The Bird and the Sword (24 page)

Set the birds of Jeru free.

If the king among you flies,

If the king among you dies,

Lift him up and bring him here,

To claim his troth to every ear.

I don’t know how long I sang the summons, the words pouring from my head, but when I felt the approaching wave, I raised my head, searching for Tiras among the throng. A sound, not unlike a sandstorm filled the cathedral, and within seconds became an ear-splitting cacophony of bird calls accompanied by the deafening clap of countless wings of every size and strength. Those in attendance began to rise in alarm or cower beneath their upraised arms. The door of the cathedral still stood wide, an invitation to an absent king, and with a whoosh and a roar, the cathedral was filled with birds moving in concert, the soaring ceilings obscured by a tornado of rushing wings. I searched for red tips and a silky white cap among the throng, praying for a miracle, my eyes clinging to the whirlwind spinning round and round over my head, but I could not make out one bird from the next, so great was the churning mass. A few of the onlookers ran from the church, screaming and fighting to get out the doors. Several of the lords pulled their cloaks over their heads and the guards raised their bows, letting arrows fly into the swarm. I searched for Kjell, anxious for him to call off the guard, but he was nowhere to be found. I set up a spell, urging the birds to exit.

Birds of Jeru

Where’s your king?

If he is here, then you must leave.

Like a flock of starlings, the birds began to dive and roll, a perfectly orchestrated finale, out the cathedral doors, until once again, the house of worship was an empty shell. Feathers fluttered through the air and clung to the altar before continuing to the floor.

“What in the world was that?” I heard someone say, and the prior muttered something about evil and the powers of darkness, as he lit another candle and waved incense through the air.

“This has gone on long enough,” Bin Dar exclaimed, standing. Lord Gaul stood with him, and slowly the other lords rose as well.

“I agree.” The king’s voice rang out from the back of the church. “Let’s proceed, shall we?”

A collective cry went up, Tiras’s name on every tongue. The lords grew white and quiet, their eyes scurrying, their jaws slack, and I braced myself against the temptation to turn and verify the king’s presence. But I knelt with my back stiff, eyes forward, waiting for him to come to the altar as Jeruvian custom demanded.

I counted his steps as they echoed through the hushed cathedral, slow and steady, my heart beating double time to their rhythm. Then Tiras was kneeling across from me, his eyes burning, his palms upon the altar, his posture submissive but his expression that of the conqueror.

I wanted to demand answers, to berate him, to send sharp words between us, but mostly, I was so overwhelmed to see him that I stayed still, my eyes clinging to his.

“You are still here, Lady Lark,” Tiras murmured, his lips hardly moving as his eyes gleamed.

And you are still an ass,
I answered, finding my voice, my relief making me weak, even as I fought to remain strong just a bit longer.

“Prior, please proceed,” the king commanded.

“Where have you been, Majesty?” the prior stuttered, and the king’s jaw clenched at his audacity.

“There are those who seek my life, Prior. Those who don’t want me to take a queen or continue my rule over Jeru. Are you one of them?”

“No Majesty. Of course not. Thank the Gods you are here,” he mumbled, performing the sign of the Creator in the air, as if seeking divine assistance. His gaze swung between the apoplectic lords and the kneeling king who waited impatiently for him to begin the ceremony. With another sign of the Creator, he squared his shoulders and began. He did not look at the lords again, nor did I.

My head was an ocean of words, my chest a storm of sensation, and I heard little of what transpired in the following moments. The prior spoke a blessing on the king, touching his eyelids, his temples, the lifelines on his hands, his wrists, and then performed the same blessing on me. I placed my hands over Tiras’s when directed, the brush and slide of my palms against his making my bare toes curl and my breath grow shorter.

When the Prior asked me if I would give my life to Tiras of Degn, if I would honor him by taking his name as mine and taking his body into mine, I could only nod, though I gave the words to Tiras.

I will.

When the prior asked Tiras if he would give me his name and give me his seed, he too nodded, but his voice rang through the cathedral, loud and bold, and my toes curled again.

“I will.”

The prior laid the Book of Jeru upon the altar, opening the pages to the list of kings, and handed me the quill.

I found the line next to Tiras’s, an empty space I was expected to fill, and with a firm hand, signed my name. I heard my father sputter and protest.

“She cannot read or write,” he argued. “She cannot even give her consent.”

“She can,” Tiras said, his gaze rising from my name and falling on my father. “And she has.”

“What have you done?” my father moaned, echoing the question I had posed to him, even as the prior pricked our fingers and pressed our bleeding hands together, a symbol of the merging of lives and bloodlines.

“So it is written, so it is done on the first day of Priapus, the month of fertility. May the God of Words and Creation seal this union for the good of Jeru,” the prior said, repeating the words of the crier when he read the bans. The prior placed a crown of Jeruvian ore on my head, a crown so heavy I could barely lift my chin.

“You may rise, Lark of Degn,” the prior prodded.

I rose on legs I couldn’t feel, willing the clothes on my body and the air around me to keep me upright.

“King of Jeru, behold your queen,” the prior commanded, his voice rising with his relief that the ceremony was completed. For what felt like a small eternity, Tiras gazed up at me from where he still knelt beside the altar. Then he rose, his eyes still on mine, and took my hand. Turning, he presented me to the people assembled and to the lords who looked at me with green eyes and yellow hearts, their bitter thoughts tinging the air around them.

“People of Jeru, Council of Lords, behold your queen,” the king proclaimed. The congregation dropped collectively to their knees, their eyes remaining lifted, as their king had instructed.

And it was done.

M
y head hurt and my back burned from holding my spine straight and my crown from falling, and when the wedding feast ended and the women retired, I walked up the winding staircase, a maid trailing behind me, my train gathered in her arms. It was not Pia this time, but a girl I didn’t know, a girl with gentle fingers and a shy smile who carefully removed my crown and the jewels from my hair and brushed it with smooth strokes as my neck bowed in weary relief.

She washed my body, though I longed for my bed. I fell asleep with my head against the edge of the iron tub, but awoke as she urged me to step out, drying my body as I swayed and tottered like Boojohni when he’d had too much to drink. She rubbed oil into my skin, the scent not unlike the oil from the earlier anointing, reminding me of the old woman’s counsel outside the cathedral.

Wait for him.

The words invoked an ache deep in my belly, an ache that felt like pleasure but lingered like pain. I
wanted
to wait for Tiras. I wanted to see if he would come to me again, if he would come without my beckoning, on two legs instead of red-tipped wings. He’d kept me close through the festivities, his hand on my elbow, his length at my side. I’d had so many questions and fears, but no chance to ask them.

When I’d commented on his clothing—the same clothes Kjell had been wearing when he escorted me to the castle gates—Tiras confessed. “Kjell is naked in the vestry. Better him than me. I sent a discreet member of the guard back with boots and a cloak.”

I laughed silently, but Tiras’s eyes were grave, even as his mouth twisted with mine.

“There was a trap set for me, Lark,” he supplied quietly. “A trap you managed to spring. And there will be more.” It was then that our careful conversation had been interrupted by merriment and a call for toasts, and I could only worry and wonder until I was too tired to do either and left his side for the relative safety of the royal chamber.

The maid helped me don a white nightgown of whisper-thin silk that felt like a caress, and I climbed on the bed, so weary I could only smile at her gratefully, relieved that the day had come to a close. She stoked the fire, though the room was plenty warm, and I didn’t bother to crawl beneath the covers. Exhaustion made waiting impossible, and I fell asleep almost immediately.

I slept for a time, but came awake instantly when I heard a whisper and a soft touch against my face.

“What do you want, little Lark?”

I opened my eyes to find the king’s face in the darkness where he loomed above me. The fire was smoldering but the moon was high, bathing the room in white and quiet. It took me a moment to disentangle myself from sleep, to make sense of his question and his presence beside me.

I was his queen. He was my king. And he was here with me in the dark. I was strangely at peace and unafraid of what this moment meant, and I stretched my limbs carefully, not wanting to pull away from his hand on my cheek. I liked when he touched me, and I didn’t think he knew how much. I hoped he didn’t.

What do I want?
What do you want, husband?

He smiled as if the title pleased him, though the smile fled almost immediately. His countenance was shuttered and his voice bleak as he answered without hesitation.

“I want to know that my kingdom is safe,” he whispered. “Our kingdom, Lark. That is why I chose you. You will protect her.”

He was so morose, and I put my hand over his to comfort him, even as I inwardly retreated. I was chosen to protect. A weapon.

But you will keep her safe,
I soothed, believing he would. His shoulders drooped, but he still held my gaze.

“A bird cannot wield a sword.”

His words were so filled with pain that I had no response. My heart began to pound beneath the thin fabric at my breast, sympathetic and sad and suddenly frightened. As if he felt the change in me, Tiras pulled his hand from my face and slid it down my neck, across the pulse that fluttered there, and rested it, palm flattened, on my thundering heart.

“A bird cannot wield a sword, my queen. And before long, I will be nothing but a bird.”

I shook my head, resisting his dour prediction, and his hand curled in my gown, desperate, as if he needed something to hold onto.

“But not tonight . . . tonight I am still a man. Still a king. And you are my wife.”

His eyes grew fierce, and the hand at my breast flexed and flattened once more, as if he’d let go of his despair and traded it for desire.

I refused to look away from him, though my body said
flee,
and my heart begged for tenderness
.
I was not beautiful. I was not vivid or bold. I was small and scared, a wisp. Exactly as Kjell had once described—a tendril of pale smoke, hardly there at all. But the way Tiras was looking at me made me believe I was vibrant and brave. He made me feel powerful.

He loosened the tie between my breasts. I didn’t flinch or pull away, but I didn’t assist him in my disrobing. He opened my nightgown, unwrapping my body, and I felt the air whisper against my skin. Moonlight created a narrowing path from the window to the bed where I lay, and it continued up over the covers, across my newly-bared skin and up the wall, creating an outline of the king looming over me.

“Your skin is like ice,” he observed.

I don’t feel cold,
I responded.
My inner voice was calm. Level. I wanted to punch the air in triumph at my control. He would not know how much I wanted him, how much I longed for him. I would give him anything else. But not that.

He shook his head, arguing, and his hair swept his shoulders.

“No, it isn’t cold like ice. It is translucent. You are silver from head to toe.” He ran his flattened palm from my shoulders to my hips. I definitely wasn’t cold. I was liquid heat. I was terror and curiosity and denial disguised as indifference.

“You glow, Lark.” His hand climbed back up again and swept over my unbound hair. I swallowed, suddenly close to tears.

Then why does no one see me?

“I see you,” he said.

And he did. I was at his mercy, naked and vulnerable. His eyes lingered over each trembling inch, taking me in. Seeing me.

I fought the urge to cover myself, to turn away, even to avert my eyes. He unbuttoned his shirt and threw it to the side. His breeches followed, and he covered me, skin on skin, his forearms bracketing my head, his lips hovering over mine. I sent up a grateful prayer to my mother and the God of Words that my lips could not whimper or beg. Because I would have done both.

“Let me in, Lark,” he whispered.

I knew he didn’t just refer to my body or my mouth, though the heavy press of his flesh urged surrender, and the wet heat of his lips pled submission. He wanted me to give him my words.