by Tanya Huff
“Stasya will point out the traitor, you’ll pass Judgment, the sixth duc will pop out of the forest with Annice, who’ll present you with a healthy niece or nephew, the Cemandian army will realize they can’t win by treachery, sue for a treaty, and go home.”
“Do you always look for the best to happen?”
Tadeus shrugged elegantly. “It’s just as easy as looking for the worst, Majesty. And it lets you sleep at night.”
“And if Stasya hasn’t found the traitor?”
“Then we will.”
“And if Annice …” He couldn’t finish the thought. The heavy embossing on the goblet cut into his fingers as he tightened his grip.
“Healer Elica says she was perfectly healthy when she left, Majesty, and that there should be no reason she isn’t perfectly healthy still.” Tadeus chose not to mention the obvious reasoning behind Elica being chosen as the king’s healer for the journey over the elderly man who’d been Theron’s personal healer all the king’s life. “Bards spend most of the cycle walking and Annice was never one to overdo it, regardless of her condition.”
Theron took a long swallow. “I can’t believe the guards missed them in Vidor.”
Tadeus could, but he chose not to mention that either. “Bards can take care of themselves, Majesty. You’ve no need to worry about either Stasya or Annice.”
“And should I not worry about a Cemandian army marching through an open pass with only a troop of guard and an ex-nurse to greet them?”
Dark brows rose from behind their palisade of silk. “And what am I, Majesty? Fish guts on the pier?”
Theron couldn’t prevent a smile at the injured tone. “Bards are forbidden by oath to use the kigh against other people.”
“And what about the water kigh at the battle for the Broken Islands?”
“That was a bluff they chose not to call.”
“And what about using kigh against enemies of the state?”
“Too easy to split hairs over the definition of enemies, as you very well know.”
Tadeus drained his cup and flashed the king a brilliant smile. “Then I shall charm their army, capture their hearts, and send them all home prisoners of love.”
There was such an absolute lack of doubt in his voice that Theron started to laugh and continued to laugh until tears ran down his cheeks and his ribs ached. Finally, he drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, “Thank you. I feel much better.”
Rising, Tadeus bowed. “I live to serve,” he murmured. “Now, Majesty, if you’ll get into bed, I’ll ensure that for tonight the cares of the future will have no power to keep you awake.”
Theron rose as well, one arm pressed to the stitch in his side. “What did you have in mind?”
Silently commending himself for his restraint, Tadeus resisted temptation. “I thought perhaps I could sing for you.”
Still smiling, Theron crossed to the narrow cot and shrugged out of his robe, wondering if he should be insulted at not being given a chance to turn the young man down. “Singing would be fine.”
Holding the base of the lamp steady with one hand, Tadeus blew out the flame, and checked to be certain it was out with a string-callused finger. Returning to his chair, he settled his lute, briefly tightening one of the pegs which had a tendency to slip.
Before he could begin, however, Theron quietly muttered, “When I get my hands on my sister, I’m going to wring her neck.”
“Begging Your Majesty’s pardon …” Tadeus stroked his thumb over the strings. “… but you haven’t had any contact with your sister for ten years.”
“Are you saying I haven’t the right to throttle her?”
“No, Majesty, I’m just saying that there are others with stronger claims and you may have to wait in line.”
* * * *
“If I thought I could find that bird,” Pjerin muttered at the dawn, “I’d wring its neck and make stew.”
“It hasn’t done anything for a few minutes,” Annice pointed out, yawning. “Maybe it’s done for the morn …” The three-note sequence was not only loud but had the same piercing quality as an infant’s scream. It couldn’t be ignored; it certainly couldn’t be slept through. Annice surrendered and let the kigh roll her up onto her feet. Oh, well, I had to pee anyway.
When she got back from the designated privy, Pjerin was kneeling on his bedroll, shirt off, lifting the makeshift bandage wrapped over and around his shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking for infection.” He didn’t look up.
“Let me.” Annice lowered herself carefully to her knees in front of him. His cheeks above the edge of his beard were pale and there were deep purple half circles under his eyes. “I’m really looking forward to cauterizing this if it gets infected,” she muttered, peering under the dressing and sniffing. “Hot irons, searing flesh. What fun. I can’t smell anything but sweaty Duc of Ohrid, so I guess it’s all right.”
Pjerin captured one of her hands. “Has anyone ever told you that personality-wise you’re a lousy healer?”
“Has anyone ever told you that a person who gets shot through the shoulder by a crossbow quarrel—oh, and then rips it out of his body with one mighty tug—can’t go on acting like nothing happened?”
“You’ve told me, Annice.” He released her. “With every other breath. All day yesterday.”
“And I’m likely to keep telling you today because I don’t think you’re listening. After all the effort I’ve put into getting you this far, I don’t want you to die.” She sat back and gently pulled his remaining shirt up over the bandage then settled his injured arm into its sling. “Do you think we lost them?”
Pjerin began a shrug, regretted it almost immediately, and arrested the motion. “You can’t move a troop of guard through the bush, especially not up the slopes we’ve been climbing without making some noise. You haven’t heard anything; I haven’t heard anything. I think we’ve lost them for now.” He stood and reached down with his good arm. Annice took it and he helped her haul herself back to her feet. “But I think we’re going to have to keep losing them every day until this is over.”
“Oh, great,” Annice grumbled, glancing up at the sky. On top of everything else, it looked like rain.
After a hurried breakfast—fortunately goat cheese had a flavor distinctly different from the milk it was made of—Pjerin loaded Milena and Otik’s horse while Annice had the kigh erase all traces of their camp. She couldn’t be sure of it, but it seemed that the squat brown bodies were increasing in girth even as she did. Their new shape disturbed her and she hated thinking she appeared as unappealing to others as they did to her.
As unappealing to Pjerin? she wondered, as they started walking east, slowly climbing higher into the mountains. No. That’s ridiculous.
“It occurs to me,” she said after a while, “that talking might make this go a bit faster.”
“Talking about what?”
“I don’t know.” She scratched through the shift at the tight curve of skin just over her hip. “But we managed to find common ground at least once before.”
Pjerin glanced down at her, caught her meaning, and half smiled. “I don’t remember that we talked much.”
“Well, I remember you making a number of pretty strange sounds.”
“Me? I wasn’t the one howling.”
“You could consider that a compliment.”
Pjerin’s smile blossomed suddenly and Annice couldn’t help but appreciate the view. Let’s hope he passes those great teeth on, baby.
“You know,” he said, “I had no idea that you were who you are. Or were. That is, while you were at the keep, I had no idea that you were the ex-princess.”
“It isn’t an idea I want people to have.”
“Yeah, but even after I knew, well, sometimes I still find it hard to believe.”
“Why?” Annice demanded. “I don’t act like you imagine an ex-princess should act?”
He laughed. “Actua
“And if you stick me in expensive clothes and drape me in jewels and surround me with courtiers, I can look pretty unenclosed princesslike, thank you very much.” She snorted and pushed a strand of blowing hair back out of her eyes. Stasya said it was like poured honey. What did he know?
Pjerin sighed. He should’ve known better. “I was trying to pay you a compliment, Annice. You were one of the most real people I’d ever met, that’s all I was trying to say. And …” His tone picked up an edge. “I’d have to say you act exactly like a princess: high-handed, always wanting your own way, always assuming you’re right and everyone else is wrong.”
“I don’t always assume I’m right,” Annice protested, deciding at the last minute not to let the branch she’d pushed out of her path spring back and smack him in the face. “It just usually turns out that I am and, oh, center it, I knew it was going to rain.” She draped the lead rope over a bush and turned to rummage the oilskins out of the pack.
Thunder cracked directly overhead, the clouds opened, and within seconds they were both drenched to the skin. So early in the season, so high in the mountains, it wasn’t a pleasant sensation. To her horror, Annice found herself bursting into tears as she wrapped her long cloak around her soaked shift.
“Annice?” Clumsily tying off the mare’s reins with one hand, Pjerin came around the mule. “Are you crying?”
“No. Shut up. Who asked you anyway?”
“What’s wrong?” He tried not to sound annoyed, but she wasn’t making it easy.
“I’m wet. And I’m tired.” Annice had no idea where this was coming from, but she couldn’t seem to stop it. “And I’m fat.”
Pjerin rolled his eyes. “You’re not fat. It’s a baby, remember?”
“It’s a baby, but I’m still fat.” A kigh rose out of the ground at her feet and lightly touched her knee. “Go away!” she sobbed. It left, but slowly. “I can’t Sing anything but dirt anymore.” Rain ran down her hair and dripped off the end of her nose. “And Stasya’s probably dead because of me.”
Shaking his head, Pjerin gathered her up against the uninjured side of his body. The fact that she allowed the embrace gave him a pretty good idea of how upset she was. He didn’t understand it, but at the moment that wasn’t really important as he dropped his head, murmured words of comfort into her hair, and gave her a shoulder to cry on.
Gradually, Annice found her lost control and, cheeks flaming, pushed away. Unable to meet his eyes, she muttered her thanks into his chest.
“Hey, I’d do the same for any friend.”
His voice was so gentle that she had to look up.
He smiled. “Ready to move on?”
Still uncertain of her voice, she nodded and reached for Milena’s lead rope. He’s really a very nice person, baby. Sometimes. And I know he’s a good father. I suppose that if Stasya is dead and I need some help raising you, I could do worse.
“We’ll stop as soon as we find shelter. Make sure the kigh warn us if we enter any run-off gullies. Keep the mule on a tight lead.”
On the other hand, he can be a bit of an authoritarian asshole and I’d probably kill him before you were walking.
* * * *
From the top of the inner tower, Gerek glared down at the lone rider disappearing between the high cliffs of the pass. It wasn’t his fault if nobody listened to him. He rubbed his nose on his sleeve, the upper half of his small body wedged into one of the crenellations. He’d told everybody that the new man Aunty Olina liked was the same as the old man and they hadn’t listened.
“Think I meant he was a Cemandian,” he sniffed. “Think I’m a baby, don’t know anything.” People should listen to him now he was the duc.
His lower lip trembled. He didn’t want to be the duc. His mama had come and asked him if he wanted to go live with her, but he didn’t want that either. He wanted his papa back.
Gerek hunched his shoulders as Nurse Jany called for him down in the courtyard. Even if she figured out where he was, he knew she was too fat to climb the tower stairs.
“I’m going to stay up here for the rest of my life.”
The rider was long out of sight when he heard the footsteps behind him and sullenly turned. He never got to do anything he wanted.
“You can really see a long way from up here.” Stasya smiled at him and held out her fist. “You must be Gerek.” She’d decided to use only his name as his title might remind him of where he’d seen her before.
Unfortunately, he didn’t need a reminder. “You’re the bard who took my papa!” With a shriek of fury, he launched himself at her legs.
Unwilling to hurt him, Stasya found herself at a distinct disadvantage as Gerek had every intention of hurting her. Although she managed to grab hold of his flailing arms and twist the lower part of her body back out of his way, he got in a couple of painful kicks to each shin.
“Gerek!”
The voice cut through his hysteria and left him hanging stiffly from the bard’s grip. Stasya turned them both so she could see who’d spoken although she really had very little doubt.
Olina stood at the top of the stairs, head set at an imperious angle above the slender column of throat, pale blue eyes narrowed and full lips set in a thin disapproving line. “That is not the way that a Duc of Ohrid behaves to a guest in his keep.”
“She made my papa say bad things!”
“She made your father admit to the truth.”
Cautiously, ready for a rematch, Stasya released him. When his lower lip started to tremble and his violet eyes filled with tears, she almost told him what the truth actually was.
“My papa promised he’d come back!”
Stasya felt her mouth open of its own volition and snapped it shut.
“Your father is dead, Gerek.” Olina’s voice had gentled. “And now the king is coming to Ohrid to fix the damage your father did.”
“He’s not coming here!” One booted foot stamped hard on the dressed rock. “He’s not. I hate him!” Sobbing wildly, Gerek pushed past his aunt and pounded down the stairs, screaming “Hate him! Hate him! Hate him!” until his voice was muffled by distance and the comforting bulk of his nurse.
Olina turned from staring down the stairwell and met Stasya’s gaze evenly. “The sooner he knows that King Theron is coming,” she explained, “the sooner he can get used to the idea. I apologize, though, for the way he treated you.”
“Please, don’t worry about it, Lady Olina.” Stasya bent and rubbed her shin, as much to break the heat of the other woman’s gaze as to acknowledge the bruising. “He obviously loves his father very much, and anyway, bards develop thick skins about rejection.”
Over the next few days, that thick skin came in very useful. Half the inhabitants of both keep and village viewed her much the way Gerek did; as at least partially responsible for the execution of Pjerin a’Stasiek. The other half flashed the sign against the kigh whenever she approached and went out of their way to obviously avoid her. When she went to visit Bohdan, Pjerin’s old steward, his daughter’s partner stiffly refused to let her see him and finally slammed the heavy door in her face.
Many people wore Cemandian styles and she saw Cemandian influence in nearly every facet of the villagers’ lives. Only one woman was openly welcoming, but as she insisted on reciting long and boring verse that she knew would sound wonderful set to music, Stasya considered that a mixed blessing at best.
She was never able to sing or play for the children again, although she put herself in places where they might have approached her if they’d dared. Gerek, she saw only from a distance as he glared at her from a window or around a corner. Finally, Stasya gave up trying to speak with him, just as happy not to have to see the accusations in his eyes.
Against such strongly held prejudices, Charm would have no effect. Although Tadeus might have been able to use it, Stasya knew it was beyond her abilities. More than once she was tempted to Command the information she needed, but Command was less than subtle and at the first hint of an inquiry, the traitor would be away out of His Majesty’s reach.
She Sang the attitudes she faced onto the kigh. The king needed to be prepared.
Eavesdropping became her greatest source of information; fortunately, it was a skill bards were trained in and her presence at the keep brought up old discussions of the treason. It wasn’t long before she learned that the young duc’s regent was considered to have ideas for the advancement of Ohrid, was strengthening the defenses in the pass, and was someone it was safer never to cross. Surprisingly enough, for a duc who had supposedly made a deal with Cemandia, Pjerin’s greatest fault was remembered as his being too restrictive with the border.
“Holding out for the best deal,” muttered one villager within Stasya’s hearing.
While Pjerin had been respected for his strength, he hadn’t been feared. Olina’s strength, on the other hand, generated as much fear as respect.
With a bard’s right to wander where she willed, Stasya walked one day out into the pass and stared up at the huge timber palisade that held back enough rock to fill the narrowest section two body-lengths deep. Ingeniously crafted by the third Duc of Ohrid, it could be triggered by releasing a single wheel which, in turn, released the tension on the entire system. It had been tested twice, Stasya recalled—amidst much grumbling when it came time to clear and refill, one rock at a time—but had never needed to be used. She squinted up at the people climbing along the top edge and wondered if the kigh could tell her what they were doing.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Lukas grunted from behind her. “It’s dangerous.”
Stasya turned quickly enough to catch the end of his sign against the kigh. She was tempted to go ahead and Sing but instead asked, “What are they doing up there?”
“Maintenance.” His tone said it was none of her business. “You should go. It’s dangerous.”
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