“You’re crying,” he whispered.
“You’re . . . s-still a . . . bird,” I stuttered.
His smile grew, creasing his cheeks. His joy confused me.
“You’re speaking,” he marveled.
“You’re still a bird,” I repeated, undeterred.
His eyes clung to my mouth, his thumb tracing the swell of my lower lip.
“I am,” he whispered, nodding.
My eyebrows lowered in confusion, and my lips pursed in question, inviting a kiss. Tiras took it, raising my face and ducking his head, kissing me with all the impatience of long separation and the devotion of long suffering.
“Tiras,” I murmured, and his kiss deepened as if he liked the whisper of his name in my mouth. For a moment there was only relief and reunion between us, though I wept even as I welcomed him home.
“I took the word away,” I cried against his lips. “But you’re still a bird.”
“Yes,” he whispered, cradling my face in his hands and brushing away my tears.
“I was the one who made you an eagle. I didn’t mean to. But I did. It was me.” I stumbled through my confession, wanting to kneel at his feet and beg for forgiveness, to prostrate myself on the floor in front of him.
“Mikiya,” he said gently. “I know. Boojohni told me.”
“You wanted to fly . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t know what would happen.”
“I still want to fly,” he said with a rueful smile. “I can’t imagine never being a bird again. But you didn’t make me an eagle, Lark. You just made it impossible for me to be anything else.” He met my gaze. “You took the word away, and now . . . I can change.”
He backed away, his hand out-stretched, bidding me stay.
“Watch.”
With a shimmer and a shift, Tiras became a huge black wolf, tongue lolling to the side like he’d run a dozen miles.
I clapped a hand over my mouth, capturing the cry that rose in my throat.
The wolf sauntered forward, raised an enormous paw, and rested it against my belly, extending the hand of friendship. I giggled and gasped, and the wolf immediately shifted into a slithering snake with golden stripes on ebony scales.
I fought the urge to bolt to the bed and climb up on it, protecting my feet. But the snake became an ape with great sad eyes, the ape became a swan with a graceful neck, and the swan became a sloth with long shaggy arms and a shy demeanor. When Tiras morphed into a braying ass, I began to laugh, recognizing his jest.
Tiras became one creature after another with no more effort or pain than it took for me to spin a spell or wield a word. When he stood before me once again, a dark-haired king with human eyes and hands, bearing no resemblance to the animals he’d been, I finally understood.
“My father was right about one thing,” he said.
I tipped my head, waiting.
“He said that I am like him.”
I began to protest, but he stopped my lips with a gentle touch.
“I have his Gift. I can change at will. But I don’t want to be like him.”
“So what are you going to be? It’s up to you,” I said softly, kissing the fingers that still hovered near my mouth.
“I want to be a good man. A just king. I want to be your husband, Kjell’s brother, and our child’s father. Beyond that, I will be whatever you want me to be,” Tiras promised, and his voice echoed with sincerity.
“Then I think I will keep you,” I whispered.
Boojohni said if you hate you can’t heal, and Jeru had a great deal of healing to do. Jeru knew how to hate. It was something that had been taught and fostered. It was tradition and history, and it would take some time to change.
Spinners, Healers, Changers, and Tellers began to crop up in ever-growing numbers, emboldened by a new acceptance, and many people were afraid. Zoltev, with all his wondrous gifts, had given Jeru every reason to fear and revile the Gifted. He’d used his power to harm and destroy, and in the wrong hands, the Gifts of the Creator could be terrifying.
But the power to choose had been given to all of the Creator’s children, whatever their gifts. As Sorkin said, what a man chose to do with his gift was the true measure, and Tiras and I passed laws to hold Jeruvians accountable for their actions instead of their abilities.
Kjell grieved. He grieved even as he tried to let go of hate, and neither came easy to him. He’d saved Tiras and he’d healed me, but he’d denied his gift for so long that learning to accept it was harder than hiding it. And he didn’t trust his instincts. He’d been betrayed and rescued too many times by people he’d misjudged.
Lady Firi had disappeared, changing into yet another version of herself, slipping away to somewhere new. Her father passed away shortly after the attacks on Jeru City. She hadn’t lied about everything. The Volgar had attacked a group of the lord’s guard, but no one knew whether Lady Firi had orchestrated it all. No one knew how she’d struck her bargain with the Volgar Liege. We only knew she had, and nothing had turned out the way she’d hoped. Still we watched for her, comforted only by the knowledge that she couldn’t change her face even though she changed her form.
Her days as Lady Firi were finished.
The lordship in Firi passed to the late lord’s only living relative—a sister—and the Council of Lords worried and wrung their hands at the thought of a female ruling the province. But their protestations were hollow and their words weak, and they scurried back to their strongholds and fortresses, pretending control they no longer had. My father went back to Corvyn, having suffered no permanent damage from my pain.
I let him go.
Boojohni said I must.
I let hate go, I let him go, and I began to heal.
My limbs were tired, my back stiff, my steps slow. It wouldn’t be long now. The tightness in my belly was almost constant, my girth almost comical, and sleep almost impossible. As Jeru slept, I waited, standing on my balcony overlooking the city square. The night was filled with gentle words, bedtime stories, and soft goodnights.
The breeze stirred my hair, and a piece of a familiar song wafted around me. A woman’s voice, urging her daughter to sleep, sang the words of the maiden song like she’d sung it a thousand times.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
He is coming, do not hide.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
Let the king make you his bride.
I was careful with my words. I guarded them, used them prudently, and withheld them wisely. When I kissed Tiras and pressed my lips to his skin, I never marked him or left a wish behind. I’d learned how lethal a word could be. But tonight I sang the maiden song, liking the way the words fell from my mouth like tiny, white pebbles into the well of the world below me. My own daughter was coming soon. Gwyn, the old Teller, had predicted a girl. Tiras had sighed and muttered something about stubborn women, but joy limned his face, and his thoughts were ebullient.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
Wait for him, his heart is true.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
‘Til the hour he comes for you.
The hour was nigh, and yet I waited for a restless king who still loved to fly. The shadows moved and shimmered, and from above the homes and trees to the east, I saw him coming, soaring, pale head and sooty wings barely discernible in the starlight. Then he was circling and descending, finally coming to rest on the low wall with a satisfied flutter. He didn’t change immediately, but folded his wings and drew close to me, tucking his beak like he was ashamed.
I brushed gentle fingers across his tufted breast and over his downy head, forgiving him. From his heart I heard a word, and it made me smile.