by Tanya Huff
*She has a slaughtering answer for everything.*
*Vree, she can’t come. It’s going to be hard enough dealing with Kars. If she’s there …* Gyhard’s voice got lost in the painful prospect of once more seeing the ruin the years and his interference had made of Kars. Dying has to be easier than having your heart ripped out over and over. The ancient image grew younger; the chin pointed; the hair grew thick and brown and curly; the skin darkened; the brows lifted to a sardonic angle. Not Kars. Bannon. Which was when he realized that neither the pain nor the thought accompanying it was his alone
The second realization seeped around the edges of the first. Bannon would be arriving shortly with Prince Otavas. If they went after Kars, Vree wouldn’t have to face him. His rush of anger at having his personal demons used as an excuse to avoid hers smashed apart the barriers between them, crashed into her fear, and ground to a halt, its momentum destroyed.
Vree stiffened. The horse, who’d been standing quietly while she’d been adjusting the stirrups, began to move forward. *Bannon can wait. Kars can’t.* She yanked back on the reins. *If the bards get to him first, you’ll have lost your chance.*
*You were hoping I wouldn’t notice. You didn’t want me to know how afraid you were.*
Her teeth were clenched so tightly together both temples throbbed. *Assassins are trained to face their fears. I …* The barriers were down. She had no self-image left to save. *I can’t face him. Not yet.*
*Then it’s a good thing you’re not an assassin anymore, isn’t it?*
*I’m sorry.* She didn’t know what exactly she was sorry for, so she hoped he did.
“It would be a healthy thing, a distinct step forward if you two managed to resolve something in your lives. At least you both know what has to be done in order to deal with Kars.”
Breathing heavily, Vree looked down at Magda’s fingers lying across her wrist. Until the young healer had spoken, she hadn’t even felt the touch. If she needed proof she was no longer an assassin, there it was.
*This was a private conversation, child,* Gyhard told her shortly.
Magda snatched her hand back as though the fingers had been burned. Her lower lip started to tremble. “I only wanted to help. Vree was looking so … I mean, I’m a healer, and I have to do something!”
Gyhard used Vree’s lungs to sigh. *You know, her wanting to go along probably has as much to do with a response to Jazep’s death as with us.*
*No shit.* As Magda sniffed, Vree reached between the horses and gently grabbed her shoulder. “He’s …” *How do you say pissed off in Shkoden?*
*I don’t need you to explain me to her, Vree.*
“He’s upset because we have so little privacy and so every bit we lose seems too large.” She tightened her grip for a moment then let go. “But it’s a good thing you’re going with us.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
*Vree!*
*Maybe healing Kars is a part of healing you. Us. Besides, she’s right. We don’t have a choice. We have a saying in the army: don’t waste your strength trying to push a dagger through armor. It only dulls the blade and irritates the enemy.*
*Very profound.*
*Thank you.*
The moist sound of horseshit hitting cobblestones echoed against the Citadel wall. Magda giggled, just a little hysterically. “We’d better get moving before we’re caught by a garden-wagon and escorted home at pitchfork point.”
As Vree settled into the rhythm of her horse’s gait, she revised travel plans. If they managed to avoid bardic entanglements, Magda’s presence had cut their time on the road at least in half. Which had to be weighed against Magda’s presence complicating things rather significantly.
*Then let’s look at the bright side,* Gyhard put in wearily. *If the king’s niece, the only healer they’ve got who can heal the fifth kigh, has to go tearing around the country, at least there’s no one she’s safer doing it with than you.*
Vree grinned, thinking of the omnipresent trio of guards, and of Gerek who shadowed every moment she and Magda spent together. *You really think His Majesty and her brother are going to believe that?*
*About as much as I think His Majesty and her brother are likely to sprout wings and fly.*
* * * *
“I assure you, Your Majesty, that Magda is completely safe.”
“You also assured me,” Theron growled, both hands pressed white-knuckled against his desk, “that the assassin would remain under bardic control. Now you tell me she’s galloping down the South Coast Road with my niece.” He held the Bardic Captain in a basilisk glare. “Which am I to believe?”
Projecting a calm she wasn’t entirely feeling, Liene spread her hands. “The kigh are watching them, Majesty. They’re not trying to hide.”
“That’s very helpful.” The words squeezed out from between clenched teeth. “But I don’t care about the kigh. What are you going to do?”
Liene blinked. “Do, Majesty?” They hadn’t realized until they’d sent a fledgling to her room after breakfast that Vree was gone—they’d thought she’d merely missed the meal and had been concerned that she might be ill. When she wasn’t in her room, they’d assumed she was with Magda and sent the fledgling to the Healers’ Hall only to find Magda missing as well and an irritated Captain of Couriers demanding to know why an apprentice had signed for two horses.
Kovar had immediately Called a kigh—his summons so peremptory four of them appeared and nearly blew him over—and sent them searching for the missing assassin. The two senior bards then began to put the pieces together and by the time the kigh reappeared, their answer came as no surprise. Liene had headed immediately for the palace. She hadn’t actually thought of much beyond getting to the king before he heard his niece was missing from a non-bardic source.
“Do,” she repeated. “Majesty, as I said, Magda is in no danger. She was, according to Cecilie, the bard on the gate, under no compulsion when she left the Citadel. We believe that the three of them—Vree, Gyhard, and Magda—are heading into Somes in order to deal with Kars.”
“Who is—if I remember Karlene’s recall correctly, which I assure you, Captain, I do—an insane Cemandian who Sings the dead to life and has recently killed a bard.” Theron’s face began to darken. “Not to mention, he was once Gyhard’s lover and was not killed by this same assassin although she had every opportunity to do so and had apparently been trained never to miss. You’ll have to explain to me, Captain, how you can possibly stand there and say that Magda is in no danger!”
Considerably more worried about the vein throbbing on Theron’s temple than she was about Magda, Liene stepped toward the desk. “Majesty, please believe me when I say that both Vree and Gyhard view Magda as the only person who might possibly be able to help them. They would never, ever hurt her and will, in fact, do everything they can to protect her. There is no one in Shkoder, Majesty,” she continued soothingly, “who would be able to get past Vree to Magda.”
Unfortunately, the king was past being soothed. “No one except this bardic abomination!” His left hand curled into a fist. “The very thing she’s rushing off to face! I want her stopped, do you hear me! Send a kigh to every bard between her and Somes!” He paused and his left shoulder flexed forward, but before the Bardic Captain could explain that they’d already begun to move the only bard in the area, he went on. “And then, you throw everything you’ve got at this thing that is killing my people!” His expression changed between one heartbeat and the next, pain wiping out anger.
“Majesty?”
Beads of sweat suddenly appeared on his forehead, combining and trickling down both temples. He opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. Right hand clutching at his tunic front, he slumped forward, his face smacking into the desk.
“Majesty!” Liene raced to his side just as a tentative knock sounded against the office door. “What!” she snapped, one hand pressed on a pulse point in the king’s throat, relief that he still lived overwhelming f
ifty years of vocal training.
A section of paneling swung open and a page stepped into the room. “Majesty, the …” Her jaw dropped.
“Get the king’s healer! Now!”
The page whirled around and raced away, leaving the door ajar behind her.
As Liene eased Theron back against the leather padding of his chair, the second page on duty poked his head into the room. Eyes impossibly wide under ginger brows and every freckle standing out against pale skin, he crept forward, shoes making no noise against the thick carpet. “Majesty?”
Liene jerked around. “Don’t do that!” she snarled.
The page ignored the old woman, his gaze locked on the king. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Do I look like a healer?” When the boy seemed about to cry, she clutched at control and managed to gentle her voice. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but he needs your help.”
“My help?”
“That’s right. Go get Her Majesty and bring her here as quickly as you can. Be careful not to frighten her.”
He sniffed. “What about the Heir? Should I get Princess Onele?”
Her hand on Theron’s shoulder, Liene nodded, grateful that the boy had thought of it. He’s ten years younger than I am. This shouldn’t be happening. “Yes. Get her, too.”
* * * *
“Where you headed, Healer?”
“Somes.” Magda covered a yawn with the back of her hand then scrawled her name across the bottom of the form that would get them fresh horses. She began to make the apprentice symbol, realized what she was doing, and flushed.
The stablemaster only laughed. “Haven’t been a healer too long, have you?”
“No, in fact, I …” Exhaustion wiped out the rest of the thought and she stared blankly up at him, unable to remember the lie she’d been about to tell.
“Never mind.” He looked as though he were about to pat her on the head. “I’ll just check this against the list the Healers’ Hall sends me out from Elbasan.” Yanking open the single drawer under the scarred table, he pulled out a folded sheet, swept aside some straw and spread it out. “Can’t just have anyone riding off on the King’s horses,” he explained as he ran a thick finger down the first column of names.
Vree shifted her weigh forward and wished she had her second throwing dagger.
Gyhard quickly shifted her weight back. *You’re not going to have to kill him.*
*How do you know?*
*Magda would never put us in a situation where that was the only option.*
*She’s tired. Tired people make mistakes.*
*Not one that so completely contravenes everything she believes in.*.
*Big words. What the slaughter do they mean?*
*She wouldn’t make a mistake that big.*
“Ah, here you are. See that loopy bit there? Unmistakable.” He turned frowning slightly. “I see you’re still an apprentice on the Second Quarter list. Funny you should make full healer before Third Quarter Festival.”
Magda shrugged, making no effort to hide how exhausted she was. “I’d have waited, but they need my specialty as soon as possible in Somes and they couldn’t spare a healer to travel all that way with me. If I was going to go, and I had to, I had to go as a healer.”
“Poor thing. Missed your ceremony, then tossed on a horse and pounded against a saddle for days on end.” Clucking his tongue, he looked over at Vree. “If you’re her helper, Southerner, you ought to be helping her up to bed. She’s nearly dead on her feet.”
Startled, Vree took a closer look at the younger woman. They’d been on the move since just after full dark and it was now well into morning. Stops had been infrequent and the two previous times they’d changed horses, Vree hadn’t bothered going inside. There were purple-gray shadows under Magda’s eyes, her mouth was slack, her shoulders slumped, and she carried her head as if it were too heavy for her neck.
*You’re used to your own rather remarkable endurance,* Gyhard reminded her, feeling her guilt. *You’re not used to traveling with someone who doesn’t share it.* He well remembered how Bannon’s body had effortlessly done everything he’d asked of it.
Vree shoved aside a memory of Gyhard/Bannon riding beside her, laughing, eating, bathing … and lightly touched Magda on the arm. “He’s right. You need to rest.”
“We need to keep moving.” But it was almost a question.
“You’ll do no one no good if you fall off the horse and break your neck, Healer,” the stablemaster pointed out, kindly. “I got a nice quiet corner of the mow for just this kind of situation. You two head up there and lie down and I’ll see that you’re woke in three hours.”
“Three hours,” Magda repeated.
Vree met the stablemaster’s eyes. There appeared to be nothing behind his smile but an honest desire to help. “Come on.” She put her arm around the younger woman’s shoulders. “We can spare three hours.”
A horse blanket spread over the straw was a better bed than many Vree had slept in. Taking a deep breath, she allowed her muscles to relax and was nearly asleep when an unfamiliar sound snapped her fully alert. Unfamiliar to her; Gyhard obviously knew what it was.
*Imperial Army service starts at fifteen,* he murmured. *Don’t soldiers ever get homesick?*
*Not around assassins,* she told him shortly, rolling up on one elbow. Rays of sunlight, glittering with dust, slanted through cracks and knotholes, providing more than enough light to see thin shoulders shaking. “Magda? what’s wrong?”
“Jazep’s dead.” Nearly lost against the crook of her elbow, the childlike wail took years off Magda’s age.
Vree reached out a hand, but left it hovering in midair, uncertain of what to do.
*Hold her.*
*Are you sure?*
*Trust me.*
*I don’t know how.* She’d meant it as a bald statement of fact, but it came out more like a desperate apology.
*Yes, you do.* He didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to remind her, but he couldn’t allow her to believe she was unable to give comfort, couldn’t allow jealousy to cause her such pain. *Just pretend that Magda is Bannon.*
Bannon? Slowly, hesitantly, ready to pull back if it were the wrong thing to do, Vree reached out and drew Magda into the circle of her arms.
Magda pressed herself against Vree’s side. Her sobs turned to ragged breathing, evened out, and in a few moments she was asleep, too tired to grieve further.
Resting her cheek on the soft cap of dark curls, Vree shifted to settle herself more comfortably beneath the warm weight and tried to work out how long it had been since she’d held another person; if she’d ever been granted the kind of trust that allowed sleep in such a position. Breathing in the scent of sweat and hay and horses, she forced herself to relax and grant that trust in return.
Just before sleep claimed them both, Gyhard realized that Vree hadn’t reacted to his instinctive control of her body down in the stable and he found himself suddenly unsure if that was a good thing or a bad.
* * * *
Her Royal Highness, the Princess Onele, Heir to the crown of Shkoder, looked grim as she left her parents’ bedchamber and entered the solar where the Bardic Captain and the Chancellor were waiting, their mutual animosity lost in shared worry. She nodded at Liene. “He wants to see you.” Her lips twisted up in a humorless smile. “And he says you’re not to start composing any eulogies.”
“Highness, is he …”
“In a very bad mood,” Onele interrupted. “Use as much Voice as you have to to keep him from losing his temper.”
“Yes, Highness.”
Neither of them meant it, but the exchange lightened the tensions in the room just a little.
“When His Majesty is finished with you, come and see me. We have things to discuss.”
“Yes, Highness.”
As the Bardic Captain left the solar, leaning heavily on her cane, Onele took a deep breath and squared her shoulders under the faded shirt she’d been wearing when su
mmoned from the stables. Unlike most children, she’d been raised with the full knowledge that one day her father would die. “When you are Queen, Highness …” had begun every lesson, the implication clear, and she had to admit that increasingly over the last few years she’d been impatient to get on with the job she’d been trained to do. She was thirty-four years old. Long past time to finish her apprenticeship. Now that the job was almost hers, she found that she wouldn’t mind putting it off for a little while yet.
“When you are Queen, Highness …”
When my father dies …
“Highness?”
The Heir gave herself a shake and focused on the Chancellor.
“Highness, Prince Otavas’ ship has passed the outer harbor and will be mooring shortly. Everything is in readiness, but …” Chancellor Rozele spread her hands.
Onele nodded. “But obviously I can’t go down to greet my Imperial cousin as planned. I don’t suppose Aunt Milena’s boy is still here?”
“No, Highness, he went home.” And, good riddance, her expression added. “I had thought perhaps His Grace, Heir of Ohrid …”
“Perfect. It’ll keep him from worrying about his sister and there’s only what, five years between them?”
“Four, Highness. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to find His Grace.” Her lips pursed. “He didn’t spend the night in the Citadel and has not yet returned.”
Onele briefly closed her eyes. It was just like Gerek not to be around when he was needed. “Who’s left?”
The Chancellor glanced down at the floor, as though looking for inspiration in the polished wood. “Princess Jelena is barely three years younger than Prince Otavas, Highness and, as Heir Apparent, would bring a certain diplomatic sense of rank to the meeting.”
Jelena’s mother frowned. “But she’s so shy.”
“The pressure on her will be slight, Highness. Although an official duty, it is also a family duty.” The shared knowledge that Princess Jelena would, given her position, have to overcome that shyness, lingered behind the Chancellor’s words. “If one of the older bards took the duty, she’d feel like she had someone to depend on.”