I tested the door brazenly, emboldened by the sense that the bird had brought me here for a purpose. It came open with the barest of groans and a waft of quiet welcome. I left the door ajar and took a step inside, my eyes sweeping the little room that contained a big hearth and a pot for cooking, a small wooden table, and a bed that was made but slightly rumpled, like someone had sat upon it to pull on their boots. It was comfortable and neat, lived in yet . . . not. It didn’t possess the detritus of a family or the residue of an oft-used residence. It looked like a hideaway or a trysting spot, and my hands rose to my cheeks, embarrassed by the direction of my thoughts.
A lantern with a thick wick sat on the center of the table, but I had nothing to light it with. It didn’t matter. I was tired. Weary and woe-begotten all at once. I sat gingerly on the bed, my eyes clinging to the quiet corners. I would stay here for a few hours. I would let the sun rise, and then I would decide what to do. Maybe I would go back to the castle. Maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe Tiras and my father could find a new pawn, and Tiras could leave for Kilmorda without me. I suddenly cared very little about what was to come.
I left the door open. I wasn’t afraid of beasts or bugs, and the only person who might enter in the next few hours—the owner—wouldn’t be dissuaded by a closed door. Sleeping in the one-room cottage without seeing what or who was coming, even at the very last moment, made me nervous, and I’d been cooped up behind closed doors long enough.
I curled up on the bed and stared out the open door into the forest, finding the twinkle of a few brave stars glimmering down through the foliage. I sent up a message, a prayer of sorts, a spell that was more a request than anything.
I see you, stars. Do you see me, peeking up through velvet leaves? Keep me safe from mice and men, invisible to all but friends.
So far my spells had been completely useless when I attempted them on myself. Still, I felt safe and see-through as I fell asleep on a borrowed bed, dreaming of my two friends—Boojohni and the black-winged bird, who’d perched on my shoulder and begged me to go home.
The cottage faced east, and as the sun rose and light seeped over the treetops, I began to wake, conscious of the murmuring trees and the caw and twitter of early risers. The eagle was back, perched on the stoop just beyond the open door, and I smiled drowsily and welcomed him with my thoughts. His wings shuddered and he hopped forward, entering the cottage like he owned the place.
He was a bird.
Then he was not.
Huge wings dissolved into broad shoulders and long arms attached to human hands and flexing fingers. Feathers dissipated into a torso that grew and elongated from the breast of a bird to the chest and abdomen of a man. He crouched over legs that simply uncurled beneath him, lifting him until he stood, head thrown back, body arching like he’d just awakened from a deep sleep. His palms turned up and his arms stretched wide, like he worshipped the sun that bathed him in light. Or maybe the sun worshipped him. Every inch of him was golden and warm—even his white hair reflected the burnished hue of sunrise.
He was completely unclothed and breathtakingly beautiful, and for a moment I could only stare, forgetting that the moment he turned, even slightly, he would see me, lying across the bed, watching him. As if I’d called his name, his head snapped toward me, and his arms fell to his sides. I watched as the black irises of pale avian eyes spread and became the narrowed, dark gaze of King Tiras.
I gazed at him, not even breathing, battling disbelief, and I watched as several emotions played across his face—doubt, shame, concern—before his supreme confidence won out, and he jutted out his chin and glared at me, ever the king, ever undeterred.
“You ran away.” It was such a peculiar thing to say, delivered with such perfect condemnation that I rubbed at my incredulous eyes and remained in the darkness I’d created behind my hands, certain I was still asleep.
If you are not a dream, will you please clothe yourself?
“And if I am a dream, would you like me to remain as I am?” he said wryly, but I heard the sound of movement and the rustle of cloth.
I nodded, then shook my head, then nodded again, my hands sliding to my burning cheeks, to my tousled hair, then to the wall for support, as I rose, refusing to look at him at all. I breathed deeply—once, twice, three times—then tried to dart past him out the cottage door, needing space, desperate for air, but he stepped in front of me and held out a hand like he was calming his horse. His tone changed to one of quiet pleading, as he pushed the door closed behind him.
“Don’t run away from me, Lark.”
I was pleased to see that he now wore breeches. He held a tunic clutched in the hand not extended toward me, and when he seemed satisfied that I wasn’t going to bolt, he pulled it over his head and tucked the billowing ends into his breeches. He then proceeded to pull woolen socks on his bare feet and shove them into a pair of boots I’d missed in the darkness. I could have sworn they were boots I’d seen before.
You’re a bird.
“Sometimes.”
You’re a Changer.
“Yes.”
Gifted.
“Yes.”
Like me.
“Like you.” He hesitated. “Do you see now? Do you understand?”
I stared at him blankly, lost in the maze of my unconnected thoughts. I didn’t understand at all . . . but I knew one thing.
You were the eagle in the forest . . . in Corvyn.
“Yes.”
You were injured. You had an . . . arrow . . . sticking out of your chest.
“The light helps me change, and change heals me. I just had to make it until dawn. When I changed from eagle to man, you were still lying there beside me.”