“They are members of the council. They are lords of Jeru. Lords of lands that have been passed down through their bloodlines since the children of the Creator came to be. Do you want me to murder them in their sleep, my bloodthirsty wench?” Tiras murmured with a smirk.
I thought of Tiras, chained and naked in the dungeon of his own castle, and was tempted. Tiras asked Kjell if he’d been the one to lock him in the dungeon on our wedding day. I was not present, but I’d felt Kjell’s flood of betrayal and outrage rise up through the walls, even as he pledged his loyalty to his brother. Tiras believed him. I believed him. I wished I didn’t.
They want to oust you.
“I am king, but I am subject to the support of the provinces. If the provinces rise against me, against Degn, then my kingdom ceases to be. They will put a puppet on the throne. Someone they can easily influence and control.”
Like my father.
“I have a powerful army. I have loyal soldiers. But they come from every province, and they are sworn to protect all of Jeru, not just the king.”
We were interrupted by Kjell, accompanied by the ambassador from Firi. She curtsied before the king then curtsied to me, giving us both a brief glimpse of her beautiful breasts. Kjell moved to Tiras’s side, and the ambassador extended her hand to me.
“My queen, will you join me?”
I looked beyond Ariel Firi to the long line of ladies assembled to engage in a traditional dance, and immediately started to shake my head.
“It is custom,” she said, dimpling prettily and grabbing my hand. “You must.”
I don’t know how, I pleaded with Tiras to intervene.
“You are Jeru’s queen, of course you must participate in the dance,” he said, his grin wicked. “Lady Firi will take good care of you.”
Drawing more attention to myself with my hesitation than I would by simply going along and blending into the bright fabrics and spinning women, I stood and followed Lady Firi to the floor.
“Have you done the dance before, Majesty?” she asked innocently.
I shook my head.
“Follow me. It’s quite simple.”
The music began, a song I’d known once, long ago, a song my mother had sung, and her mother before her, and her mother before that. It was the maiden song of Jeru, a song of celebrations and rituals. A song for women. But there’d been so few opportunities in my twenty summers to celebrate or sing, tucked away from the world where I would not harm or be harmed, that the song was like a long-lost sister—part of me, but a stranger still.
I did my best to copy the graceful sway of hips and arms, the steps and the turns, but my mind was captured by remembrance, and as the words to the maiden song were sung, I knew them, though I couldn’t have pulled them forward on my own.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
He is coming, do not hide.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
Let the king make you his bride.
I heard the words in my mother’s voice, lilting and sweet, as if she sang my future from my past. I spun without knowing the steps, and danced without knowing what came next. My eyes found Tiras, visible in slivers and pieces as I whirled with Jeru’s daughters, and the voice in my head became a voice of warning.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
Wait for him, his heart is true.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
‘Til the hour he comes for you.
It was a silly song, an ancient song, a song of being rescued by a powerful man, of becoming a princess, as if a princess were the only thing a Jeruvian daughter might want to be. But it disturbed me, as if my mother, a Teller of considerable power, had made it all come to pass. She had sung me to sleep with that song—Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter, ‘Til the hour he comes for you.
‘Til the hour.
Curse not, cure not, ‘til the hour.
‘Til the hour he comes for you.
The maiden song and the curse my mother whispered in my ear the day she died became one in my head.
“Are you unwell, Highness?” Lady Firi touched my arm lightly. I realized I had stopped dancing, making the line bunch around me.
I fanned myself, signaling a need for water and air, and she nodded agreeably.
“Let’s step into the garden, shall we?”
I followed her gratefully, keeping my chin high to keep my crown from sliding around my ears and over my eyes. I knew it made me look haughty, but haughtiness was preferable to bumbling.
The garden was fragrant with the last of the summer’s blooms. The leaves were falling and the air was starting to grow crisp and cool. Jeru City didn’t get much snow like Corvyn, or Kilmorda, or even Bilwick to the east, but the days were growing darker and shorter, the light fading faster, taking Tiras when it fled.
“You lied to me,” Lady Firi said breezily. “You knew that dance, and you did it very well. The king was pleased.”
Her choice of words made me flush. Pleasing the king brought to mind other things. I shrugged carefully and smiled a little, pleading innocence without a word.
“You are quite lovely. I didn’t think so at first. I do now. Shall we be friends, Lady Lark? That is your name, isn’t it?”
I wondered if I could trust Ariel of Firi. She had spoken up for me as I waited at the altar. She had stood with Tiras against the northern lords. Kjell seemed smitten, and I would love to have a friend. But her eyes often lingered on Tiras, and the silent words she exuded were guarded and stiff, as if she were wary of me too.
I nodded, allowing the use of my name, and she leaned in and whispered in my ear.
“I can hear you, you know.”
I drew back as if she’d slapped me. She laughed, a lovely, tinkling sound that made the flowers tip their heads toward her.
“When you speak, I can hear you. Just a word . . . here and there. At the feast you asked me if I wanted more wine. You thought I didn’t know it was you.”
I stared at her blankly, revealing nothing, and she pressed a gentle finger against the thundering pulse on my neck.
“Don’t worry. The Firi are descended from the Gifted too. I have my own shameful secrets. Your mother was a noblewoman from Enoch, yes?”
I confirmed nothing.
“All of Enoch is descended from the first Teller. Enoch and Janda. There were Gifted in Kilmorda, though many of them were destroyed by the Volgar. Some say the Volgar are descendants of the first Changer—though he was a wolf and the Volgar are . . . birds.” Her voice was light, informational, but she didn’t remove her hand from my neck. She held it there, softly, like a caress.
“And some say the Volgar were spun from vultures. I tend to believe that, having faced them in battle. The Bin Dar descend from the Spinners, the Quondoon as well. It is all part of our history,” Tiras spoke up behind us. I hadn’t heard or felt him approach with the blood roaring in my ears and Lady Firi’s knowing fingers at my throat.
Lady Firi dropped her hand and turned with a demure smile and welcoming eyes. Kjell trailed after Tiras, a constant shadow since the king’s wedding day abduction.
“The king speaks truth.” Lady Firi inclined her head in agreement. “But the Corvyns and the Degn descend from the warrior who slayed the Dragon Changer. There is no Gifted in their blood, which is why the throne has remained in the Degn line for over a century, with a Corvyn always waiting in the wings. Pure blood. No taint.” She looked at me and winked.
“But then we marry and mate. And things become messy. Don’t you agree, Kjell?” The smile she tossed toward Kjell was flirtatious. Or provocative. I wasn’t sure. She was friendly and relaxed, but the words she said and the words she hid were different. Something was bothering her. I had a feeling it was me.
“Indeed. But the king is of Degn. I am of Degn. We should both be without . . . taint,” Kjell said with a hint of bite.
Lady Firi walked toward him, turning her back on me and the king, as if we were all old friends. When she drew near, she raised herself on her toes, letting her lips touch Kjell’s ear. Maybe she didn’t intend for me to hear, but the words found me anyway, the way they always did.
“But we all know differently, don’t we?”