The Bird and the Sword

  * * *

  The Bird and The Sword

  Copyright © 2016 by Amy Harmon

  Editing by Karey White

  Cover Design by Hang Le

  Formatting by JT Formatting

  Map Design by Maxime Plasse

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Land of Jeru

  Pronunciation Guide

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Titles

  Jeru – JEH roo

  Meshara – Meh SHAH ruh

  Lark – Lahrk

  Tiras – TEER us

  Boojohni – Boo JAH nee

  Degn – Dane

  Corvyn – COHR vin

  Zoltev – ZOHL tehv

  Volgar – VOLH gahr

  Kjell – Kel

  Kilmorda – Kil MOHR da

  Bin Dar – BIN Dahr

  Drue – Droo

  Firi – FEAR ee

  Bilwick – BIL wik

  Enoch – EE nuk

  Quondoon – qwahn DOON

  Janda – JAHN da

  Jyraen – jeh RAE un

  Jeruvian – jeh ROO vee un

  Nivea – NI vee uh

  She was so small. The only thing large about her were her eyes, and they filled her face, grey and solemn like the fog on the moors. At five summers, she was the size of children two summers younger, and she was slight in a way that caused me concern. Not unhealthy, exactly. In truth, she’d never been ill. Not even once. But she was delicate, almost fragile, like a tiny bird. Little bones and small features, a pointy chin and elfin ears. Her pale brown hair, heavy and soft, felt like feathers brushing my face when I held her close, furthering the comparison.

  She was my little lark. The name had entered my mind the moment I laid eyes on her, and I accepted it, acknowledging it from the Father of all Words, trusting the name was meant to be.

  “What are you doing, Lark?” My voice was sharp, as I intended it to be, but my daughter wasn’t afraid, not even a little bit, though she’d been caught in a place where she shouldn’t be. I was worried she would prick her fingers on the sharp spindle of the spinning wheel or fall from the high, open windows overlooking the courtyard. This was my special room, and I loved it here, especially when she was with me. But she’d disobeyed me in entering alone.

  “I’m making poppets,” she answered, her husky voice a comical contrast to her tiny frame. Her pink tongue peeked out between pursed lips, indicating great focus. She wrapped a length of string around the wadded piece of cloth in her hands, creating a head, though a misshapen one. She’d already made its legs and arms and had three more poppets, already constructed, lying next to her on the floor.

  “Lark, you know you can’t be here alone. It’s not safe for such a little girl. And you can’t use your words when I am not with you,” I reproached.

  “But you were gone so long,” she said, raising woeful eyes to mine.

  “Don’t look at me like that. That is no excuse for disobedience.”

  She bowed her head and her shoulders fell.

  “I’m sorry, Mother.”

  “Promise me you will remember and obey.”

  “I promise I will remember . . . and obey.”

  I waited, letting the promise settle on both of us, etching it into the air so she was bound by her words.

  “Now . . . tell me about your poppets.”

  “This one loves to dance. She pointed at the lumpy doll to her left. “And this one loves to climb—”

  “Like a certain little lark I know,” I interrupted tenderly.

  “Yes. Like me. And this one loves jumping.” She held up the smallest one.

  “And this one?” I pointed to the poppet she’d just finished.

  “This one is a prince.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. The Prince of Poppets. And he can fly.”

  “Without wings?”

  “Yes. You don’t need wings to fly,” she chirped, repeating something I’d told her.

  “What do you need, Daughter?” I asked, quizzing her.

  “Words,” she answered, her big, grey eyes alight with knowledge.

  “Tell me,” I whispered.

  She picked up the poppet nearest her and pressed her lips to the place on the poppet’s chest where its heart would be.

  “Dance,” Lark whispered, believing it could. She set it down on the floor and we watched together. The little, cloth doll began to twirl and raise its ill-formed arms and legs, leaping and turning across the room. I laughed softly. Little Lark picked up another.

  “Jump,” she urged, pressing the word into the poppet’s breast. It leaped from her hand and bounced soundlessly behind the dancing doll.

  She repeated the action, giving a word to the remaining poppets, and we watched in fascination as one doll scrambled up the curtains and the Prince of Poppets flew into the air, arms outstretched like lumpy wings, and darted and dived like a happy bird.

  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, tak
e 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.

  “Hide her words, Corvyn. Because if she dies . . . if she is even harmed, you will share the very same fate.”

  His eyes widened as mine closed, and the words and the world grew quiet.

  In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

  I can’t make words. I can’t make a sound. I have thoughts and feelings. I have pictures and colors. They are all bottled up inside of me because I can’t make words.

  But I can hear them.

  The world is alive with words. The animals, the trees, the grass, and the birds hum with their
own words.

  “Life,” they say.

  “Air,” they breathe.

  “Heat,” they hum. The birds call “Fly, fly!” and the leaves wave them onward, uncurling as they whisper “grow, grow.”

  I love these words. There is no deception or confusion. The words are simple. The birds feel joy. The trees feel it too. They feel joy in their creation. They feel joy because they ARE. Every living thing has a word, and I hear them all.

  But I can’t make them.

  My mother told me with words, God created worlds. With words He created light and dark, water and air, plants and trees, birds and beasts, and from the dust and the dirt of those worlds, He created children, two sons and two daughters, forming them in his image and breathing life into their bodies of clay.

  In the beginning, He gave each child a word, a powerful word, which called down a special ability, a precious gift to guide them in their journey through their world. One daughter was given the word spin, for she could spin all manner of things into gold. The grass, the leaves, a strand of her hair. One son was given the word change, which gifted him the ability to transform himself into the beasts of the forest or the creatures of the air. The word heal was given to another son, to cure illness and injury among his brothers and sisters. One daughter was given the word tell, and she could predict what was to come. Some said she could even shape the future with the power of her words.

  The Spinner, The Changer, The Healer, and The Teller lived long and had many children of their own, but even with blessed words and magnificent abilities, life in the world was dangerous and difficult. Often-times, grass was more useful than gold. Man was more desirable than a beast. Chance was more seductive than knowledge, and eternal life was completely meaningless without love.

  The Healer could heal his siblings when they grew ill, but he couldn’t save them from themselves. He watched as his brother, The Changer, spent so much time as a beast—surrounded by them—that he became one himself. The Spinner, who loved The Changer, was so crazed with grief, she spun and spun, round and round, until she’d spun herself into gold, a statue of sorrow next to the well of the world she’d climbed up from. The Teller, realizing she’d predicted it all, swore to never speak again, and The Healer, alone without them, died of a broken heart he refused to heal.