The Bird and the Sword (9 page)

K
jell was back less than an hour later. I was bathed and dressed, but my feet were bare, my hair lay in wet clumps down my back, and I hadn’t broken my fast. When Kjell burst through the door, it was all I could do not to fling my goblet at him, and when he grabbed for my arm, his grip harsh and bruising as always, I shoved him back as hard as I could. He was as brawny as the king, and he only staggered because he was surprised, but I shook my finger at him in warning and lifted my chin. Then I turned and began walking for the door, indicating I would go where he wanted me to go, but I would not be manhandled. When he tried to grab me again, I smacked his hand and kicked at his legs.

“Fine. I won’t touch you. The king requires your presence. Follow me.”

I followed him docilely, my chin high, my hands folded, but when he made to shove me into the king’s quarters, I shot him a look of such malevolence that he dropped his hands once again and bowed slightly, as if conceding.

“He asked for you. That is why you are here. The
only
reason you are here,” he explained begrudgingly, and stepped aside, bidding me enter. But this time he didn’t leave. He followed me inside and locked the door.

The king was not in shackles like the first time I’d been summoned, but his skin was flushed, and he trembled and thrashed on the bed. The bedclothes that weren’t twisted around his body were pooled on the floor, and when I approached, he opened his eyes and tried to rise. He wore a pair of breeches that were soft and loosely gathered, and nothing else. I wondered if the breeches had been pulled on for my sake and mentally thanked the Gods for that. And where had he been all night?

I could not make him an elixir or blend the herbs for tea like I could have done at my father’s keep, where I had my own supplies in my neatly organized bottles and vials. I had nothing here—nothing that would ease his pain or lower his fever. I couldn’t even tell Kjell what I needed or send a summons to the kitchen. I thought about the words I’d pressed upon him when he was chained to the wall, the words that had brought comfort and relief. But I didn’t dare touch him that way with Kjell looking on. I wouldn’t survive the night.

Distrust tinged the air, and I dismissed Kjell with a sigh, turning my attention to the task at hand, to the mysterious king who exuded size and strength yet struggled with an ailment he was clearly hiding from his servants and his subjects.

Instead, I filled a basin from the pitcher on his dressing table and brought it to his bedside, soaking a cloth and wringing it out before running it over his arms and chest, repeating the action until the water in the basin was warm and I was soaked through. It didn’t appear to be helping, and Tiras watched me with exhausted eyes, offering no complaint. But his agony pulsed like a drum beat. It was becoming deafening, and I wondered why I was the only one who could hear it. It had always been that way.
I
had always been that way, hearing the words nobody said.

I closed my eyes in defeat.

“Kjell.” The king’s voice was remarkably strong.

“Yes, Tiras?” Kjell was immediately at his bedside, his hand on the hilt of his sword, as if he could vanquish what ailed his king.

“Leave us.”

Kjell eyed me, his eyebrows lowered dangerously, but he acquiesced without argument.

“I’ll be right outside, Tiras.” His warning glance told me he would be nearby should I attempt assassination. I would have laughed if the king weren’t so sick.

The door closed softly, and I met the king’s gaze. He looked as troubled as I felt. He wasn’t writhing in horrible pain like he’d been the night he’d been shackled. He seemed more ill than wracked in pain, and I wondered again what was wrong.

“Put your hands on me,” he instructed softly. “Like you did before.”

I shook my head, stalling, wanting to understand. I pointed at his stomach and tilted my head in question. He shook his head. I placed my fingers on his throat and raised a brow. He shook his head once more. I touched his temples, his ears, his arms and his legs, and he finally spoke, answering my question.

“It hurts everywhere,” he explained softly. “There is fire beneath my skin.”

Suddenly there was fire beneath my skin too, and I felt the heat warm my cheeks and flood my chest. Last time he was hardly conscious. This time, his eyes clung to my face making the act terribly intimate. I was already sitting beside him on the bed, but I pressed my hands to his heart and closed my eyes. My hands were trembling, and he pressed his hands over them, weighing them down.

“You are afraid,” he murmured. I nodded, not opening my eyes.

“Are you afraid of me?”

I nodded again. Yes, I was afraid of him. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to help him, or worse, that I would, and I would mark myself a Healer. I would mark myself for death.

His breath caught and his back arched in agony, his question forgotten. I pressed him back to the bed, smoothing my hands over him, trying to focus.

Pain be gone, illness leave, skin is cool, sleep now, breathe
, I instructed, pushing the words into his skin through my fingertips.

Fire is gone,

Fever leaves,

Health in the marrow,

Rest now, breathe

The words were like an incantation wafting in the air, and I liked the rhyme and rhythm. It made it easier for me to focus on the words, to release them into the air. It occurred to me suddenly that perhaps that was the reason witches created rhyming spells. The words had more substance. I’d never done such a thing before. My words were always singular. Simple. But I could feel Tiras’s skin growing cool and damp beneath my hands as I silently chanted, telling his body to be well, inviting him to sleep.

And just like before, I put myself under in the process, curling at his side in a deathlike slumber. When I awoke many hours later, night had fallen once again. Someone had lit a sconce, and it threw wan bronze light around the dark chamber. I sat up in bleary confusion, shocked by the passage of so much time. The king slept on beside me, and when I touched his skin it was cool and dry beneath my tentative caress. I laid my head against his chest, listening to his heart, to his steady breathing, and almost fell asleep once more, so deep was my relief. When he spoke, his voice a rumble in the darkness, I jerked and hissed, the only sound I was actually capable of.

“You slept in my bed,” he observed mildly, as if a great privilege had been bestowed on me. I peered down at his smirking face, our eyes adjusting to the tepid light. I eased away from him and rose with as much dignity as I could muster; I had slept like the dead and now felt like a corpse, shaky and weak and far too tired to spar with an arrogant king.

“Lark.”

I paused on trembling legs, waiting for him to continue. I heard him rise as well, and he seemed much steadier than I. I watched as he walked to the table where a decanter of wine and a pitcher of water were set, along with a simple dinner. I wondered who had seen me in bed with the king and prayed it was only Kjell, who would know why I was there. Tiras poured himself a glass of water, drank it, and poured himself another. He drank the second glass, the column of his throat working eagerly. When he finished, he poured a glass of wine for himself and extended a glass to me as well. I took it and sipped at it gratefully, needing the warm comfort in my belly.

“You helped me,” he said softly. “Now . . . what can I give you in return?”

He didn’t explain what was wrong with him, what he suffered from, or what ailed him, but he seemed completely recovered once more.

“Draw me a picture, show me what you desire,” he pressed.

I wondered if I drew a picture of my home would he allow me to return? It didn’t matter, because I wouldn’t make that request. I didn’t want to return to Corvyn. I wanted to read.

I walked to the shelves laden with books and ran my hands reverently along their spines, but I didn’t pull one from the shelf. There was one thing I wanted more than books. I turned back toward the king and fell to my knees. With my hands, I mimed the act of stroking an invisible beard. I needed to see Boojohni.

The king scowled in confusion at my pantomime, then his brow cleared, and he laughed out loud, making me jump and my heart shake in my chest. He was such a conundrum.

“The troll?” he asked, still laughing. “You want to see the troll?”

I nodded emphatically and rose to my feet.

“Done. What else?”

He would give me more? I bit my lip to contain my glee and turned back to the shelves. I pulled a book down, the fattest one of the bunch, and embraced it like a friend.

“I should have known.” He crossed the distance between us and pulled the thick tome from my arms. “
The Art of War
?” he asked. “This is the book you want?”

I didn’t care what the book was about, I just wanted to look at the words. I took it back from him adamantly. His chest was bare, and his breeches hung low about his hips, making him seem almost more indecent than if he wore nothing at all. I was not used to seeing men this way, but he seemed comfortable with his state of undress. I turned my face to the side, focusing my eyes on the door.

He observed me silently. I could feel his gaze on my face and the question in his thoughts.

“Would you like me to read it to you?”

My eyes shot back to his. I wanted that very much, and he knew it.

I walked to the foot of his bed and picked up the deep blue dressing gown that had been tossed aside and brought it back to him. I extended it toward him, my eyes averted, and he took it from my hand. Then without waiting for him to direct me, I sat on the curved settee in front of the enormous hearth, set my wine aside, and opened the book on my lap. He sat beside me and began to read, his voice low and warm, his hand smoothing the page between us.

“Lasting civilizations are forged on the blood of their citizens. Where there is life, there is conflict.”

I stopped him immediately and pointed to the C shape that appeared several times. It didn’t make a consistent sound. He said the words slowly, not understanding what I wanted.

“Civilization?”

I nodded, then pointed to the letter again in a different word.

“Conflict?”

I pointed to the first word again, and he repeated it. I held up two fingers and then pointed to the C shape in the two words.

“Two sounds?” he guessed.

I nodded.

“Many of the letters make more than one sound.”

I stared at the words he’d said, trying not to cry in frustration. I would never learn to read.

“Shall I continue?” he said softly, as if he could sense my turmoil. I nodded but didn’t look up from the page.

“But war, in all its forms and manifestations, is an art which the successful leader must master and utilize.” He sighed. “Would you like to skip ahead to the chapter on disembowelment? This is a bit dry.”

I brought my hand to the page and pointed at the words impatiently, and he sighed again. I ran a finger under each word so that I could match the sound to the letters, but I got lost almost immediately. He seemed to understand what I wanted, and he placed his hand over mine, moving my hand as he went, so that I stayed with him. He spoke slowly, clearly, unraveling words about life and death and conquering armies and ruthless kings, about blood and war and surrender. And despite the lurid instruction, I did my best to learn.

T
he king returned to my chambers with Boojohni in tow the very next morning, and I embarrassed myself by clinging to my friend with all the desperation of a lonely child. Boojohni stroked my hair and I wiped my wet eyes in his beard before pulling away and running my hands over his short arms and sturdy legs, my own way of asking him if he was okay.

He laughed and slapped gently at my hands.

“I’m fine, Bird.”

I wanted details and specifics about his quarters and his keep and how he’d spent his time since we arrived in Jeru, but his eyes roamed my rooms as if reassuring himself that I too had been well cared for. The king stood back, letting us have a moment, but his presence made me uncomfortable, and he seemed unwilling to leave us alone.

I showed Boojohni the book and the letters the king had drawn, and carefully wrote my own name on a clean sheet so I could show him my name. I pointed to the word and pointed to myself in excitement.

“Lark? Is that how you write Lark?” Boojohni asked, smiling.

I nodded emphatically. He took the quill from my hands and wrote a B, one of the few letters I knew from before, and patted his chest. I knew there must be more to his name than just a B and beckoned to the king impatiently, tapping the letter.

“She wants ye to write my name, Yer Majesty,” Boojohni offered, though the king seemed to understand perfectly well what I desired.

“Are you named for the lake in the Drue Forest, beyond Firi?”

Boojohni puffed his chest in pride. “I am. There are many creatures in the Drue Forest.” He looked suddenly uncertain, as if the king might send soldiers to set the forest on fire, rooting out said creatures, but King Tiras simply nodded and began to form the word. I watched in fascination as the letters became two, then four, then eight. Boojohni had a magnificent name.