The Bird and the Sword (2 page)

“
Ecnad,”
she said, swallowing it back into herself. The hopping poppet was scampering around her feet, and she scooped it up and whispered “
Pmuj
.”

There was a pounding at the door, and my servant Boojohni called to me, his voice urgent.

“Lady Meshara! The king is here. Lord Corvyn says ye must come now.”

I caught the climbing poppet as it scaled the rock wall near the heavy door. I tossed it to Lark, and she removed the word as she’d done the others.

“Where is the flyer?” I hissed, searching with frantic eyes, peering up at the high beams and the dark crevices. Then, from the corner of my eye, I spotted it. It had flown through the open window and was flitting like a handkerchief in the breeze. But there was no wind.

“Lady Meshara!” Boojohni was as frantic as we, but for a very different reason.

“Come, Lark. It will be all right. It is too high for others to see. Stay behind me, understand?”

She nodded, and I could see I’d frightened her. There was reason to be afraid. A visit from the king was never welcome. I opened the door and greeted Boojohni demurely. He turned and strode away, knowing I would follow.

Twenty riders were gathered in the wide courtyard of the keep, and my husband was bowing and genuflecting when I arrived with Lark trailing behind my skirts. For one so disdainful of the king, my lord was quick to kiss the king’s boots. Fear made weaklings of us all.

“Lady Meshara!” the king boomed, and my husband rose and turned to me, relief in his face.

I curtsied deeply, as was required, and Lark mimicked my salutation, catching the king’s eye.

“What have we here? Your daughter, Meshara?”

I nodded once, but didn’t offer her name. Names had power and I didn’t want him to have hers. There had been a time when I’d considered vying for the king’s attention—I was the granddaughter of the Lord of Enoch and of noble birth, and I’d been drawn to the handsome King Zoltev of Degn. That was before I saw him cut off the hands of an old woman caught spinning wheat into long ribbons of gold. I’d begged my father to arrange a marriage with Lord Corvyn instead. Corvyn was weak, but he wasn’t evil, though I wondered if weakness wasn’t just as dangerous. The weak allowed evil to flourish.

“No sons, Corvyn?” King Degn asked mildly.

My husband shook his head in shame, as if embarrassed by the fact, and I felt a flash of fury.

“I am showing my son his kingdom. All of this will one day be his.” King Zoltev indicated the keep, the mountains, even the people kneeling in homage, as if he owned the very sky above our heads and the air we breathed.

“Prince Tiras, let your people see you.” The king turned in his saddle, beckoning his son forward.

The King’s Guard parted, opening the way for a boy on a huge, black stallion to amble to his father’s side. The boy was lanky and lean, all elbows and shoulders and knees and feet, perched on the cusp of a growth spurt. His hair and eyes were dark, almost as black as the horse beneath him, and his skin was as warm as the Spinner’s gold. His mother, the late queen, was not of Jeru, but of a southern country known for their darker complexions and skill with the sword. He rode the horse comfortably, but warriors surrounded him in a loose circle, as if to protect him. He didn’t wear a royal crest across his chest, and his charger was draped in solid green, like every member of the guard, but that could have been for his safety. Being the son of an unpopular king—or a popular one, for that matter—made you a target for kidnapping and revenge.

I curtsied deeply once more, and Lark darted around me and raised her hand to touch the prince’s horse, unafraid as always. She looked like a fairy child next to the enormous animal, and the prince slid down from his mount and extended his hand to her in greeting, introducing her to his horse. Lark giggled in delight, tucking her tiny hand in his, and he smiled as she placed a kiss on his knuckles. I thought I heard her whisper as her mouth touched his skin, and I stepped forward to draw her away, suddenly fearful that she’d bestowed one of her innocent gifts. But no one was looking at her or the prince.

A gasp had risen from the assemblage, and I raised my eyes to the fluttering white poppet dancing in the air. For a heartbeat there was silence as both man and beast watched the silly creation dip and dive like an oddly-shaped dove. Like a child drawn to its mother’s side, the poppet had returned to its creator.

“Father, look!” It was the prince, and he was charmed by the funny flying object. “It’s magic!”

“The Prince of Poppets followed us, Mother,” Lark whispered timidly, and she stretched her hand toward the doll she’d imbued with a single word.
Fly
. So harmless. So innocent. So deadly.

I plucked the flyer from the air and shoved my fist behind my back where Lark now cowered. I could feel her little hands pulling desperately on my skirt, but I dared not draw attention to her.

“Magic!” the king’s soldiers hissed, and suddenly the spell was broken. Horses reared and swords were unsheathed. The prince looked on in horror, trying to calm the horse that had been docile only moments before.

“Witch,” the king breathed. “Witch!” he shouted, extending his sword toward the heavens as if calling on an entirely different kind of power. His horse reared, and his eyes gleamed.

“Confess, Lady Meshara,” he roared. “Kneel and confess, and I will kill you quickly.”

“If you kill me, you will lose your soul and your son to the sky,” I warned, my eyes straying briefly to his young son who met my gaze, his hands clinging to the mane of his enormous horse.

“Kneel!” Zoltev commanded again, righteous outrage ringing in the air.

“You are a monster, and Jeru will see you for what you are. I will not kneel for your slaughter, nor will I confess as if you are my God.”

Lark whimpered, and she pressed her lips to the poppet in my fist.

“
Ylf
,” I heard her whisper, and the squirming poppet went limp as the king swung his sword in final judgment. Someone screamed, and the sound continued without ceasing as if the king had rent the sky in two and horror dripped out. I fell to the earth, covering my little girl, the poppet still clenched in my fist.

There was no pain. Just pressure. Pressure and sorrow. Incredible sorrow. My daughter would be alone with her enormous gift. I would not be able to protect her. I felt my blood flowing from my body over hers, and I pressed my lips to her ear and called on the words that limned every living thing.

“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 heard someone shouting, pleading for mercy, and realized Boojohni had thrown himself over me, doing his best to shield me from another blow. But another blow would be needless.

Corvyn knelt beside me, moaning in horror, and I lifted my head from Lark’s ear to find his stunned grey eyes, wet with fear. I had to make him strong, make him believe, if only for his own survival. I concentrated on what must be said. My power to tell was spilling out onto the cobblestones.

“Hide her words, Corvyn. Because if she dies . . . if she is even harmed, you will share the very same fate.”

His eyes widened as mine closed, and the words and the world grew quiet.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

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.

My mother told me with words, God created worlds. With words He created light and dark, water and air, plants and trees, birds and beasts, and from the dust and the dirt of those worlds, He created children, two sons and two daughters, forming them in his image and breathing life into their bodies of clay.

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 predicted it all, swore to never speak again, and The Healer, alone without them, died of a broken heart he refused to heal.

Their children spread across the land, and years became decades and decades became centuries. Their numbers grew great, and there were many with the power of words or the ability to change or heal or spin. But the power was diluted and altered by the mixing of the gifts. New gifts emerged and some gifts were lost all together. Some used their gifts to harm.

A descendant of The Changer, a king who could transform into a dragon, ravaged the countryside, destroying the land with fire and killing the people who opposed him. A powerful warrior who wanted to be king slayed the dragon and garnered the gratitude of a terrified people. He claimed that everyone should have the same gifts. He said those who could spin or tell or change or heal shouldn’t be able to use their gifts because it gave them an advantage over other men. People had grown both jealous and afraid, and many agreed with the ambitious warrior, though some did not. A woman whose son was saved by a healer argued that the gifts
did
benefit all. A man whose crop was saved by a teller who predicted a terrible storm and warned him to harvest early, agreed with her.

But the voices of fear and discontent are always loudest, and one by one, the Tellers, the Healers, the Changers, and the Spinners were destroyed. They burned the Tellers at the stake. They cut off the Spinners’ hands. They hunted the Changers like the animals they resembled and stoned the Healers in the village squares, until those with special gifts—any gift—were afraid of their abilities and hid their talents from each other.

The warrior became king and his son reigned after him. Generation after generation of warrior kings held the throne, vigilant in removing the Gifted from the population, convinced that equality could only be realized if no one was special, and the power of the words was eradicated.

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.

But as I walked, the forest was thick with sound.

The night whispered to me, words layered over one another. The owl cried
who,
but he didn’t want to know the answer. He already knew, and he watched without trepidation. The moon was huge above me, the ground soft beneath my feet, and I relished the sense of belonging among other silent creatures. We were the same. We lived, but no one really noticed us. I brushed my fingertips against the rough bark and felt an answering greeting, though it was more a feeling than a word. The world was sleeping. The forest was sleeping too, though not as deeply. There was a world coming awake here, and I leaned against the tree that felt like a friend and let the peace wash over me.