“Is that what’s troubling you? Are you afraid of Volgar vengeance in another time and place?”
No. That isn’t what troubles me.
He waited for me to offer more, but I was holding myself tightly, refusing to think at all, so I wouldn’t share more than I wanted to.
“They would have killed us. All of us. You saved so many.”
I killed so many. My inner voice snapped back at him, lashing out like a snake. He left his bed and came toward me. I turned and braced myself for his touch, but he stopped before he reached me.
“Yes. You did. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” His tone was frank. Admiring. I wanted to scream. My fingers curled into fists at my sides.
I am not a sword.
“What?” he asked, surprise coloring the word.
I am not a sword!
I squeezed my eyes shut against the hot tears that rose immediately. I didn’t want to share any of this with him. But my thoughts were unruly, and he was listening intently.
I am not a weapon. I don’t want to be a weapon!
“You are what you are. I am what I am. It matters little what we want.”
I am not a weapon. The words were a cry in my mind, mournful and resistant. I felt him draw closer, but still he didn’t touch me, and for that I was grateful. If he touched me I would break down.
“I never wanted to be king. But it is what I am. It matters little what we want,” he repeated. I turned and stared up into his face, filled with an anguish that wouldn’t abate.
You’re wrong. It is the thing that matters most.
“Why?” he murmured, his eyes intense.
Because without desire, there is only duty. My lips trembled, and I bit down on them, bidding them to be still.
He pressed a thumb against my mouth, freeing my lower lip from the grip of my teeth. “Do you desire me?”
I jerked, resisting the coiled need that suddenly sprang from my belly and filled my chest. His eyes flared and his breath caught, and I wondered what word I’d given him. I could only guess. I stepped around him, but he caught me up, lifting me off the ground, one arm beneath my hips, one braced around my back. He walked back to the thick furs where he slept and laid me down on them.
This is not my duty. Or my desire.
“It is both,” he responded, his arrogance setting my teeth on edge.
NO.
“Yes.”
Lust is different from desire. There are women who will gladly assuage your lust. I will not.
“You want me. I heard it. I feel it.”
It matters little what we want, I shot back, using his words against him. I may be your weapon. But I am not your queen.
He sat back on his haunches, his hands on his thighs, and he considered me.
“Do you want to be my queen?”
Why would I want that?
“Most women would.”
I am not most women.
“You don’t want power? Riches?”
Power only gets you killed.
He recoiled but rallied quickly. “What about adoration?”
Whose? Whose adoration?
He tipped his head, eyeing me with speculation.
“The adoration of a grateful people, of course.”
Why would they be grateful? You don’t intend to tell them I am Gifted, do you?
“No. It might frighten them,” he admitted.
I shook my head wearily.
“What do you want, Lark?” he asked, his voice so soft I wanted to curl into it. Instead, I rolled away from him and closed my head and my heart. I would not give him that. What I wanted, my deepest desires, my dreams, they were mine. Only mine.
“You won’t tell me?” I could hear the frustration in his voice. I resisted the question, mentally changing the subject.
I would give you this power. This gift of words. I would trade you for your ability to change, and I would become a real lark. A little bird. And I would fly away. I would make my nest high in a tree, and I would sing. Sing and fly. If I were a real bird people would lose the ability to disappoint me. I wouldn’t consider them at all. I would have only four little words in my head. Sleep, eat, fly, sing. And that would be enough for me.
He had the audacity to laugh.
“You lie. That would not be enough for you.” I felt him move up behind me, lying next to me on the thick furs. He moved so close I could feel his heat and the feel of his breath moving my hair. He propped himself above me, looking down at me.
“Your hair has a silvery sheen. It’s strange because it’s brown. But it isn’t brown. Not really.” Confusion rose from him. Confusion and something else. I listened, not believing the word that came to my mind.
Yearning.
Yearning? What did he yearn for? I was not foolish enough to think he yearned for me.
Ash. My mother said my hair was like ash.
“Ash.” He stroked his hand over it, from top to tips, and his yearning became mine.
“What do you want, Lark?” He asked again, and his inner elegy was so deafening it pierced my walls. There was something he was hiding from me, something I had not figured out.
I want to be wanted.
He stiffened, and I realized I had let him hear. I had let him in. Just a bit. He was so close, and my need was loud.
“I want you,” he said, his voice sharp.
You don’t want me. You need me. I am of use. It isn’t the same thing.
“I want you to be my queen.”
I would be a terrible queen.
“I can teach you what you need to know. I can teach you how to please me.” His voice was so low and soft the hair rose on my neck. I shivered and rose from the furs. I didn’t have to lie there. I was angry at my response to him and angry that he felt I needed to be taught to please him.