“I’m guessing you heard that, Pig Man,” he hooted, gasping for breath.
Kjell extended his sword toward my throat.
“Are you Gifted?” he hissed.
“Kjell!” All the laughter fled Tiras’s voice, and I heard him draw his sword as well, though I dared not move my eyes from the furious warrior before me. The word coming off his skin was destroy.
Destroy.
“Are you like your whore mother?” Kjell whispered, his eyes never leaving mine.
My mother was a Teller. Not a whore.
“A Teller,” he whispered, confirming that he could, indeed, hear me loud and clear. The tip of his sword tapped the underside of my chin. I tried not to gasp when I felt the sharp nick, and in my mind I heard my mother whispering into my tiny ears before she closed her eyes for the last time.
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 hadn’t hidden the words well enough. I hadn’t stayed silent. Now I would die.
A drop of blood slid down my neck and between my breasts. Then another.
“Will you kill me too, Kjell?” Tiras asked, his voice a strained whisper. I didn’t understand the question. Obviously, the king’s life was not in danger at the moment.
Kjell looked to his king, his throat working, and I saw the horror and indecision in his face. He was afraid of me and afraid for Tiras.
“I would give my life for yours,” Kjell told Tiras, and truth rose around him. I did not doubt him. He would save the king at all costs, and he wouldn’t hesitate to run me through.
“You can’t kill her, Kjell. Put down your sword,” Tiras warned.
“But the law . . .” Kjell protested.
“You were willing to break the law when you thought she could heal me,” Tiras interrupted.
“You said she couldn’t,” Kjell argued, his voice rising.
“She can’t. Not the way we hoped.”
I was bleeding, they were talking around me, and I didn’t understand all the things they weren’t saying.
“Put down your sword, Kjell,” Tiras commanded again, and his voice harbored no argument.
Kjell lowered his weapon reluctantly, but he didn’t sheath it. The blood continued to slide down my neck and pool between my breasts, but I didn’t wipe it away or lower my gaze.
Why would he kill you? I asked the king. Kjell sneered at my bravado.
“The question is, what good are you to us? We are losing the king, just as your mother foretold. And you are unable to heal him.”
“Kjell!” Tiras warned softly.
I’d forgotten my mother’s curse. Suddenly, I could hear her voice the way it echoed across the courtyard of my father’s keep, warning the king as he told her to kneel before him.
You will lose your soul and your son to the sky, she’d said.
Tiras was that son.
And there was something terribly wrong.
We were interrupted by a clattering of boots and shouts, and several of the king’s guard burst into the garden, genuflecting even as one began to speak. The king stepped neatly in front of me, shielding me from their view.
“Your Highness. The members of the delegation are starting to arrive. The Lord of Corvyn and the Ambassador from Firi along with representatives from several other provinces and their entourages. Should we escort them individually?”
My father was in Jeru.
“How many men?” Kjell asked.
“Two score and ten, sir,” someone answered.
“Allow them to enter,” Tiras said calmly. “Escort them here and provide them room and refreshment. Make sure there is a guard detail on each member of the delegation, just as we discussed.”
“Yes, Majesty,” the men replied and left the garden as hastily as they’d arrived.
“Go to your room. I will send Boojohni to attend you,” Tiras commanded me, throwing the words over his shoulder as he strode away, Kjell on his heels. I sank down to the bench, disregarding his command. My legs wouldn’t hold me. I was trembling from the confrontation, from the sword at my throat, and from the strain of revelation, my own and the king’s. I wasn’t safe, the king was cursed, and the world was upside down. I wanted to use my words to right it, to fix it, but I couldn’t. That much was abundantly clear.
And now my father was in Jeru. I had no doubt he’d come to demand my return. My stomach knotted and my hands shook, and I wiped at the trickle of blood that refused to congeal. The bodice of my dress was stained, and my hands were streaked with it.
I had three choices: I could go home, I could stay here, or I could run away. Far, far away. I could run to the forest of Drue. Boojohni said it was filled with creatures. The odd, the strange, the Gifted. Maybe I could build a life for myself among other outcasts now that I could speak. The thought brought me up short. I couldn’t speak! I could put words in people’s heads. I wasn’t a creature. I was something else entirely.
They would kill me.
My father was the only one who had any incentive to keep me alive. I should return to Corvyn. I should go back home and hide in my father’s keep and pretend the words hadn’t come alive inside of me. I could pretend that all was as it had been before, and maybe in pretending, I would save myself. But pretending wouldn’t save Tiras.
I heard a sniffling and a shuffling, and Boojohni appeared around the hedge, a smile of greeting peeking out from his shaggy beard.