Tiras spent the following day closeted with maps and men, their hushed words wafting out from behind closed doors, words I could have easily drawn to me if I’d wanted to. I didn’t. I’d awoken with a lurching stomach and a pounding head, and I kept to my chamber with dry toast, peppermint tea, and Boojohni to comfort me. I laid across my bed, my hair streaming over the side, and he brushed my locks gently, as if he’d been a lady’s maid in another life and an exceptionally good one.
He was full of kitchen gossip, and I listened drowsily, floating in his affection, allowing myself to be coddled. When he ran out of juicy natter, he started to hum, and I joined in, allowing the voice in my head to lilt along with his.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
He is coming, do not hide.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
Let the king make you his bride.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
Wait for him, his heart is true.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
‘Til the hour he comes for you.
Boojohni stopped suddenly, his brush stalling in my hair as if he’d found a knot. When he didn’t continue singing or brushing after an inordinate amount of time, I opened my eyes and lifted my head. He was staring sightlessly at the silvery tumble of my hair, seeing something that wasn’t there.
Boojohni? I prodded. What’s wrong?
“Have you ever thought maybe it wasn’t a curse, Bird, but a prophecy?” he said oddly, refocusing his gaze on mine.
What are you talking about?
“The day yer mother died. The words she told ye. The words she told yer father.”
I swallowed, the memory making my throat close the way it always did.
“Maybe yer mother wasn’t forbidding ye to speak,” Boojohni hedged. “Perhaps she was just tellin’ yer father ye wouldn’t and tellin’ him to protect ye. To keep ye safe.”
I stared at him, dumbfounded.
“Meshara couldn’t do what ye do, Lark. Her gift was different. Her gift was one of knowing, of seeing, of warning. Ye are the one who can command.”
I shook my head, not understanding, but Boojohni only grew more adamant.
“That song . . . the maiden song. Yer mother used to sing it to ye. It reminded me of her, of the things she knew. The things she knew, Lark!” he repeated emphatically.
My mother was not the first to sing the maiden song, Boojohni. I felt dizzy again. I didn’t want to talk about my mother or the day she died.
“No. That’s not what I’m tellin’ ye. The song just opened me eyes.”
I waited, knowing he would explain.
“I heard the words yer mother spoke that terrible day. I was afraid the king would strike her again. I threw me-self over her.” Boojohni’s voice grew high pitched with suppressed grief, and emotion swelled in my chest.
“Do you remember what she said, Bird?”
She told me not to speak. Not to tell.
“Yes,” he whispered, nodding. “She did. She knew your gift was dangerous. She told ye to wait until the hour was right.”
When will the hour be right?
“Yer using yer gift now, Bird.”
Then why can’t I speak?
“Maybe ye . . . can.” Boojohni was almost pleading with me, and I could only gaze at him in disbelief.
“Ye were a wee child. Ye saw something terrible.”
I began to shake my head, but he didn’t stop.
“Ye blamed yerself. Ye became afraid of yer words.”
No! I can’t speak, Boojohni. Don’t you think I’ve tried? I can’t speak!
“Shh, Bird!” he said, wincing and patting my cheek. “There, there. Yer gonna make my head explode.”
I was going to make my own head explode. I laid it back down gingerly, focusing on slow, deep breaths, and after a moment, Boojohni resumed his gentle strokes with the brush, as if the conversation were over. I was too nauseated to pursue it, too troubled to dwell on it, and regardless of what Boojohni suggested, I still couldn’t speak.
He started to hum again, but this time I didn’t join him, letting the melody drift around me. Before long my stomach settled, and my drowsiness returned.
“What word did ye give the prince that day, Lark? I’ve always wanted to know,” he muttered.
I was sure I hadn’t heard him right, sure it was just the pull of dreamy sleep, but in my mind a memory swelled and kissed the backs of my lids, a memory of an enormous horse and a black-haired, dark-eyed prince.
I awoke to a different set of hands in my hair, hands that caressed with careful strokes and eyes that reminded me that time was fleeting.
“I should have let you sleep, but I missed you,” Tiras whispered, apology written all over his face. I would have smiled at his sweet remorse, but he looked so desolate I reached for him instead, pulling his mouth to mine and relaxing his bleak expression with soft kisses. He returned them eagerly, and for a time we lost ourselves in the desperate reacquaintance of our mouths.
“There is much to do,” he whispered finally, and I sighed against his lips, hating those words, hating even more that I could feel his anguish and his desire to remain exactly where he was, with me, lying in our shadowy chamber, hiding from everything but each other. There was much to do, and my king did not want to do it. Yet he did, and it was one of the reasons I loved him so desperately.
If there is much to do, then we must do it.
He pressed his forehead to mine, and his gratitude and relief billowed around me, making my eyes prick with tears.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
When do we leave for Firi?