Free The Bird and the Sword by Amy Harmon Page A

didn’t matter, because I wouldn’t make that request. I didn’t want to return to Corvyn. I wanted to read.
    I walked to the shelves laden with books and ran my hands reverently along their spines, but I didn’t pull one from the shelf. There was one thing I wanted more than books. I turned back toward the king and fell to my knees. With my hands, I mimed the act of stroking an invisible beard. I needed to see Boojohni.
    The king scowled in confusion at my pantomime, then his brow cleared, and he laughed out loud, making me jump and my heart shake in my chest. He was such a conundrum.
    “The troll?” he asked, still laughing. “You want to see the troll?”
    I nodded emphatically and rose to my feet.
    “Done. What else?”
    He would give me more? I bit my lip to contain my glee and turned back to the shelves. I pulled a book down, the fattest one of the bunch, and embraced it like a friend.
    “I should have known.” He crossed the distance between us and pulled the thick tome from my arms. “ The Art of War ?” he asked. “This is the book you want?”
    I didn’t care what the book was about, I just wanted to look at the words. I took it back from him adamantly. His chest was bare, and his breeches hung low about his hips, making him seem almost more indecent than if he wore nothing at all. I was not used to seeing men this way, but he seemed comfortable with his state of undress. I turned my face to the side, focusing my eyes on the door.
    He observed me silently. I could feel his gaze on my face and the question in his thoughts.
    “Would you like me to read it to you?”
    My eyes shot back to his. I wanted that very much, and he knew it.
    I walked to the foot of his bed and picked up the deep blue dressing gown that had been tossed aside and brought it back to him. I extended it toward him, my eyes averted, and he took it from my hand. Then without waiting for him to direct me, I sat on the curved settee in front of the enormous hearth, set my wine aside, and opened the book on my lap. He sat beside me and began to read, his voice low and warm, his hand smoothing the page between us.
    “Lasting civilizations are forged on the blood of their citizens. Where there is life, there is conflict.”
    I stopped him immediately and pointed to the C shape that appeared several times. It didn’t make a consistent sound. He said the words slowly, not understanding what I wanted.
    “Civilization?”
    I nodded, then pointed to the letter again in a different word.
    “Conflict?”
    I pointed to the first word again, and he repeated it. I held up two fingers and then pointed to the C shape in the two words.
    “Two sounds?” he guessed.
    I nodded.
    “Many of the letters make more than one sound.”
    I stared at the words he’d said, trying not to cry in frustration. I would never learn to read.
    “Shall I continue?” he said softly, as if he could sense my turmoil. I nodded but didn’t look up from the page.
    “But war, in all its forms and manifestations, is an art which the successful leader must master and utilize.” He sighed. “Would you like to skip ahead to the chapter on disembowelment? This is a bit dry.”
    I brought my hand to the page and pointed at the words impatiently, and he sighed again. I ran a finger under each word so that I could match the sound to the letters, but I got lost almost immediately. He seemed to understand what I wanted, and he placed his hand over mine, moving my hand as he went, so that I stayed with him. He spoke slowly, clearly, unraveling words about life and death and conquering armies and ruthless kings, about blood and war and surrender. And despite the lurid instruction, I did my best to learn.

 
     
    T he king returned to my chambers with Boojohni in tow the very next morning, and I embarrassed myself by clinging to my friend with all the desperation of a lonely child. Boojohni stroked my hair and I wiped my wet eyes in his beard before pulling away and running my