myself in chains. I set the charcoal back down.

  “You were a prisoner?” he guessed hesitantly.

  It was the most accurate response I could give, and he understood well enough. I was still a prisoner. I nodded at his question but raised a disdainful eyebrow, spreading my arms to indicate my surroundings.

  “You are still a prisoner,” he murmured, as if he’d plucked the words from my head.

  I held his gaze and inclined my head, indicating that he was correct.

  “But you are my prisoner now. Not your father’s. And I want you to read. And write.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  I pulled the paper toward myself and began to form the letters I’d been taught long ago. A, B, C, D and L for Lark. An old woman in the village had taught me L and told me my name began with that letter. My father had discovered I was being taught and sentenced her to twenty lashes in the village square. No one else had attempted to educate me after that.

  “You know these?” he asked, his eyes on my ill-formed letters.

  I nodded.

  He took the charcoal from my hands and drew a straight line with another line laid above it. “This is a T. For Tiras.” He wrote more letters and tapped them. “Tiras.” He wrote an L and an A followed by shapes I didn’t recognize. “Lark. This is the word Lark.”

  I couldn’t pull my eyes away from my name. My name! I traced it reverently.

  “Practice your name. Practice my name. I will be back tomorrow to teach you more.”

  I hurried to get in front of him, not wanting him to leave. He looked down at me in surprise. I grabbed his left hand in both of mine and pulled him back to the table. His hand was thick and warm and calloused and made me think of the bark on the trees near my home, but I pushed the awareness away and tapped the paper.

  “I can’t teach you everything now,” he protested in surprise.

  I tapped the letters I had made. A, B, C, D. I picked up the charcoal and urgently tapped the space after the D. What came next? I wanted all the letters. All the shapes. I wanted to write them all, to practice them all, so that when he came back I would recognize them.

  “You want to know what follows?”

  I nodded eagerly.

  He took a quill from my supplies and dipped it carefully in the ink. Then using a fresh sheet of parchment, he started at A and continued on for several minutes, creating lines and squiggles and curve
d edges that looked both familiar and forbidden. I clapped gleefully, and he looked at me in surprise, a smile hovering around his lips. He put the quill down. I picked it up and handed it to him again, pushing it on him.

  “All of them?”

  I nodded so hard my jaw ached.

  He laughed out loud this time, and the action made his black eyes crinkle at the edges and his lips turn up in a way that was terribly attractive and impossibly infuriating. I glared at him and tapped the paper insistently. It wasn’t funny—I wasn’t funny. He’d been given every word he needed, and every word had been stripped from me. I wanted them back. All of them.

  He took the quill almost meekly, though his eyes gleamed with suppressed mirth. He continued for several more minutes, forming each letter in a strong line. I hoped he wasn’t trying to fool me with symbols that meant nothing, simply so he could laugh at me when he returned.

  When he finished, he laid down the quill and sprinkled the ink with a dusting of sand from a little corked vial, setting the ink. Then he looked up at me.

  “This is every letter of the alphabet. Every word in our language is made from these letters.”

  I could hardly breathe. I clasped my hands against my chest to calm my heart and stared down at the beauty he’d created. Then I raised my eyes and it was my turn to smile. I couldn’t hold it in. I wanted to. I didn’t want to reveal my wonder and the thrill that coursed through my veins. But I couldn’t hold it in. So I smiled at him and did my best not to cry happy tears.

  He seemed almost stunned by my joy and rose slowly. He tipped his head to the side as if he couldn’t quite figure me out. Without further comment, he turned and left the room.

  I realized after the king left that I hadn’t asked about Boojohni. I was ashamed of myself and waited eagerly for the king to return, like he’d said he would so I could draw him pictures and thereby demand answers. But he didn’t return. Not the next day or the next.