by Tanya Huff
The shadow on the left stepped forward into definition, becoming a young woman; sleekly muscled, not very tall. Her delicate, almost waiflike features were at odds with both her expression and the deadly, liquid way she moved. She was beautiful the way poisonous snakes were beautiful—the certain knowledge that they could kill without a second thought, without regret, adding to their glamour. As she came around the corner of the bed, Karlene realized that something was very, very wrong.
Every instinct told her two people were approaching where she could only see one.
She’d been told by the healer that under no circumstances should she use her bardic abilities, that the blow she’d taken could have easily killed her, but when the young woman lifted her head, moonlight reflecting for an instant in her eyes, Karlene caught her gaze and held it. “Stop right there!”
* * * *
*Bannon! I can’t move!*
*Try harder!*
*I am trying harder!* Vree struggled against the compulsion, but her feet had rooted to the floor. She felt Bannon’s consciousness race through her body, then surge to the front of her mind.
*Let me take it, sister-mine …*
They had learned to trust each other in a hundred, in a thousand situations where to hesitate meant death. Vree sucked in a deep breath and, as she released it, gave Bannon control.
She felt herself dive toward the bed, the familiar weight of a leather-wrapped hilt in one hand. She saw the blonde woman jerk away and discovered she could move again. But it was Bannon who held the blade to an ivory column of throat and Bannon’s cry of freedom that echoed inside her skull.
* * * *
The kiss of the dagger’s point having successfully banished all other emotions save fear, Karlene pressed back against the pillow, oblivious to the red heat pounding at her temples. I hope I’m still dreaming…
* * * *
You are a fool, Gyhard i’Stevana. A fool! How could he not have realized that the foreign singer was a bard? I’ve spent too many years in the Empire. Since his first body had died, he’d been near only one other bard and, although untrained and emotionally crippled, Kars had known what he was, had sensed the reforged connection between his life and the physical shell he wore. He could only assume that this bard would know him as well and the thought of that recognition paralyzed him.
He’d done nothing to prevent Vree’s capture by the bard’s Command and, a heartbeat later when Vree shook the Command off and dove for the bed, he continued to do nothing.
He’d watched Vree closely for the last thirteen days. He watched her now and tried to understand the small changes in her bearing, in the way her fingers wrapped around the hilt of the dagger, in the curve of her spine.
* * * *
*Vree, please …*
*No.*
He held on. She thrust herself past him. He pushed her back.
*I won’t. I won’t go. I can’t go.*
*This is my body, Bannon! Mine!*
Facial muscles twisted, teeth snapped together, a shudder ran from neck to ankles but the hand holding the knife never moved.
* * * *
Karlene, sensing the battle, rolled her eyes toward the second shadow. A male copy of the woman who had her pinned to the braided straw mattress; his features fey instead of gamine, the danger he exuded was more subtle than a sudden death. The woman held two lives. The man held his at arm’s length. A day ago—or perhaps more accurately a night ago—she would have cried abomination and run. But she’d seen the dead up and walking and knowing they were dead, and all reactions had to be measured against that.
“What do you want?” she whispered.
Fighting free of the memories that held him, Gyhard stepped forward. “Exactly what I said we wanted. To talk.”
“I’m to talk with a knife at my throat?”
“You’ll have to excuse my companion.” His tone managed to hold both threat and amusement. “She’s an assassin and has only one response to perceived obstacles.”
An assassin. Enclosed as they were within the city walls, the First Army had no assassins—they made the citizens of the Capital far too nervous. While Karlene had never met one, she’d certainly heard of them; dark songs called them Jiir’s blades and insisted they were safely sheathed by the army. The assassin bending over her looked neither sheathed nor safe.
Following the bard’s train of thought with little difficulty, Gyhard smiled slightly. “I wouldn’t twitch so much if I were you.”
“I’m not twitching.” Shallow breathing kept her skin from pressing against the blade. “It’s just that I’ve never heard they were able to overcome Command.”
“Usually, they aren’t.” Gyhard saw no reason to tell the bard what he suspected must have happened and surrender a potentially useful advantage. She’s not one assassin, she’s two. “Give me your word you won’t … Sing out, and I’ll have her release you.”
“My word?”
“That’s right.”
As she had little choice, Karlene gave it, fully aware that even if she called for help she’d be dead before it arrived. It was a strange feeling; in Shkoder bards were honored, in the Empire they were protected by an Imperial decree, but neither honor nor the Emperor would—could—save her now. She was staring death in the face—and she’d never imagined death would be beautiful. And this is not the time to start writing love songs…
“Vree.”
Vree straightened. Bannon returned the knife to its sheath.
“Vree? Are you all right?”
Bannon pivoted to face him. Vree spoke. “Don’t you mean, am I still sane?”
“Are you?”
Bit by bit, Vree pried up Bannon’s will and thrust him to the edges of her consciousness. He was her brother, and if honor demanded she sacrifice him, she would die as well, but she would give him no more of her life than he already had. Her strength surprised them both. Regaining control, she saw Gyhard studying her, a worried frown creasing the bridge of his nose, and realized she hadn’t answered his question.
*Vree, please, don’t …*
Was she sane? “Yes.” But the word came out sounding like she intended to say, For now.
Karlene glanced from one side of the bed to the other, wishing that the light was a bit better or that pain hadn’t painted quite so many starbursts across her vision. While the physical similarities of her unexpected visitors suggested brother and sister, the tension stretching between them did not. Curiosity aroused in spite of common sense, she shoved the pillow up behind her and slowly, carefully pulled herself into a sitting position. “What did you want to talk about?” she asked, as though having an assassin hold a knife to her throat was a common occurrence.
“I want to know everything you remember about the old man who took the prince last night.” His eyes locked on the bard’s face, Gyhard sat down on the stone bench built into the wall of the narrow room. Resting his forearms on his thighs, he leaned forward and repeated, “Everything.”
On the other side of the room, Vree stepped back from the bed. If anything happened, she wanted space to react. Without looking directly at either of the other two people in the room, she watched them both. The woman in the bed was in pain and no physical threat, but Vree would not be caught by her voice again. Gyhard had lost both his amused detachment and his earlier anger. He didn’t want to know everything the foreign singer could tell him, he needed to know; she could almost see that need rolling off him like smoke.
“There were three men,” Karlene reminded him.
“I’m only interested in one of them.”
“The other two were dead.”
“I don’t care.”
To her astonishment, Karlene heard the truth in his voice. Unlike the others, who didn’t believe her—even Gabris had blamed the blow to the head—this mysterious intruder believed but honestly didn’t care. Why not? Worrying at it, she slipped into a light trance and triggered a full recall.
Gyhard had forgotten about Ba
rdic Memory. Detail after inarguable detail dragged him toward only one possible conclusion. As the bard’s low voice described the way the years had destroyed beauty, he closed his eyes and saw the incredulous smile of a young man who’d always believed that no one could love him and had just discovered he was wrong.
It had been ninety years since he rode down out of those mountains. Kars was dead. Had to be dead.
“Gyhard?”
He had no idea how long ago the bard had stopped talking. Opening his eyes, he stared across the room at Vree.
She took a step toward him, drawn by the misery and confusion on her brother’s, on Gyhard’s face. Then she stopped as he buried it. Had she not known the features so well, she might have missed seeing the shadow that remained. “You know that man.”
“Yes.”
Pain forgotten, Karlene jerked forward, crushing a double handful of knitted, cotton blanket. “What does he want with Prince Otavas?”
Gyhard shrugged, the motion too deliberately nonchalant. “I don’t know. He’s insane.”
“Is His Highness in danger?”
“… kill you so that you’ll never leave me.” Gyhard brushed aside the voice of memory. “His Highness is probably already dead.”
“Dead.” She turned the word over for a moment as though trying to recognize it. Then, like a physical blow, horror replaced the growing sorrow. “Dead like the two …”
“Yes.”
Karlene swallowed, once, twice, and finally forced her voice past the lump in her throat. “You’ve got to go to the Emperor with this.”
“The Emperor?” Gyhard’s brows rose as he leaned back against the wall. “Shall we go to the Emperor, Vree?” he asked.
Vree struggled to make sense of what she’d just heard. “The prince is dead but not dead?”
“That’s right. His body has been killed, and then his kigh has been stuffed back into it.”
“Kigh?” The foreign word fell out of her mouth; a click and an exhalation. “Like Bannon?” If the prince was dead, there would be no Imperial pardon. But if the prince was like Bannon…
Gyhard nodded approvingly. “Very like. Except that Bannon isn’t dead. Isn’t aware he’s dead. And hasn’t been forced to remain in a dead and decaying body.” He spread his hands and smiled sardonically. “Bannon can leave any time.”
“Kigh?” Karlene repeated, ignoring everything else that had been said, her racing thoughts outdistancing the pain. “The fifth kigh the healers speculate about …” She swung around toward Vree. “You have two kigh!”
As it wasn’t a question, Vree saw no point in responding.
Then Karlene made another connection although it took her a moment to find her voice. “How does this old man compel the kigh back into the body?”
“He Sings.”
“No.”
“Afraid so.” Gyhard was enjoying her reaction.
“I know all the Songs that name the bards.” The air in the room seemed to have gotten thinner. It was hard to catch her breath. “He isn’t a bard. He can’t be a bard.”
“A bard?” Vree had no idea what they were talking about.
“This is a bard.” Gyhard gestured at the bed. “She Sings to the spirits and they listen.”
Vree’s eyes widened until they hurt. “Sings to the spirits of the dead?”
“No, there’s only one bard that I know of who can do that.” Apparently the skill had kept him alive long after he should have died. Grief flickered across Gyhard’s features so quickly Vree thought she might not have seen it. Turning back to the bed, he bowed mockingly. “You wouldn’t know him, Lady Bard. He’s Cemandian.”
The sudden relief made Karlene dizzy. “Cemandian,” she murmured. That explained a great deal. Fearing the kigh and those who Sang them, the Cemandians had crippled bardic gifts before. This time, they appeared to have found a gift too strong for them to either use or destroy. No wonder the other kigh were terrified of being trapped. If the old man could Sing the fifth kigh back into the body that death had separated it from, what could he do to the other four? What horrific prisons could he Sing for them?
Gyhard watched conclusions flicker across the bard’s face and had to turn away. He raised a brow at Vree’s narrow-eyed stare and said, “It seems you’re going to get your wish. We’re going after the prince.”
*But he’s dead! What good is a corpse?*
*This has nothing to do with the prince, Bannon. He’s going after the old man.*
*Why?*
Old wounds. But for reasons she refused to examine, Vree wasn’t able, wasn’t willing to expose that much of Gyhard to her brother. *It doesn’t matter. If we return the prince’s body and the body of the man who kidnapped him, we can still get that Imperial pardon.*
*If we get that carrion eater out of my body.*
*When.*
“Do you know where the prince is?” she asked.
Gyhard looked back over ninety years. “I may …”
“He’s at least a day’s walk from the Capital.”
They turned together to stare down at Karlene.
“The air kigh have returned,” she explained. “They wouldn’t come any closer to the Capital when this … person was here, so obviously he’s gone.”
“Gone where?” It wasn’t obvious to Vree but Gyhard seemed to think this bard knew what she was talking about.
Karlene shrugged and wished she hadn’t. “I don’t know.” Her fingers hovered over her left temple. “I haven’t been able to Sing, to find where the kigh refuse to go …”
Tugging down the edge of his vest, Gyhard stood and nodded toward the bed. “Kill her.”
Vree wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her dagger. At this distance, she could effortlessly sink it guard-deep into an eye socket. This woman, this bard, knew she was an assassin and could therefore target her.
*Probably why he told her,* Bannon snorted. *Now he’s picked her brain he wants her dead and he hasn’t the balls to do it himself.*
Assassins who deserted died. It wasn’t enough that Gyhard was responsible for their danger, he was trying to use it to control her. Vree folded her arms and glared at him. “Sod off.”
“I beg your pardon?” Gyhard spread his arms in a parody of concern. “Don’t tell me you think we should go to the Emperor? Or perhaps you believe she won’t go herself once we’re gone? Life won’t be fun with the entire First Army on our trail. In case you’re forgetting, Vree …”
“I’m not forgetting anything. I think she should come with us.”
“What?”
*I hate to agree with the carrion eater, Vree, but maybe you’re not as sane as you think you are.*
Vree raised her left hand and began flicking up the fingers. “First, you’re not sure where the old man went. She can find him; the spirits won’t go where he is, so we’ll go where they won’t. Second, a bard brought these dead guys back to life so maybe it needs a bard to kill them again. Daggers aren’t much use against someone who’s already dead. Third, if the prince is … is like that, then I want her along even if you don’t. Fourth, what are you going to do when you catch up to the old man?”
All emotion drained from his face. “That’s none of your concern.”
“Fine.” Vree folded the fingers down into a fist and set it on her hip. “But I’m going with you, and she’s going with me.”
“Perhaps you should consult the bard before you finalize your plans,” Gyhard suggested caustically. “Why do you think she’d be willing to help?”
“Because she feels responsible for what happened.” Vree turned to face the woman on the bed who was breathing heavily and staring up at her in astonishment. “You don’t want to leave His Highness dead-not-dead, but you won’t be able to save him without us. No one else believes you and no one else knows what Gyhard does about the old man and these spirits he controls.” Her eyes narrowed. “You know the army will never find him. You’d be a fool not to come with us.”
“You’r
e the one being a fool, Vree,” Gyhard spat through tight lips.
“Then kill her yourself.”
The night grew a few heartbeats closer to dawn.
“Can you ride?” Gyhard asked at last. “I know it isn’t a bardic skill …”
Teeth clenched, Karlene threw back the blankets. “I had a life before the Bardic Hall,” she grunted. “I can ride.”
Gyhard shook his head at her condition. “You see that she stays in the saddle,” he told Vree pointedly.
“Who died and put you in command?” she snarled, but she helped the taller woman up onto her feet. Twisting around, she pulled a pair of full trousers and a long tunic off a hook. “Here. Get dressed.”
Fighting nausea, Karlene dragged the tunic down over her head. “We have to free him,” she said, her voice muffled in the fabric. “We can’t leave him like that. I can’t believe a bard would be so …”
“Lonely?” Vree asked. From the corner of one eye, she saw Gyhard flinch.
Karlene stared at her, amazed, the trousers dangling forgotten in her hand. “Lonely,” she repeated. It was the first thing in two days that made total and complete sense.
“Very profound,” Gyhard commented dryly. “I guess you have to know people pretty well in order to kill them.”
Gripping the bard’s elbow, Vree turned to face him. Head cocked to one side, she stared at him for a long moment. “I guess you do,” she agreed at last.
* * * *
“Karlene, wake up. It’s almost sunrise.”
“Wha …” Struggling with the embrace of the straw, Karlene sat up and tried to focus on the figure silhouetted against the entrance to the livery stable.
Callused hands caught hers up and wrapped them around a warm clay bowl. She heard the younger woman murmur, “I brought you something to help your head.”
A cautious sip puckered her mouth and, holding her breath, the bard drank the rest of the familiar liquid in a half a dozen fast swallows. Although she knew it would take time to work, the bitter taste alone seemed to clear the fog from her eyes.
Hands dangling between her knees, Vree squatted an arm’s reach away. Karlene sighed in relief and handed back the bowl. “Where did you find feverfew?”
