He followed me. I turned, warding him off with an outstretched hand as he rose, stepping back to create distance between us. The upper part of his face was in shadows, but the light touched his mouth as if directing my gaze. I shivered again.
Why do I have to be taught?
“Because you just said you know nothing about being a queen. Because I am king. And because it is your duty to please me.”
I laughed, and wished I could howl my frustration at the fat, lazy moon who looked on us through the flaps of the big tent like a drunken voyeur, too sauced to hide his riveted attention.
Why don’t I please you as I am?
Tiras reached forward and without warning, lifted me off my feet, his hands encircling my waist and raising me up until our eyes were level.
His black eyes were unreadable, but frustration sang in the air between us.
Maybe I will teach you to please me, I taunted him, refusing to be intimidated, though he held me as though my weight were insignificant.
“What could a lark teach an eagle?” he dared, and I felt that challenge from the grip of his hands to the gleam in his black gaze.
An eagle can’t sing. It was the only thing I could think of.
His lips twitched. “And my lark can’t speak.”
I am not your lark.
“You are.” He brought my body against his, and I felt a charge zing from my toes to my heart before it flared in his eyes. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me in place against him as his fingers twisted in my hair.
“You are,” he repeated, and his lips came down on mine so softly that I hardly realized he’d arrived. His mouth hovered there, tender and tentative, and completely at odds with the sharp ache at my scalp, where he gripped my hair in his fist.
Mine.
I didn’t know if the word came from his kiss or from his thoughts, or maybe the word was mine alone, but I took it and swallowed it whole, planting it deep inside my belly where desire, need, and longing grew and flowered.
His kiss was warm and persuasive, and completely different from the first time he’d kissed me. He still took—demanded even—but laced with his power was something sweeter. Something I needed from him. Something I longed for. Yearning. There it was again. Suddenly yearning had a flavor. It tasted like a king, a beautiful, frightening, infuriating man who flew into my life and began to free my words.
He pulled at my hair again, tugging me back from his lips as if he needed to impart something of great importance.
“You will be my queen.”
Do I please you? I mocked him even as I wished he would continue to kiss me.
He laughed, a harsh bark of disbelief. “You are not a lark. You are a great, shrieking harpy.”
All the better to keep up with an eagle.
“You will be my queen,” he insisted, setting me back on my feet, releasing me like the matter was settled. I felt almost bereft, until he tipped my chin up to meet his fierce gaze, forcing a response.
“Lark?”
I couldn’t say no.
I wanted it too much. He was right. I lied. Being a mere lark would never be enough for me. He’d ruined me. He’d made me want to be an eagle. I bowed my head in acquiescence and kept my joy locked away, allowing myself to agree, but not allowing him to know the exaltation that sang through my soul.
Yes, Tiras. I will be your queen.
We remained camped near Kilmorda for two weeks, and we sought out the Volgar, pushing deeper into Kilmorda every day. I called to them, sitting in front of Tiras on Shindoh’s back, wooing them, coaxing them to me in small groups, only to watch them take the lure and be slain. When I grieved for the beasts, Tiras would take me to a field strewn with bones or a village where only rats, fat from human remains, resided.
“They will kill if they are not destroyed,” he would remind me, and I believed him, even as I suffered pangs of remorse for using my gift to lure them to their deaths.
Day after day we cleared the Volgar from the hills and valleys of Jeru’s northernmost parts, though there were stretches, sometimes only hours, sometimes two days at a time, when Tiras disappeared into the sky.
Boojohni remarked on his absence in the second week as I rode on Shindoh, following Kjell as he circled the valley on a patrol of the areas already cleared. Boojohni trotted beside me, always the diligent servant, without ever seeming to tire.
“Where does he go, Bird?”
Who?
“The king, Goose! You know who I’m talking about. The man ye are always watchin’ for, the man ye love,” he growled, as if he had no patience for protestations.
I don’t love him.
“Ye do.”
He wants to make me queen.
Boojohni tripped over his own feet, surprise making him clumsy. Then he began to hoot and clap, drawing the attention of the warriors around us. Shindoh whinnied in irritation, and I reined him in, halting as Boojohni celebrated my announcement.
“The king is clearly a man of great wisdom,” Boojohni chortled, and he did a little jig, making Shindoh toss his head.
I am of use to him.
“Ah, I see.” Boojohni stopped dancing and cocked his head. “And is he of use to ye, Bird?”
The question caught me by surprise, and I had no response. Was Tiras of use to me?
“He has freed ye,” Boojohni prodded gently. “Surely that is worth something to ye.”
He kidnapped me!
“True. But he has freed ye too. Admit it, lass.”
He taught me to read . . . and write.
“That he did. And he sees yer gifts.”
He is using me.
“That seems to bother ye, Bird. Why? He doesn’t have to make ye queen to use ye. He is king. He can take what he wants.”