No Quarter

by Tanya Huff

  “Ah.” Looking somewhat taken aback, Lucija took a long swallow of tea before saying, “We had a Headwoman back when I was real young who could Sing water, but she decided to stay fishing rather than become a bard. Not that I’m suggesting you should’ve gone fishing,” she added hurriedly when she caught sight of Benedikt’s expression.

  He felt the muscles tighten across his shoulders, the tension moving right down both arms and curling his fingers into fists. “If I’d gone fishing,” he reminded her, “Tesia’s boat would still be at the bottom of the bay.”

  “Hey, calm down.” Hands making soothing motions in the air, Lucija gave him as much distance as the chair would allow. “We were all impressed by the way you Sang the kigh yesterday. Obviously, you made the right decision becoming a bard.”

  Shoving his own chair back with a shriek of protest, wood on wood, Benedikt stood. He’d hoped this time would be different, but it always came to the same thing in the end. “My thanks for breakfast and for last night, but I don’t need your pity.”

  * * * *

  Arms folded, Lucija stood by her cottage and watched Benedikt grow ever smaller as he climbed to the top of the cliff, resolved that if he turned and waved, she wouldn’t wave back. When Tesia came up behind her, smelling of warm pitch, she grunted a greeting but kept her gaze locked on the path.

  “So, he’s leavin’ is he?” Without waiting for an answer, the older woman spat and added, “I never met a bard so uncomfortable at bein’ the center of attention.”

  Lucija snorted. “I never met a bard I so desperately wanted to smack.”

  * * * *

  “Can’t you send a kigh ahead to the fort?”

  It always came to that. No matter how well he Sang or how long he spent playing song after song after song, in the end, they always found him wanting.

  “I Sing only water.”

  His parents had been thrilled when Karlene had Walked into the village and discovered his talent. It explained why skills his brothers performed as easily as breathing came so hard to him. His father had bragged about the discovery up and down the road to Sibiu and even the duc had sent her congratulations. His mother had made him a new suit of clothes, his alone instead of outgrown bits and pieces. To have a bard in the family was a thing to be proud of. So what that he only Sang water—he was untrained. “After training,” they’d told him as they proudly sent him off to the Bardic Hall in Elbasan, “you’ll surely improve.”

  They hadn’t understood. He’d been taught Command, and Charm, and tricks of memory that allowed him to recall months of travel down to the tiniest detail. He could Witness in cases of judgment and be an integral part of any service in any Center anywhere the honoring of the Circle had spread.

  But he would only, ever, Sing water. Nothing he could do, nothing he could be taught could change that.

  He couldn’t tell if his family was embarrassed for him or by him. Visits home were a trial; everyone smiling too broadly, making excuses to the neighbors, telling him too heartily that it didn’t matter.

  And it wasn’t just his family. Even the other bards told him it didn’t matter. “There’re half a dozen bards Walking through Shkoder who Sing only air,” they told him. “And don’t forget Jazep. Jazep Sang only earth.” Jazep had been a fledgling with Annice, the Princess-Bard. Jazep had been the best teacher the Bardic Hall had ever seen. Jazep had died saving the kingdom. Benedikt was sick to death of hearing about Jazep and, when asked to play “In the Arms of the Earth,” Jazep’s song, he’d begun to deny ever having learned it.

  “Can’t you send a kigh ahead to the fort?”

  He’d hoped Lucija would be different.

  Settling the straps of his pack more comfortably on his shoulders, Benedikt turned toward Fort Kazpar and settled into the rocking stride the bards used when they needed to cover distance quickly. Unable to learn if the queen would be attending the ceremony, he had no choice but to arrive before her.

  * * * *

  “Everyone understood why you decided against visiting the forts in First Quarter, Majesty, why you sent His Highness in your stead, but you can’t do it again.”

  Jelena, Queen in Shkoder for almost exactly four full quarters, raised an imperious brow and leaned slightly forward, her palms pressed flat against the crested papers scattered over her desk. “Can’t?” she repeated.

  “Shouldn’t, Majesty.” The Bardic Captain carefully kept his tone neutral.

  After a moment of narrow-eyed consideration, Jelena accepted his correction and sat back. “Why can’t Tavas go again? He’s willing, and the visits are only ceremonial. They serve no real function.”

  “On the contrary, Majesty.” This time, Kovar allowed his voice to rise. “Even ignoring the very real function ceremony itself serves, it is necessary that you dispel the lingering fear amongst your people that the road to Fort Kazpar is ill-omened.”

  “Ill-omened?” The young queen shuffled paper from one pile to another. “Kings and Queens of Shkoder have traveled that road hundreds of times.”

  “Yes, Majesty, they have. Until a queen died.”

  * * * *

  “And then he dared—dared!—to remind me about my mother’s death.” Unable to remain still, Jelena paced from one end of the terrace to the other, the soles of her half-boots slapping against the wet granite. “As though I’ve forgotten!”

  “Lena, I don’t think he meant …”

  “He meant it all right. The smug, self-satisfied windbag!”

  Tucked up tight against the palace wall in a futile attempt to find protection from the Fourth Quarter chill, His Imperial Highness Prince Otavas, youngest brother of the Havakeen Emperor and the consort of Shkoder’s queen, frowned as he watched his beloved travel back and forth and then forth again.

  “He as much as implied that if I didn’t go on this ever-so-symbolically-important ceremonial visit, I was being a bad queen.”

  As she passed, Otavas snagged Jelena’s arm and pulled her to his side. With the thumb of his free hand, he smoothed the wrinkles from her forehead. “You are not a bad queen,” he murmured, “but the Bardic Captain is right.”

  She jerked her head away from his touch. “Right?”

  “Right,” he repeated. “You’ve put it off once; if you put it off again, how much easier will it be to put it off a third time or a fourth?”

  * * * *

  “So after the Bardic Captain tells me I’m a bad queen, Tavas as much as tells me I have to get back onto the horse.”

  “And do you think you should?” Magda asked, tossing her saddlebags onto a chair and shrugging out of her damp jacket.

  “Do I think I should what?”

  “Get back onto the horse.” She hung the jacket on an iron hook by the fire and turned in time to see Jelena’s lips thin. “Problem?”

  “I am not a bad queen.”

  “I never said you were.”

  “You never said I wasn’t.”

  “Oh, I see.” Dropping down into the closest chair, Magda began working off her boots. “You followed me up from the stables so that I could tell you that I think it’s too soon, that you can put off the visit to the forts one more time.”

  “No …” When the healer raised both dark brows, the young queen sighed. “Yes.”

  Magda smoothed all expression from her face as she studied her royal patient. In spite of the best efforts of tailors and valets, her clothing seemed a size too large, the embroidered velvet filled out with quilted under-tunics to keep out the cold. But the weight loss worried the healer less than the shadows that continued to linger under the hazel eyes. “It’s been almost four quarters since your mother died, Jelena. I think that, if on your way to Fort Kazpar, you visited the spot where it happened, it might help you heal.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Boots tossed to the hearth, Magda stood, trying to decide if the protest sounded petulant or obstinate. Not that it mattered; queens could ill afford the luxury of either. “Jelena, you have g
ot to move past the moment of your mother’s death.”

  “So you’ve said.” Jelena’s left hand jerked up into the space between them, the royal signet inches away from Magda’s face. “But how can I when everything I am, I became when she died? Her death made me Queen. How can I get beyond something I have to live with the rest of my life?”

  “That’s a question only you can answer.”

  Jelena’s hand fell back to her side. “You are no help at all,” she muttered, spun on one heel, yanked open the door and stomped off down the hall, her two guards hurriedly falling into step behind.

  * * * *

  “Of course I’m worried about her,” Magda snapped, “but keep in mind it’s been barely four quarters since her mother died. Her spirit, her kigh, was wounded. That takes time to heal.”

  Behind the barricade of his desk, the Bardic Captain raised both hands in symbolic surrender. Although he could, as much as any of the bards, Sing the fifth quarter, the kigh carried by every living being, Magda i’Annice a’Pjerin was the first and, so far, the only person in Shkoder who could Heal it. That she was half his age made no difference; in this, he and everyone else in Shkoder—except perhaps her mother—defered to her.

  Sighing deeply, Otavas leaned forward in his chair, slender brown fingers clasping and unclasping between his knees. “I hate to see her so unhappy. It’s like the Jelena she was and the queen she is are two separate people. I just don’t understand how she can feel guilty about something she had nothing to do with.”

  “The death of her mother made her queen,” Magda reminded them, “and in her grief she began to believe that all those times she’d said ‘when I am queen, I’ll do this, or when I am queen, I’ll do that,’ she was wishing her mother dead.”

  Otavas cut her off before she could continue an explanation he’d heard a hundred times. “Maggi, I understand it up here.” He tapped his temples with his fingertips then pressed both palms over his heart. “But not here. It wasn’t her fault.”

  “Jelena has the same problem, Tavas.” Of an age with the consort and second cousin to the queen, Magda had been more friend than healer until this last, dark year. “She knows in her head it’s not her fault, but she can’t convince her heart.”

  “If only she had something to distract her,” Kovar mused, one finger stroking the graying length of his mustache.

  The consort leaped to his feet. “Don’t you start,” he snarled at the astonished bard, “I have had it up to here …” His hand chopped the air above his head. “… with everyone in this unenclosed country wondering why we haven’t had an heir! There’s nothing wrong with either of us!”

  Kovar opened his mouth and, with no idea of how to respond, closed it again.

  “It’s not often you see a bard at a loss for words,” Magda murmured. When both men turned toward her, she shot them her most professional calm down expression. Kovar was quite honestly confused by the response he’d evoked, but Otavas’ kigh was beginning to feel as fragmented as Jelena’s and that wasn’t good. “Jelena doesn’t need a distraction, she needs to find acceptance. And, given the sudden tragedy that put her on the throne, it’s only natural the people should worry about an heir—although I realize the speculation hasn’t made this year any easier on her.” When Otavas continued to glower, she added, smiling, “No one’s suggesting you’re not doing your part.”

  “Magda!” Ears burning, Otavas sat down, wondering if the healer had read that fear off his kigh or if it had been out on his face for anyone to see. Honesty forced him to acknowledge, at least in the privacy of his own mind, relief that his manhood wasn’t being questioned over every dinner table or mug of beer in Shkoder.

  “Which brings us back,” Kovar said after a moment’s silence, “to the matter at hand. Her Majesty must lay the tragedy to rest. She must make the journey to the forts.”

  “She knows that,” Magda told him.

  “But will she act on the knowledge?”

  Magda tucked her hands into the wide sleeves of her Healer’s robe and shrugged. “We three are her closest counselors and she knows how we feel; since she can’t deal with how she feels, that may have to do.”

  The sound of heavy footsteps approaching drew their attention around to the door. Kovar separated the sounds and, his voice pitched to carry only within the confines of the room, announced, “Her Majesty.”

  The door swung open. Guards flanking her at a respectful distance, Jelena’s gaze swept over healer, bard, and consort. “Is this a private meeting, or can anyone join in?”

  She sounded, Kovar realized with a start, remarkably like her grandfather, the late King Theron. He’d had a way of using the same dry, very nearly sarcastic delivery to remind those around him just who, exactly, was in charge. The resemblance was disturbing, coming, as it did, from a young woman only a year or two past twenty.

  “Well?”

  Magda read excuses rising in Otavas’ eyes and quieted him with a look.

  Standing, Kovar bowed. “Your Majesty is always welcome in my office.”

  “Thank you. How fortunate you’re all here. It’ll save me the bother of repeating my decision.” When she folded her arms, the royal signet flashed through a ray of sunlight slanting in from the window. “I’ve decided to go to the forts.” Before anyone could respond, she added, “And you’ll all be going with me.”

  * * * *

  Stonemasons had built Fort Kazpar and, across the water, Fort Tunov, up out of the stones of the headlands so that they seemed an extension of the cliffs. From the sea, the seam between the rock carved by the elements and the rock carved by hand was nearly invisible. By land, a small village and the well-traveled Capital Road leading up to the gate helped define the perimeter.

  As Benedikt identified himself to the guard at the gate, he wondered what he’d do if he was challenged. Stop being such an idiot. Why wouldn’t she believe you? No one in Shkoder ever lies about being a bard. And even if she did challenge you, it’s not like you couldn’t …

  “So’s Terezka expecting you today?”

  Jerked out of his reverie, Benedikt repeated the only word he’d actually heard. “Terezka?”

  “The bard who’s already here.”

  “Terezka’s here?”

  Amused by his confusion, the guard nodded. “I was just talking to her, and she didn’t tell me to keep an eye out for you, is all. Don’t you guys usually send kigh ahead of you, or is this some kind of a surprise?”

  Feeling a familiar tightening in the pit of his stomach, Benedikt straightened. “You should be expecting me. I’m here to Sing the queen’s boat safely across the strait.”

  “You’re that bard? That’s wonderful!”

  Somewhat taken aback, Benedikt searched her face for mockery but found only a visible complement to the pleasure that had been evident in her voice. “Why wonderful?” he questioned.

  “Well if you’re here to Sing the queen across the strait, then the queen’s gotta be coming. Right?”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess?” Stepping aside, she waved him through, eyes sparkling under the padded edge of her helm. “Hey, you’re a bard; you don’t guess, you know.”

  Recognizing an exit line when he heard one, Benedikt returned her smile, shoved his thumbs under his pack straps, and strode out into the sunlight of the inner bailey. It seemed that now he’d arrived, Her Majesty had no choice but to follow. It was a pleasant conceit, and he enjoyed it for a full half-dozen steps.

  “Benedikt! Up here!”

  He squinted toward the source of the summons and could just barely make out Terezka waving an enthusiastic greeting from the top of the inner wall.

  “Keep moving, darlin’,” she shouted. “I’ll be on the ground by the time you’re inside.”

  His smile broadening, he hurried toward the second gate. The older bard had been one of his favorite teachers when he’d been a fledgling. She’d never offered the reassurances the others had and so had been the only one t
o truly convince him that she found nothing lacking in his ability to Sing only water. He envied her indiscriminate way of sweeping those around her up into her excess of personality and agreed with her assumption that she was his closest friend among the bards.

  He barely managed to get his pack off in time to survive her hug.

  “Let me look at you.” Shoving him out to arm’s length, she swept a critical eye from head to toe. “I like the beard. Perhaps a little sparse on the cheeks, but it makes you look like a Petrokian pirate. What made you decide to attempt it?”

  “A dislike of shaving in cold water.”

  “Wimp.”

  “Hag.” Leaning forward, he kissed the top of her head. “Don’t worry, I’m getting rid of it before the queen arrives. Will the queen be arriving?” he asked as he straightened.

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “Nice to know I haven’t made the trip for nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Grabbing one side of his pack-frame, she led him toward a heavy wooden door built into the inner wall. “How can it possibly be nothing when there’s me?”

  That night, they sang themselves almost hoarse in front of an appreciative crowd of guards and villagers. Buttressed by Terezka, Benedikt managed to ignore the tightening noose of attention and create two new verses to the ale house favorite, “What Would I Do for Your Love.” Just before dawn, he collapsed into bed pleasantly buzzed by the certain knowledge that he’d met all expectations.

  * * * *

  “But why the Bardic Captain?” Benedikt asked, not for the first time, as he walked Terezka to the village limits. “He’s never come before.”

  “Have you not been listening to me?” Terezka demanded, shifting her pack into a more comfortable position. “Her Majesty requested his presence. This has nothing to do with you.” The older bard sighed and frowned at the plume of her breath. “You know, when you get to be my age, you’re not so fond of walking in Fourth Quarter. I should’ve agreed to teach again.”

  “Terezka, you seem to be ignoring the fact that Kovar Sings all four quarters. Four,” he repeated. “Including water.”