There were combinations of letters that made little sense and words that contradicted the things I thought I understood, but I committed each word to memory, and over the space of several weeks, my thoughts started to appear in written sentences behind my eyes, fully formed and complete. They were simple sentences with holes and probable misspellings, but sentences, and one night, half delirious, my eyes aching, I begged a candle to move closer. Come here, candle. The sentence trembled in the air like the text from a page.
And the candle obeyed.
Horrified, I gasped and leapt from my chair, making the candle I’d commanded topple over on my open book. The flame of the candle licked the page like a cat over spilled milk, and the book was almost instantly engulfed in fire.
One dusty book triggered the destruction of the next. The fire spread with an audible whoosh, enveloping the table completely. I ran for my wash basin and upended it over the blaze. It wasn’t enough. The flames jumped to the chairs, and I tried to smother them with the heavy, braided rug from my floor. The rug proved ineffectual, or maybe it was my fear, but I retreated as the flames rose to the giant beams above my head. Smoke billowed around me, and I ran for the door, pounding desperately for someone to hear. The breeze from the open balcony doors pulled the flames toward the drapes, and they too were instantly engulfed, barring my only exit from the room. I tried to find the words to extinguish the flames, but I was terrified. Terror was not conducive to conjuring perfectly formed sentences.
I sunk to the cold, stone floor, trying to breathe, desperate to think.
Out, fire. Out.
I saw the words rise, and the fire in my chamber whooshed through the balcony doors, gone but not doused. That wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind. I ran to the balcony doors, following the fiery banshee I’d created. It had fled my room and was climbing the tower wall like a living thing. The fire had simply spread outward. I heard shouting and realized someone had spotted the flame.
How did you spell disappear? I searched my memory, choking on the smoke still filling the room.
Die, fire. Disappear. This fire is no longer here, I commanded fiercely, the words bold and blue, cold and clear. I watched them fall on the flames, and the fire sputtered immediately.
I repeated the rhyme, more confident now. The words shot from my mind, and the flames disappeared completely. A pale ribbon of smoke rose from the blackened wall, the clinging soot the only remnant of the blaze.
I tried to instruct the soot to disappear too, but it stubbornly remained, proving that I could put out the fire, but I couldn’t yet save myself from the natural consequences of my mistakes.
The door to my room slammed open, and I found myself face to face with a livid Tiras, who waved at the smoke and scooped me into his arms.
“Are you trying to kill yourself? Or are you trying to create a diversion for escape? It’s a long way down, even for a lark.”
The room suddenly filled with scurrying servants, and I was rushed from the smoky room, disheveled and terrified, clinging to the king who promptly dumped me in another chamber—right next to his own—and barked at me that burning alive was a terrible way to die.
I curled my hands around the silk-covered arms of the chair I’d been tossed into and seethed at his manhandling.
You are an ass! I thought to myself, the words ass and Tiras becoming almost one in my head.
“You think I’m an ass?” he asked, outrage making him hoarse.
My head shot up and our eyes clung.
You look like a god but you act like an ogre.
“An ogre?” His voice was beyond incredulous. “A god?”
I bolted to my feet, my chair barking against the floor with my sudden ejection. First the candle. Now the king.
Stop that.
His eyes were as wide as mine, and he approached me slowly.
“Stop that?” he whispered, his eyes on my mouth as if expecting them to move.
Impossible.
He nodded, agreeing. Then he shook his head as if to clear it. “Do it again,” he ordered brusquely.
It was my turn to shake my head.
“Do it,” he repeated. I sat back down in the chair—collapsed—my legs suddenly so weak I couldn’t stand.
“Lark,” he demanded, waiting, his eyes still trained on my mouth.
I wasn’t sure what I was doing. But I pushed a word at him, the way I often did with Boojohni. It was a random word, the first thing that popped into my head. I seemed to have a penchant for words with a double S.
Kiss.
“Kiss?” he hissed.
My face was suddenly hot, and my hands rose to my cheeks.
Stop looking at my mouth.
“I’m looking at your mouth because I can hear you. But you aren’t speaking.” His voice was hushed with wonder, and he leaned over me, caging me in the ornate chair, and lifted my chin with the tips of his fingers so I was forced to meet his gaze.
“Again,” he commanded.
Tiras.
“Tiras,” he repeated.
Lark.
“Lark.” His voice was awed.
Cage.
“Cage.”
Afraid.
“Afraid?” His black eyes were suddenly fierce. His face was only inches from mine, and I couldn’t bear it.
I closed my eyes, seeking the privacy I’d suddenly lost. I needed him to leave. I needed him to leave me alone.
Leave.
“Why?” he asked softly.
It hurts.
“It does?” His breath tickled my face. I couldn’t sit back any farther in my chair, and he was everywhere. In my head and in my space, hovering over me like an avenging angel. I fought the panic that rose like a wave.
I pressed my hands to my chest. It suddenly hurt so much I could barely breathe. My heart was pounding, and my breaths felt like shards of glass.
“Tell me,” he commanded.
I shook my head. No. No. No. I couldn’t explain how it felt to converse with another human being. To actually converse. I had been reduced to sharing nothing of my innermost thoughts for most of my life. Reduced to throwing things when I was angry. Reduced to tears when I was sad. Reduced to the simplicity of nods and bows, of having people look away from me or become frustrated when they didn’t know what I was trying to communicate.
I had been alone for so long with thousands of words I couldn’t express. Now this man, this infuriating, beautiful, man—son of a murderous king—could suddenly hear me as if I spoke. A woman instead of a caged bird. A human being instead of a silent presence in the shadows.
And I didn’t know how I felt about it.
Go, Tiras. Please go.
I didn’t open my eyes, and I kept my mind muddled so no more words would escape. I felt him straighten, and the heat of his presence waned. Then his footsteps sounded, retreating. The door opened and closed again, and I heard his key scraping in the lock.
From 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.