I didn’t know. But I couldn’t celebrate. I couldn’t laugh, or smile, or drink from the community flask and kick up my feet, though many smiled at me and even bowed when I passed, as if I’d gained a certain measure of celebrity. I kept my head high and my hands to my sides, and Boojohni hurried behind me, his eyes darting left and right at the celebration, and I saw him accept a cup brimming with something red. I pushed back my nausea and started down the little valley to the rushing water. I had to wash. If I didn’t wash I would be sick, and if I was sick then I would cry. If I started crying I wouldn’t stop.
The water was bracing, and I washed my hair twice, scrubbing at it until my brain was half-numb from the cold. Numb was good, numb was welcome. Once my hair was clean, I waded out into the middle of the creek until the water lapped against my chest. I slipped the soiled tunic from my shoulders and stepped out of the breeches as well; the water and the darkness were enough to hide me, and the clothing reeked of guilt and gore. I gathered it above my head and tossed it ashore.
I washed under the water, the coarse soap and the difficulty of the task demanding speed and attention. Boojohni stood nearby and kept his eyes pinned just beyond my head, giving me privacy and security at the same time. He drank from his cup, not trying to converse with me, and when I approached the shore, my hands crossed over my chest, he simply turned his back and held out the cloth for drying and the scratchy blanket that smelled of ale and horse. Still, it covered me from head to toe, and I pulled it around my shoulders gratefully as I blotted my hair with the cloth.
“Ye need to eat, Bird,” he said quietly. “Ye slept for an entire day. You’ll get sick if ye don’t,” he added.
I was already sick, but I nodded and pulled the blanket higher, creating a hood to shroud my face. Boojohni tottered behind me as I returned to the king’s tent, his goblet emptied, his hands full of my wet, borrowed clothes and what was left of the soap.
While I dressed and braided my wet hair, Boojohni found me dinner and sat with me quietly while I did my best to show him my appreciation by eating as much as I could. He stayed until the king returned and the revelry outside quieted. Then he kissed my hand and patted my cheek and bowed to the king as he turned to go.
“Your mother would be proud of ye, Lark,” he said before he stepped through the flap and let it fall behind him. I wondered if there was someone waiting for him, a woman who knew the worth of the little troll, and I said goodnight, the words sounding much like a spell. I pushed it outward and hoped he heard me, even as he walked away.
Sleep my friend, with peaceful dreams,
And never travel far from me.
I didn’t attempt to converse with the king, but rolled into the blankets of my pallet and faced the wall, awkward and unsure of what to do with myself if I wasn’t sleeping. I listened to him move about, pretending disinterest and feigning sleep, until he lowered the wick and settled on his furs. Restless energy hummed in the air, and I knew he was troubled. Or maybe I was confusing his emotions with my own. It was I who was troubled, and I certainly wasn’t tired anymore. I listened as his movements stilled, and I thought he was asleep when he spoke, startling me.
“I know you’re awake. Your mind is loud.”
I wondered if I was keeping him awake too. It was strange that I could. But he was getting better and better at hearing me, even when I didn’t intend for him to.
I’m sorry.
I tried to quiet it, and for a moment I thought I’d succeeded.
I heard him shift, his movement fluid, and remembered that he’d been hurt.
How is your wound?
“Gone. You stemmed the bleeding and eased the pain. Changing healed me completely.”
Silence rose between us once more, but questions tiptoed around us.
I sat up, irritated and restless, and threw off my covers. I rose from my pallet and walked to the opening of the tent, needing to escape but not wanting to be alone. I heard him rise as well, though he kept his distance. After a moment, he began to speak.
“I remember when I killed a man for the first time. I was fifteen. He tried to abduct me and hold me for ransom. He was one of my father’s advisors, and he was desperate. But I knew my father would let me die before he succumbed to blackmail or threats. He didn’t negotiate with anyone.”
King Zoltev, with his black eyes and his shining sword, rose in my memory, and I shuddered as Tiras continued.
“I knew I would have to save myself. I took the man’s sword—he’d completely underestimated me—and I remember the way it felt to plunge the blade into his belly. There was very little resistance in his flesh . . . or maybe my fear gave me power.” He paused. “But I saw the life leave his eyes, and it was absolutely terrifying. I wished I had let him kill me instead.”
Why?
“Because in that moment, as I watched him die, I felt something leave me too. Like he’d taken part of my soul. The best part. I’ve never gotten it back. And I miss it.”
I knew exactly what he meant. His innocence had been completely stripped away. Virtue had fled and left regret in its stead, even if the regret was only for what had been and could never be again.
“Where do you think he went?” he asked soberly, and I started, realizing he meant the man he’d killed. I struggled to offer possibilities.
Where does anyone go when they die? Back to the Creator of Words? Or maybe they dissipate and become part of the elements from which they were formed. I don’t know. Maybe some simply cease to be. Maybe some have earned the right to exist somewhere else or to exist again. I hope the birdmen I killed today aren’t waiting for me somewhere.