He doctored the wound at my throat as he talked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“They blame him for the rise of the Volgar. They say he has encouraged revolution. He has led the Volgar to believe he is weak and lenient.”
I thought of the way Tiras and Kjell had fought the terrifying bird people, hacking them out of the sky, and wondered at the delegation’s definition of lenient.
The Volgar are not . . . Gifted. They are monsters.
“The council believes there is no difference,” he said.
I winced, and Boojohni patted my hand again. It was what King Zoltev, Tiras’s father, had believed. But my mother was not a monster. I was not a monster.
We continued with our conversation, my words slow and small as I did my best to assemble them in my head. Boojohni listened in wonder as I answered his tentative questions, and at one point, wiped his eyes and smiled at me tearfully.
“Ye sound like a nightingale, Bird. Yer voice is beautiful. Sweet. I could listen all day.”
Before long, Greta and the maid I’d just learned was Pia brought steaming buckets of water to my room and pulled a gown from my wardrobe. Boojohni informed us all that he would be waiting outside my door to escort me to the Great Hall when I was ready.
He shot me a sheepish gaze as he excused himself, and I pressed a frantic question on his mind that he studiously ignored. He wasn’t telling me all that the king had communicated.
Pia’s eyes grew round at the blood on my dress, and Greta was less abrasive than usual as I was bathed and primped, then dressed in a silvery silk that made me feel like a raindrop—grey, small, and all but invisible. Pia wrapped a diamond choker around my neck to hide the thin slice Kjell had carved into my throat. They didn’t ask about the wound, and I wondered if it was because I couldn’t speak or because they regularly saw things in the king’s employ that they were forced to ignore. Pia informed me the choker had belonged to the king’s mother, Aurelia, and that it suited me. It didn’t. But it was beautiful, and its weight gave me courage.
Pia brushed a drop of lavender oil into my heavy hair so it would shine and held the length back from my face with a thin band of braided silver studded with diamonds that matched the jewels at my neck. The lavender eased my nerves, and I tried to focus on the scent so I wouldn’t think about the evening ahead as Greta lined my grey eyes with kohl, blackened my lashes, and stained my lips and cheeks with rose-colored face paint.
I had the distinct impression I was being prepared for something I was not at all ready for, and when Boojohni rapped on the door and urged us to hurry, the maids stepped back and admired their handiwork like I had been the ultimate challenge, and they had succeeded with their task.
When Boojohni saw me, he seemed proud and pleased, and I shot him a question I’d been saving throughout the long beauty session.
What is happening in the hall?
Boojohni winced and covered his ears, as if that could keep me out.
“Hellfire, Bird!” he whined. “Adjust your tone. Ye don’t have to yell.”
My mouth dropped open, and I halted in surprise. I hadn’t realized I could control my volume. But it made sense. Just like a person could moderate their voice, I too could ‘speak’ quietly, even whisper, so only the person next to me could hear. That meant I could also raise my voice in a crowd and deliver a message to a group.
I repeated myself more carefully, and Boojohni nodded, indicating I had been successful.
“There is a feast for the dignitaries. Ye are attending to show your father that you are in good health. Ye are to nod and smile and sit near the king. Ye are to keep yer words to yourself.”
I had no intention of revealing my gift, but Boojohni’s instructions bothered me. You are suddenly the king’s messenger?
“I have no loyalty to your father, Lark. I never have. My loyalty was to your mother and now to ye. I believe ye are better off here in Jeru.”
Preparations for the arrival of the lords had been occurring all week, and the chandeliers dripped with hundreds of candles, the flame flickering in the crystal drops that reflected rainbow light across the walls and domed ceiling of the hall. I’d only seen the hall from the garden, and daylight didn’t do it justice.
Huge tables draped in royal blue were laden with roasted fowl and entire pigs, still rotating on spits. Cheeses and berries, melon and pears, and delicacies from every province were arranged in towers and teetering displays. Breads of every hue were braided, brushed with sweet butter, and sprinkled in herbs and spices, making the air smell like a bazaar. The hollow drum of my stomach began to growl.
I poked carefully at members of the assembly, testing the limits of my voice.
May I serve you, madam? I asked the beautiful ambassador to my left, and without raising her eyes, she declined.
“I have all I need, thank you,” she responded easily. I bit my lip and ignored Tiras, who had also heard my question.
More wine, sir? I asked the man sitting next to her, my eyes trained on him only long enough to pose my query. He didn’t raise his head either, and he didn’t respond. I asked again, raising my mental volume.
The man next to him looked around in confusion, his glass raised for a topping off.
Tiras growled.
I ignored him and tested my ability on the three people to the left of Kjell, just across the table. None of them, except Kjell, responded or glanced up at all. Kjell scowled and shot a warning look at the king.
“Stop that,” Tiras whispered.
Why do you think some people can hear me and some can’t?
“You look quite beautiful this evening, Lady Lark. Have I told you lately how much I enjoy your silence?” he murmured, ignoring my musings.
Have I told you lately what an ass you are? I didn’t think ass was the most accurate word for the king, but it was easy to spell. I tripped over my comeback a little and the king snorted softly, indicating he’d heard. I stopped talking to him—we were surrounded by curious eyes and ears—and I lapsed into quiet study of the people assembled at the long table. The king sat to my right, at the head, and Kjell sat directly across from me, though the distance across the table was at least six feet, providing some much needed distance between us.
The Ambassador from Firi was the only representative who was as youthful as the king, and her beauty rivaled his. Her skin was dark—darker than Tiras’s—and her hair was a wild, curling mass, embedded with tiny, sparkling gems that twinkled as she moved her head. Her ears were slightly pointed, as if she’d descended from elves. She was tall and voluptuous, her breasts round, her waist small, her legs tapering to tiny feet wrapped in silvery slippers. Kjell watched her with equal parts distrust and fascination, and I wondered if he ever relaxed. He was the most irascible man I’d ever met, and his presence made me want to run from the hall. The Ambassador from Firi eyed him with pursed lips and laughing eyes, as if she knew he was intrigued. At one point, Tiras engaged her in cordial conversation, his eyes resting appreciatively on her face, and I felt a sting of something unwelcome and unwieldy pierce my breast. I didn’t want him to like her.
Kjell wants to bed the beautiful ambassador, and he despises himself for it.
My silent observation zinged between us, and the king choked, grabbing for his empty goblet. I felt my face flush and didn’t meet his eye. I couldn’t believe I’d shared such a thing, and I doubted I’d spelled all the words correctly, but I’d gotten his attention. He put down his empty goblet with a grimace and reached beneath the table and pinched me, hard.