His lips twitched. “And my lark can’t speak.”
I am not your lark.
“You are.” He brought my body against his, and I felt a charge zing from my toes to my heart before it flared in his eyes. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me in place against him as his fingers twisted in my hair.
“You are,” he repeated, and his lips came down on mine so softly that I hardly realized he’d arrived. His mouth hovered there, tender and tentative, and completely at odds with the sharp ache at my scalp, where he gripped my hair in his fist.
Mine.
I didn’t know if the word came from his kiss or from his thoughts, or maybe the word was mine alone, but I took it and swallowed it whole, planting it deep inside my belly where desire, need, and longing grew and flowered.
His kiss was warm and persuasive, and completely different from the first time he’d kissed me. He still took—demanded even—but laced with his power was something sweeter. Something I needed from him. Something I longed for. Yearning. There it was again. Suddenly yearning had a flavor. It tasted like a king, a beautiful, frightening, infuriating man who flew into my life and began to free my words.
He pulled at my hair again, tugging me back from his lips as if he needed to impart something of great importance.
“You will be my queen.”
Do I please you? I mocked him even as I wished he would continue to kiss me.
He laughed, a harsh bark of disbelief. “You are not a lark. You are a great, shrieking harpy.”
All the better to keep up with an eagle.
“You will be my queen,” he insisted, setting me back on my feet, releasing me like the matter was settled. I felt almost bereft, until he tipped my chin up to meet his fierce gaze, forcing a response.
“Lark?”
I couldn’t say no.
I wanted it too much. He was right. I lied. Being a mere lark would never be enough for me. He’d ruined me. He’d made me want to be an eagle. I bowed my head in acquiescence and kept my joy locked away, allowing myself to agree, but not allowing him to know the exaltation that sang through my soul.
Yes, Tiras. I will be your queen.
We remained camped near Kilmorda for two weeks, and we sought out the Volgar, pushing deeper into Kilmorda every day. I called to them, sitting in front of Tiras on Shindoh’s back, wooing them, coaxing them to me in small groups, only to watch them take the lure and be slain. When I grieved for the beasts, Tiras would take me to a field strewn with bones or a village where only rats, fat from human remains, resided.
“They will kill if they are not destroyed,” he would remind me, and I believed him, even as I suffered pangs of remorse for using my gift to lure them to their deaths.
Day after day we cleared the Volgar from the hills and valleys of Jeru’s northernmost parts, though there were stretches, sometimes only hours, sometimes two days at a time, when Tiras disappeared into the sky.
Boojohni remarked on his absence in the second week as I rode on Shindoh, following Kjell as he circled the valley on a patrol of the areas already cleared. Boojohni trotted beside me, always the diligent servant, without ever seeming to tire.
“Where does he go, Bird?”
Who?
“The king, Goose! You know who I’m talking about. The man ye are always watchin’ for, the man ye love,” he growled, as if he had no patience for protestations.
I don’t love him.
“Ye do.”
He wants to make me queen.
Boojohni tripped over his own feet, surprise making him clumsy. Then he began to hoot and clap, drawing the attention of the warriors around us. Shindoh whinnied in irritation, and I reined him in, halting as Boojohni celebrated my announcement.
“The king is clearly a man of great wisdom,” Boojohni chortled, and he did a little jig, making Shindoh toss his head.
I am of use to him.
“Ah, I see.” Boojohni stopped dancing and cocked his head. “And is he of use to ye, Bird?”
The question caught me by surprise, and I had no response. Was Tiras of use to me?
“He has freed ye,” Boojohni prodded gently. “Surely that is worth something to ye.”
He kidnapped me!
“True. But he has freed ye too. Admit it, lass.”
He taught me to read . . . and write.
“That he did. And he sees yer gifts.”
He is using me.
“That seems to bother ye, Bird. Why? He doesn’t have to make ye queen to use ye. He is king. He can take what he wants.”
He could. And he often did.
“He knows your secrets . . . do you know his?” This time Boojohni wasn’t smiling, and I remembered how the conversation began. I nodded slowly.
Yes. I know his secrets.
“Ye know where he goes?”
Yes. Do you?
“He is very careful. But I am very quiet. And curious.”
And protective.
Boojohni nodded, admitting as much. “That I am.”
Why do you ask if you already know?
“Because ye love him. And I needed to know if ye understand who . . . and what he is.”
I didn’t bother to argue with him. Boojohni was as stubborn as I, and he had convinced himself of my feelings.
“Are ye afraid of him, Bird?”
No.
It was Boojohni’s turn to nod, and he began to walk again, as if the matter was settled. I urged Shindoh forward.
I agreed to be his queen, Boojohni.
“Of course ye did! He’s a fine bit o’ man flesh.”
If I was capable of snorting, I would have done so, but Boojohni snorted enough for the both of us.
We traveled back from Kilmorda the way we’d come, moving quickly, Tiras disappearing one full day and two of the four nights, only to ride through the next day like nothing was amiss. Though I hadn’t admitted it to Boojohni, I worried at the amount of time he spent as a bird, the tale from my childhood seeping into my thoughts. The very first Changer had eventually become what he’d surrounded himself by; the more time spent as a beast, the harder it was to become a man again.
I tried to imagine how it would feel to be a bird, to fly above the ground, to surround myself with peace and air and freedom. I imagined it was particularly alluring to Tiras, who had so many people depending on him and looking to him for everything. Still, on the third day of our journey back to Jeru, I sought out Kjell, who stepped into Tiras’s shoes whenever the king disappeared. I was riding Shindoh, my stamina increasing every day, my body adjusting to the rigors of riding for long hours at a time. Kjell saw me coming, and his face tightened even as he slowed and waited for Shindoh to move into step beside his mount.
He is gone so much.
“Yes, he is,” Kjell said sharply, and anger curled around him. I ignored it, as always. I had never been particularly good at making people like me.
Has it always been like this?
“It is far worse.” He looked at me with such loathing that I gasped.
Why do you hate me?
“I hate what you are.”
And what am I?
“You are Gifted.” He said the words quietly, but he spat them out, the way he always did when he said “Gifted.”
But you don’t hate Tiras.
“Tiras isn’t Gifted,” he said simply.
I stared at him in stupefaction, and he shook his head in disgust, as if I were incredibly slow.
“It’s not a gift. It’s a bloody curse.”