His eyes shot to mine and he smiled widely, as if I’d given him something of incredible value. He answered immediately, proving it wasn’t a fluke or an illusion. We could actually converse.
“You have a low voice. It’s warm. Feminine. But not overtly so. And it’s slow, like you are searching for the words to say.”
I was searching. I was spelling. He seemed suddenly uncomfortable and scratched the back of his neck like he’d been too expressive. I took a deep breath and asked a question that was much more pressing.
Are you going to kill me?
His head reared back like he was shocked, and he halted, grasping my arm so I was facing him. “Why would you ask me such a thing?”
I’ve seen what happens to the Gifted. I am strange. I have a . . . power. I used his word with a little push for emphasis. Power was something to fear and disown. He knew that well. I shouldn’t have to explain it to him. His eyes narrowed, and I knew I’d made my point. When he spoke again, he chose his words carefully.
“It is strange. But how is it different from speaking? You use your head to speak. I use my mouth.” He shrugged like it was a trifle. I suddenly wanted to slap him. He was being purposely obtuse.
Do you know anyone else who speaks with their mind?
“No.”
I stared at him balefully, my point made.
“Do you know anyone who can wield a sword equally well in either hand?”
I raised an eyebrow disdainfully. I didn’t. But I wasn’t wildly impressed. He was an accomplished killer. Bravo.
Do you?
“As a matter of fact, I do.” He smiled wickedly and my breath caught. He was beautiful and terrifying, and he knew it. I looked away, afraid the words would escape my head. But he didn’t seem to hear me. Maybe he was right. Maybe he only heard the words I gave him.
“I can wield a sword with either hand. I know no one who can do it as well, if at all.”
Yet no one has struck you down for your gift.
He pursed his lips and stepped back, considering my words. “It isn’t a gift. It is a skill,” he said softly and maybe a bit defensively. “And many have tried to kill me for it. Make no mistake.”
And speaking to you with my mind is a skill . . . not a gift? It was semantics, and he had to know it.
He stared off in the distance for several long moments. He didn’t answer, and I could almost hear his mind churning.
He turned abruptly and commanded me to remain where I was in the garden. I obeyed, though I wanted to take to the sky. How was it that I could make a dress dance but I couldn’t make myself fly? A moment later Tiras was back with a maid, the young girl who brought my meals and occasionally dressed my hair. Trailing behind them was Kjell, sweat-soaked and breathless, like he’d been pulled from the training yard.
“Sit,” Tiras commanded the girl. She sat on a nearby stone bench, looking fearfully from her king, to me, to the sweating warrior beyond.
“Ask Lark a question—something you don’t know, something she could answer in a few words.”
“Wh-wh-who is Lark?” she squeaked.
Something flashed in Tiras’s eyes, and a word rose in the air, filling my mind. Shame. He felt shame. I didn’t know why.
He looked at me solemnly, and the girl followed his gaze. “This is Lark,” he said, looking at me, his voice strangely apologetic.
What is her name? I pressed the words into him.
“Uh. What is your name?” Tiras asked the girl, who was quaking in her seat. I wondered if Tiras knew any of his servants’ names.
“Pia,” she answered, her eyes so wide I worried she would strain herself.
“Are we going to have a visit in the garden with the ladies, then?” Kjell growled impatiently. “What the hell is going on, Tiras?”
Tiras spun on his heel and glowered at his friend. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Sit.” He pointed at the bench. When Kjell was seated, filling the space with the smell of perspiration, horseflesh, and dust, Tiras spoke again, repeating the question.
“Ask Lark a question, Pia. This is not a test. You won’t be punished or harmed. Ask her a question.”
“Er . . . How do you do, Lady Lark?” she chirped nervously.
Kjell groaned like he was being tortured. “She’s a mute. Not a lady. What in the bloody hell are we doing?”
“Enough!” Tiras roared, making us all jump. The word rose from him again. Shame.
“No, Pia. Something specific. Ask her what her mother’s name was. What her favorite color is.” Kjell swore under his breath, and Tiras shot him an outraged sneer.
“What is your mother’s name, Lady Lark?” Pia repeated obediently.
I glanced up at Tiras, and he inclined his head, wanting me to answer the only way I could.
I thought of my mother’s name, the letters, the syllables. Meshara. Then I focused my thoughts on the crinkled forehead of the confused servant and urged the word outward. The girl stared at me blankly, and shot a look back at the king.
“Do you hear her?” Tiras asked her.
“Wh-what?” the girl stammered, her eyes widening once more. “She’s not even speaking, Highness.”
Tiras looked at me as if I weren’t concentrating hard enough. I gazed back steadily.
“Leave,” Tiras commanded the girl, and she stood and fled from the garden without further prodding. I winced. I was sure the rest of the castle was going to hear all about “Lady Lark” and the king’s request.
“What is this, Tiras?” Kjell rumbled, his voice more measured.
He rose from the bench and stood next to Tiras, his arms folded suspiciously. He still didn’t like me. I could feel the disdain coming off him in waves. No words necessary.
“Ask Lark a question, Kjell. Something you don’t know the answer to. Something only she can provide.”
I was having serious concerns about this experiment. I’d been relieved when Pia had been unable to hear me. I looked at Tiras and shook my head, entreating him.
If he can hear me it will only endanger my life.
“He can be trusted,” Tiras said, arms folded, quartering no argument.
Says you. Could Pia be trusted? She’s already telling your housekeeper that you are losing your mind.
Tiras’s eyes widened in affront. “He can be trusted,” he insisted stubbornly.
“Tiras!” Kjell hissed. His brows were lowered over his blue eyes, and his hand gripped his sword like he wanted to draw it. Tiras was staring at me, talking to me, and it appeared as if I wasn’t responding.
“I can hear her, Kjell,” Tiras explained, his gaze moving to his friend. “She can’t speak aloud. But I hear her in my head.”
“What?” Kjell roared. He couldn’t have looked more stunned if Tiras had told him I was actually a lark and could lay eggs.
“Ask her a question,” Tiras demanded.
I felt like a spectacle, a freakish novelty, but I kept my gaze steady on Kjell who was glaring at me like I’d scrambled his king’s brains.
He drew his sword slowly, and Tiras sighed. “Kjell,” he warned.
“I’ll ask the little lark a question then,” he hissed. “How about this? If I toss you over a cliff, will you fly or will you fall, because that is where you’re going.”
I clenched my teeth so hard, I felt something pop in my jaw. My words were as sharp as glass, and they could have cut through the hedge they were so loud in my head.
I am neither a bird nor a beast, so I would fall. But judging from the way you smell and the way you act, if I throw you in among the pigs you will be right at home.
There was a stunned silence for several heartbeats. Then Tiras started to laugh, his shoulders shaking with mirth at Kjell’s outraged expression.
“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.