The Bird and the Sword (11 page)

F
rom the balcony of my new room I could see the king’s guard, practicing their maneuvers and sparring in the jousting yard. Sometimes Tiras was with them—Kjell was there more often than not—and they seemed to take inordinate pleasure from knocking each other down and bloodying each other up.

But the king’s duties extended beyond fighting and practicing with his men. Once a week the people made a long line around the castle, coming to the king with their problems, with their complaints, with their accusations. Greta explained that from dawn until dusk, one after another, the people were given a hearing. I wished I could watch and listen, but I could only observe the long lines of waiting citizens from my balcony and speculate about what they would say to the king. It would be exhausting to make one decision after another, to have people looking to you to be just and judicious.

The balcony also gave me a view of a well in the city square, where people gathered to visit and fill their buckets. Oddly, most people didn’t fill pails with water. Instead, they leaned over the edge, one at a time, and seemed to peer down into the depths, almost like they were calling to someone or something below. It was strange. People lined up for their turn to look down in the well, and the line was almost as long as the one for the king on hearing day.

Public punishments were also carried out in the city square, following King Tiras’s rulings. I saw a man dragged behind a horse, a woman put in the stocks, another lose her hand, another lose his tongue. I didn’t know their crimes, but I could guess. Was it a Teller who lost his tongue? Was it a Spinner whose hand was hacked off? After I realized what was occurring, I huddled in my room and closed the balcony doors so I wouldn’t hear the crowds and the horrific public displays.

I wondered about the punishment for starting a fire within the castle walls, the penalty for putting words in the king’s head, for speaking without a voice, for moving things with one’s mind, and I no longer felt certain of my innocence. I realized the harm I could do, and I was afraid. But my fear didn’t stop the words from forming, the letters from assembling, my mind from spelling, and my thoughts from spinning.

New clothes were hung in the enormous wardrobe, clothes fit for a princess and rather ill-suited for a prisoner who never left her room. The king’s servants washed the walls and replaced the heavy drapes over the balcony door in my old chamber. The pictures and words on my walls were gone, wiped away and painted over. But under the scent of paint and soap, I could still smell the smoke, a reminder of what I could do with a careless word. The books were gone too, and I wondered if Tiras would replace those or if I had become frightening to him, the way I frightened myself.

The fear didn’t stop me from experimenting when I was alone. I tried commanding my voice to work, but it stayed frozen in my throat, unaffected by my demand. My words were not effective when I applied them to myself. I couldn’t fly, I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t suddenly paint or sew or dance beyond my natural abilities. In fact I couldn’t change myself at all, but beyond that, I discovered that when I spelled out a command, seeing the words in my mind before releasing them, they were highly effective. I was only limited by my ignorance, by my fear, and by my own sense of right and wrong.

I made my dresses dance around my chamber like headless ghosts at a royal ball. I made the furniture rise and reassemble on the ceiling. I commanded the lock to release on my door and stood in the hallway beyond my room, unsure of what to do or where to go now that I could easily escape.

I was free. I was powerful. I was terrified.

I returned to my room, re-engaged the lock with a simple spell, and huddled in my wardrobe in the dark. I felt no joy at my emerging power. I felt only dismay and disgust. And doubt. What was my purpose? What would be the price of this newfound power?

Tiras didn’t leave me alone for long. A week after the fire, he was back, escorting me through the hallways and out into the sunshine, past the sentries and the servants, and into the busy town square, as if he was just one of the townspeople. I was a little surprised by his freedom of movement and his lack of concern, but when I looked closer, I noticed flashes of green and archers on the ramparts as well as guards trailing a ways behind us and a guard in every other alcove. The people bowed and bobbed, but most just went about their duties with a quick nod, obviously used to seeing him out and about.

We walked in silence, our postures identical, hands clasped behind our backs looking at the path in front of us. I kept my thoughts loose and formless, not allowing myself to create words that he might hear. As we neared the well I’d seen from my balcony, I stopped, one hand on the king’s sleeve, one pointing toward the long line of those waiting to look down into the depths.

I didn’t want to form the words, but he seemed to understand my question anyway.

“It’s the Well of Words. Or some believe it is. Where the children of the God of Words climbed up from the lesser world. People stand around the well all day and take turns shouting into it. Their wishes, their desires. Wealth, health, love, eternal life.”

I cocked my head and listened, trying to hear the things people were asking for.

“No one really knows if or when the wish will be granted. But sometimes they are. So people keep coming back.”

I wanted to look down into the dark and write one of my words in the condensation on the wall. I would ask the well for my voice. But the line was long and I wouldn’t know how to tell Tiras what I wanted without feeling incredibly foolish. He took my arm, and we turned back toward the castle, walking without conversation once more. Once inside the walls, we meandered through the courtyard and into a little garden off the great hall where Tiras heard the complaints of his citizenry. If I looked up I could see the balcony of my room.

“I only hear the words you give me, you know. It is your power. Not mine,” Tiras offered suddenly, his voice mild, his eyes trained on the trees. I thought about that for a few minutes then took a tentative step, asking him a vain question that I could easily spell.

What does my voice sound like in your mind?

His eyes shot to mine and he smiled widely, as if I’d given him something of incredible value. He answered immediately, proving it wasn’t a fluke or an illusion. We could actually converse.

“You have a low voice. It’s warm. Feminine. But not overtly so. And it’s slow, like you are searching for the words to say.”

I
was
searching. I was spelling. He seemed suddenly uncomfortable and scratched the back of his neck like he’d been too expressive. I took a deep breath and asked a question that was much more pressing.

Are you going to kill me?

His head reared back like he was shocked, and he halted, grasping my arm so I was facing him. “Why would you ask me such a thing?”

I’ve seen what happens to the Gifted. I am strange. I have a . . . power.
I used his word with a little push for emphasis. Power was something to fear and disown. He knew that well. I shouldn’t have to explain it to him. His eyes narrowed, and I knew I’d made my point. When he spoke again, he chose his words carefully.

“It
is
strange. But how is it different from speaking? You use your head to speak. I use my mouth.” He shrugged like it was a trifle. I suddenly wanted to slap him. He was being purposely obtuse.

Do you know anyone else who speaks with their mind?

“No.”

I stared at him balefully, my point made.

“Do you know anyone who can wield a sword equally well in either hand?”

I raised an eyebrow disdainfully. I didn’t. But I wasn’t wildly impressed. He was an accomplished killer. Bravo.

Do you?

“As a matter of fact, I do.” He smiled wickedly and my breath caught. He was beautiful and terrifying, and he knew it. I looked away, afraid the words would escape my head. But he didn’t seem to hear me. Maybe he was right. Maybe he only heard the words I gave him.

“I can wield a sword with either hand. I know no one who can do it as well, if at all.”

Yet no one has struck you down for your gift.

He pursed his lips and stepped back, considering my words. “It isn’t a gift. It is a skill,” he said softly and maybe a bit defensively. “And many have tried to kill me for it. Make no mistake.”

And speaking to you with my mind is a skill . . . not a gift?
It was semantics, and he had to know it.

He stared off in the distance for several long moments. He didn’t answer, and I could almost hear his mind churning.

He turned abruptly and commanded me to remain where I was in the garden. I obeyed, though I wanted to take to the sky. How was it that I could make a dress dance but I couldn’t make myself fly? A moment later Tiras was back with a maid, the young girl who brought my meals and occasionally dressed my hair. Trailing behind them was Kjell, sweat-soaked and breathless, like he’d been pulled from the training yard.

“Sit,” Tiras commanded the girl. She sat on a nearby stone bench, looking fearfully from her king, to me, to the sweating warrior beyond.

“Ask Lark a question—something you don’t know, something she could answer in a few words.”

“Wh-wh-who is Lark?” she squeaked.

Something flashed in Tiras’s eyes, and a word rose in the air, filling my mind.
Shame
. He felt shame. I didn’t know why.

He looked at me solemnly, and the girl followed his gaze. “This is Lark,” he said, looking at me, his voice strangely apologetic.

What is her name?
I pressed the words into him.

“Uh. What is your name?” Tiras asked the girl, who was quaking in her seat. I wondered if Tiras knew any of his servants’ names.

“Pia,” she answered, her eyes so wide I worried she would strain herself.

“Are we going to have a visit in the garden with the ladies, then?” Kjell growled impatiently. “What the hell is going on, Tiras?”

Tiras spun on his heel and glowered at his friend. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Sit.” He pointed at the bench. When Kjell was seated, filling the space with the smell of perspiration, horseflesh, and dust, Tiras spoke again, repeating the question.

“Ask Lark a question, Pia. This is not a test. You won’t be punished or harmed. Ask her a question.”

“Er . . . How do you do, Lady Lark?” she chirped nervously.

Kjell groaned like he was being tortured. “She’s a
mute
. Not a lady. What in the bloody hell are we doing?”

“Enough!” Tiras roared, making us all jump. The word rose from him again.
Shame
.

“No, Pia. Something specific. Ask her what her mother’s name was. What her favorite color is.” Kjell swore under his breath, and Tiras shot him an outraged sneer.

“What is your mother’s name, Lady Lark?” Pia repeated obediently.

I glanced up at Tiras, and he inclined his head, wanting me to answer the only way I could.

I thought of my mother’s name, the letters, the syllables.
Meshara.
Then I
focused my thoughts on the crinkled forehead of the confused servant and urged the word outward. The girl stared at me blankly, and shot a look back at the king.

“Do you hear her?” Tiras asked her.

“Wh-what?” the girl stammered, her eyes widening once more. “She’s not even speaking, Highness.”

Tiras looked at me as if I weren’t concentrating hard enough. I gazed back steadily.

“Leave,” Tiras commanded the girl, and she stood and fled from the garden without further prodding. I winced. I was sure the rest of the castle was going to hear all about “Lady Lark” and the king’s request.

“What is this, Tiras?” Kjell rumbled, his voice more measured.

He rose from the bench and stood next to Tiras, his arms folded suspiciously. He still didn’t like me. I could feel the disdain coming off him in waves. No words necessary.

“Ask Lark a question, Kjell. Something you don’t know the answer to. Something only she can provide.”

I was having serious concerns about this experiment. I’d been relieved when Pia had been unable to hear me. I looked at Tiras and shook my head, entreating him.

If he can hear me it will only endanger my life.

“He can be trusted,” Tiras said, arms folded, quartering no argument.

Says you. Could Pia be trusted? She’s already telling your housekeeper that you are losing your mind.

Tiras’s eyes widened in affront. “He can be trusted,” he insisted stubbornly.

“Tiras!” Kjell hissed. His brows were lowered over his blue eyes, and his hand gripped his sword like he wanted to draw it. Tiras was staring at me, talking to me, and it appeared as if I wasn’t responding.

“I can hear her, Kjell,” Tiras explained, his gaze moving to his friend. “She can’t speak aloud. But I hear her in my head.”

“What?” Kjell roared. He couldn’t have looked more stunned if Tiras had told him I was actually a lark and could lay eggs.

“Ask her a question,” Tiras demanded.

I felt like a spectacle, a freakish novelty, but I kept my gaze steady on Kjell who was glaring at me like I’d scrambled his king’s brains.

He drew his sword slowly, and Tiras sighed. “Kjell,” he warned.

“I’ll ask the little lark a question then,” he hissed. “How about this? If I toss you over a cliff, will you fly or will you fall, because that is where you’re going.”

I clenched my teeth so hard, I felt something pop in my jaw. My words were as sharp as glass, and they could have cut through the hedge they were so loud in my head.

I am neither a bird nor a beast, so I would fall. But judging from the way you smell and the way you act, if I throw you in among the pigs you will be right at home.

There was a stunned silence for several heartbeats. Then Tiras started to laugh, his shoulders shaking with mirth at Kjell’s outraged expression.

“I’m guessing you heard
that
, Pig Man,” he hooted, gasping for breath.

Kjell extended his sword toward my throat.

“Are you Gifted?” he hissed.