She clapped her tiny hands and danced and jumped with her new friends, and I danced with her. We were so delighted and so lost in the experience that I failed to hear the boots in the hall outside the door until it was almost too late. I’d been foolish—carelessly so. That wasn’t like me.
“Lark, take the words away!” I cried, running to lock the door.
Lark grasped the dancing doll and took its word away, the way I’d taught her, breathing the word into its chest, backward.
“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.