His breath caught and his back arched in agony, his question forgotten. I pressed him back to the bed, smoothing my hands over him, trying to focus.
Pain be gone, illness leave, skin is cool, sleep now, breathe, I instructed, pushing the words into his skin through my fingertips.
Fire is gone,
Fever leaves,
Health in the marrow,
Rest now, breathe
The words were like an incantation wafting in the air, and I liked the rhyme and rhythm. It made it easier for me to focus on the words, to release them into the air. It occurred to me suddenly that perhaps that was the reason witches created rhyming spells. The words had more substance. I’d never done such a thing before. My words were always singular. Simple. But I could feel Tiras’s skin growing cool and damp beneath my hands as I silently chanted, telling his body to be well, inviting him to sleep.
And just like before, I put myself under in the process, curling at his side in a deathlike slumber. When I awoke many hours later, night had fallen once again. Someone had lit a sconce, and it threw wan bronze light around the dark chamber. I sat up in bleary confusion, shocked by the passage of so much time. The king slept on beside me, and when I touched his skin it was cool and dry beneath my tentative caress. I laid my head against his chest, listening to his heart, to his steady breathing, and almost fell asleep once more, so deep was my relief. When he spoke, his voice a rumble in the darkness, I jerked and hissed, the only sound I was actually capable of.
“You slept in my bed,” he observed mildly, as if a great privilege had been bestowed on me. I peered down at his smirking face, our eyes adjusting to the tepid light. I eased away from him and rose with as much dignity as I could muster; I had slept like the dead and now felt like a corpse, shaky and weak and far too tired to spar with an arrogant king.
“Lark.”
I paused on trembling legs, waiting for him to continue. I heard him rise as well, and he seemed much steadier than I. I watched as he walked to the table where a decanter of wine and a pitcher of water were set, along with a simple dinner. I wondered who had seen me in bed with the king and prayed it was only Kjell, who would know why I was there. Tiras poured himself a glass of water, drank it, and poured himself another. He drank the second glass, the column of his throat working eagerly. When he finished, he poured a glass of wine for himself and extended a glass to me as well. I took it and sipped at it gratefully, needing the warm comfort in my belly.
“You helped me,” he said softly. “Now . . . what can I give you in return?”
He didn’t explain what was wrong with him, what he suffered from, or what ailed him, but he seemed completely recovered once more.
“Draw me a picture, show me what you desire,” he pressed.
I wondered if I drew a picture of my home would he allow me to return? It didn’t matter, because I wouldn’t make that request. I didn’t want to return to Corvyn. I wanted to read.
I walked to the shelves laden with books and ran my hands reverently along their spines, but I didn’t pull one from the shelf. There was one thing I wanted more than books. I turned back toward the king and fell to my knees. With my hands, I mimed the act of stroking an invisible beard. I needed to see Boojohni.
The king scowled in confusion at my pantomime, then his brow cleared, and he laughed out loud, making me jump and my heart shake in my chest. He was such a conundrum.
“The troll?” he asked, still laughing. “You want to see the troll?”
I nodded emphatically and rose to my feet.
“Done. What else?”
He would give me more? I bit my lip to contain my glee and turned back to the shelves. I pulled a book down, the fattest one of the bunch, and embraced it like a friend.
“I should have known.” He crossed the distance between us and pulled the thick tome from my arms. “The Art of War?” he asked. “This is the book you want?”
I didn’t care what the book was about, I just wanted to look at the words. I took it back from him adamantly. His chest was bare, and his breeches hung low about his hips, making him seem almost more indecent than if he wore nothing at all. I was not used to seeing men this way, but he seemed comfortable with his state of undress. I turned my face to the side, focusing my eyes on the door.
He observed me silently. I could feel his gaze on my face and the question in his thoughts.
“Would you like me to read it to you?”
My eyes shot back to his. I wanted that very much, and he knew it.
I walked to the foot of his bed and picked up the deep blue dressing gown that had been tossed aside and brought it back to him. I extended it toward him, my eyes averted, and he took it from my hand. Then without waiting for him to direct me, I sat on the curved settee in front of the enormous hearth, set my wine aside, and opened the book on my lap. He sat beside me and began to read, his voice low and warm, his hand smoothing the page between us.
“Lasting civilizations are forged on the blood of their citizens. Where there is life, there is conflict.”
I stopped him immediately and pointed to the C shape that appeared several times. It didn’t make a consistent sound. He said the words slowly, not understanding what I wanted.
“Civilization?”
I nodded, then pointed to the letter again in a different word.
“Conflict?”
I pointed to the first word again, and he repeated it. I held up two fingers and then pointed to the C shape in the two words.
“Two sounds?” he guessed.
I nodded.
“Many of the letters make more than one sound.”
I stared at the words he’d said, trying not to cry in frustration. I would never learn to read.