The Bird and the Sword (34 page)

I
watched as Kjell assembled the king’s guard—a thousand men—leaving two hundred behind to guard the castle and the city wall in his absence. Tiras was not with them, though Kjell had saddled Shindoh and kept her tethered to his own mount. I hadn’t seen him since I’d left him in the hall. I hadn’t said goodbye, he hadn’t found me in the dark to press sorrowful kisses into my skin, and we hadn’t bridged the gulf between what we wanted and what we had.

Lady Firi and I watched, side by side, until the gates were lifted, and we were the only two left in the courtyard.

“The king was not with them,” she remarked curiously. Carefully. And I answered without hesitation.

He left at dawn with a dozen men. A scouting party. They will double back in shifts.

She nodded, accepting my explanation, and I wondered, not for the first time, if lying changed the way my voice sounded in her head.

“God-speed,” she whispered, her eyes on the trail of dust that followed the warriors beyond the wall. The castle stood on a rise, and we could see beyond the wall of Jeru City into the land of Degn. The army would head north to Kilmorda and veer west toward Firi, just beyond the cluster of hills on the border.

A cry pierced the air, and an eagle swooped overhead, perching on the castle wall. He spread his wings, posturing, the blood-red tips of his feathers vivid in the sunshine. Light, both blinding and warm, beat down on our heads like hope and redemption, yet the king was still a bird.

I would not speak his name, even in my head, for fear Lady Ariel would hear. So I gazed up at him, refusing to blink, my eyes burning and my hands cold.

Lark.

I felt my name drift across the way and land on my chest, a feather from his breast, warm and soft.
Mine
, he said. Another feather.

Always,
I answered.
Always.

Lady Firi reached for my hand, as if my
always
were just a simple
amen
to her prayer of
God speed
, but I didn’t let her take it. I needed both hands to hold the pieces of myself together.

Then Tiras flew, a swath of black against the blue, creating a hole in the sky that urged me to follow or fall in. Then I was. Falling, falling, falling.

“Highness?” Lady Firi asked, her voice a peal of distant bells ringing in alarm. The hole Tiras made became deep and black, without a sliver of blue, and I let it swallow me, pulling me down, down, down, to where my words lived.

F
or three days I existed in that hole. There was little sound, little light, and no warmth. I moved through my duties without knowing what I did. I slept without dreaming. I ate without remembering what I consumed. Boojohni slept on the floor by my bed, though I insisted he leave. He just looked at me with sympathy and made himself a nest of sorts. We didn’t converse. Not because he didn’t try, but because I struggled to find my words in all that black space. It took all my strength to keep my eyes from closing and the darkness from absorbing me. I had no hope. I felt no joy. I saw no future that didn’t fill me with anguish, so I didn’t think at all. I didn’t make words or cast spells. I just was. And that was all I could manage.

On the morning of the fourth day, The Master of the Mews asked for an audience in the Great Hall. He bowed deeply, dropping on one knee, and for a long moment, he didn’t raise his head.

I touched the arm of the guard who attended me, who then prodded Hashim to proceed.

“Sir?” he inquired. “Are you unwell?”

“We received word from Firi, my queen.” Hashim’s face was pale, and his hands trembled, making the small piece of parchment he clutched vibrate. He stood and extended it toward me. I didn’t take it. I couldn’t. His hand fell back to his side in surrender, and his shoulders collapsed.

“The message was brought by a carrier bird,” Hashim whispered. “The king . . . is . . . dead.”

The guards at my side gasped. I did not react at all. I sat with my hands in my lap, my face frozen, my heart silent, my mind as black as the hole I couldn’t escape.

“I’m sure there will be an official messenger, and his body will be escorted back to Jeru City. I will relay any further communications I receive,” Hashim said feebly. I reached out a hand to him, numbly, automatically. He took it, and I inclined my head, eerily poised, thanking him for his terrible words.

“Majesty?” A guard asked hesitantly. “What do . . . we do?”

“Do you have anyone who can speak for you, Majesty?” Hashim asked kindly. I wanted to reveal myself, to ask him if
he
would be my voice, but I hesitated, emptied of hope, not daring to trust. I reached for the bound book of blank parchment and the ink and quill I’d begun to keep on a small table near my throne. With hands that felt like a stranger’s, I asked for the only person who might be able to assist me. Someone who already knew my secret.

I wrote her name on the page, my shaking hand leaving behind ill-formed letters and splotches of ink.

Get Lady Firi.

“W
e will send word to the Council of Lords,” Lady Firi advised. Her manner was as closed as mine, her expressions unreadable. If she felt surprise or grief, it did not show. I made no judgement—behind my own walls was scorched earth. We’d retired to the library and I sat at the king’s desk, surrounded by his possessions but none of his confidence.

“The crier will make the announcement at sunset, and the city will begin Penthos, the period of mourning,” Lady Firi continued.

I nodded dully and met the eyes of my personal guard, who had suddenly taken on the role of royal spokesperson and official messenger.

“I will make sure it is done. Shall I inform the king’s advisors as well?” he inquired. I nodded again, resisting the helplessness that rose like smoke from my chest. Tiras had been so desperate to prepare me to be queen, but I was not equipped for this.

When the guard left the library, Lady Firi pulled up a chair and sat across the desk from me, her movements brisk, her tone measured.

“The lords will come to Jeru City, Majesty,” Lady Firi warned. “They will seek to have you set aside. They will declare you unfit. You must consider how to proceed.”

I had no immediate response, and she stared at me with guarded eyes, waiting. Knowing. My heart was a great mass of Jeruvian ore, black and solid, and so heavy my shoulders wanted to buckle, and my body wanted to slump, letting the weight of the rock pull me face first into the floor.

Kjell.

It was all I could think of, but Lady Firi nodded.

“The Lords may wait for the king to be laid to rest. But if the battle in Firi continues and Kjell is unable to accompany the king’s body back to Jeru City, the funeral must take place without Kjell. There are precedents and rituals that must be followed.”

There wouldn’t be a body. Tiras was gone, but he wasn’t dead. I had to believe that.

And if he doesn’t . . . return?

Lady Firi eyed me sharply. “Kjell?”

I hadn’t been talking about Kjell, but I nodded anyway, her suggestion turning my stony heart to molten fear. What if neither of them returned?

“Then you will have some decisions to make. Do you want to be queen?” she asked softly. “You are carrying the heir, but . . . perhaps the wisest thing to do is to let the lords have their way.”

And what might that be? What do the lords want?

“Control. Power.” She shrugged. “And Tiras has not been especially malleable.”

If I am found unfit . . . who will replace me?

“The council might name your father regent. You would still be queen, but he would be the true ruler. Your child would still be heir when it comes of age. If it lives that long. Of course, you could take another husband . . . someone who could provide a buffer and a . . . voice.” She spoke gently, but I heard a whisper of mockery, of doubt, escape her thoughts. I didn’t know if the scorn was aimed at me or at the constraints placed on all women in Jeru.

What would you do, Lady Firi?

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Me?” She laughed and shook her head, but her eyes gleamed, and her mouth tightened briefly. When her eyes met mine again, they were flat and hard.

“I would resist them. Wait. Stall. And when the time is right . . . make your move.”

W
hen the trumpets sounded at sundown, I returned to my chambers and huddled in the king’s wardrobe, pulling his clothes around me, drawing his scent into my lungs and holding him there. But the words still found me, and for two hours the royal crier threw his announcement into the sky, declaring the king’s death to the citizens of Jeru.

“His Majesty, King Tiras of Jeru and Lord of Degn, is dead. King Tiras was mighty in battle and strong in both spirit and body. He was righteous and just. Jeru weeps and Degn mourns. Our lady queen has declared Penthos upon the city for seven days. In this time of mourning, there will be silence on the streets of Jeru. Citizens will return to your homes each day at sundown and there remain until sunrise,” the crier bellowed. “On the seventh day, the king will be raised up, that all may publicly mourn his passing. May the God of Words and Creation welcome his soul and protect our lands.”

A
s my father’s keep in Corvyn was the closest lordship to Jeru City, he was the first lord to arrive at the castle. I received him in the library, poised, expressionless, and filled with dread. He strode in, cape flying, hands wringing, eyes conspiring. He didn’t sit in the chair across the desk but waited for my guard to step outside and close the heavy door. I didn’t fear for myself in my father’s presence. My mother had given me that much.

“They will seek to kill you, Daughter,” he said without preamble. He didn’t specify who “they” were, but I knew. I indicated the chair with an open palm and waited until he tossed himself into it with restless elegance, sweeping his cape to the side so he wouldn’t wrinkle it.

I knew he couldn’t hear my voice, so I made no attempt to speak. Instead I scratched out a primitive message and placed it in front of him. It was odd to be communicating at all. He had always treated me like an ugly but priceless heirloom—something to be kept, preserved, and hidden in a corner.