by Tanya Huff
“Thank you. But no.” Theron dropped into the other chair by the fire, letting the heat bake the chill from his bones. From the middle of Third Quarter on, the larger of the two audience rooms became perpetually cold and damp and he had no idea why he’d used it today. Well, actually, yes, he did. He had no wish to see the Cemandian ambassador in any kind of an intimate situation. “I really can’t stand that son of a bitch. I wish you’d been there.”
She smiled. “When I offered to attend, you told me there was no reason for us both to suffer. So, what did the ambassador say when you confronted him with the bardic reports on the traders?”
“For the most part, more of the usual. That his queen wished to establish a trade route to the sea and that the traders were merely finding the best corridor through Shkoder. Then he said that as I had raised no objection to the first he couldn’t understand why I would object to the second.”
“And you told him?”
“That he was a slimy little eel and I should have sent him packing before the pass closed.”
“Theron.” She reached out and prodded him in the calf with the toe of her fleece slipper.
He sighed and unfastened the throat of his heavy brocade overtunic, catching himself before he could roll the embossed gold button between his fingers. It was a habit he was trying to break and, besides, his valet would be unbearable if he lost another one. “Well, that’s what I wanted to tell him. Instead, I informed the slimy little eel that agreeing in principle to an expressed desire did not mean that I had agreed to a small army of traders poking their noses where they don’t belong. That if a corridor is to be laid out, I will say where it goes.”
Lilyana nodded. “And he said?”
“That his people were just trying to help.” He began to grow annoyed again, remembering, and his tone sharpened. “That all information would, in time, have been brought to me in order that I could come to a decision.”
“And you said?”
“Lilyana, there was a bard there. The whole conversation was witnessed. If you want me to repeat it back to you, word for word, it would be easier to ask for a recall.”
“But you’re here now,” she told him, “and I’m asking you.”
The king glared at his consort, who met his gaze levelly, her expression clearly stating she depended on him, and only on him. He sighed again, not the least taken in, and undid another button. “I didn’t lose my temper, if that’s what you’re afraid of. The little sea slug isn’t worth it. I told him that I would express my displeasure to Her Majesty the moment the pass cleared and a messenger could be sent. Whereupon,” he raised a hand to forestall her next question, “he then went on about how the pressure of the Empire against both our borders suggests that we would have much to gain from closer ties, and then he mentioned, as he always does, that we haven’t chosen partners for either of our daughters and that the Heir of Cemandia is still unjoined. I reminded him that Onele is my Heir and he replied with …”
“The line about our grandchild ruling two great countries combined. He’s so predictable.” Lilyana drummed her fingers against the tooled leather covering the arm of her chair. “As if the two countries could combine without Cemandia trying to roll right over Shkoder to the sea.”
Theron grunted his agreement. “Then, I pointed out that Brigita is, at ten, fifteen years younger than Prince Rajmund, and still too young to be considered as a partner for anyone. Which ended that topic yet again.”
“He’ll keep bringing it up.”
“Of course he will. It’s his job. All things being enclosed, I’m thankful there isn’t a female member of the Cemandian royal family around the right age or he’d be nagging me about Antavas, too.” He rubbed at his temples where the headache that always accompanied the ambassador still pounded. “Rajmund and Annice were of an age. This could have all been settled so easily years ago.”
Lilyana’s eyes widened slightly, her only reaction to the surprising introduction of a topic never discussed.
“They could have found happiness together,” Theron continued. “They could have built the first span in a bridge between Shkoder and Cemandia, given me a foundation of family to build on.” He frowned at the mixed metaphor and locked up at his consort. “You found happiness, didn’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said complacently, “you know I did.” She’d been sixteen when they’d been formally betrothed, nineteen when they were joined. They’d spent maybe five months of those three years together. But from the beginning they’d both been willing to make the best of the situation and, over time, tolerance had become trust, had become friendship, had become.… She was no longer able to imagine life without him and knew how much he depended on her. If she had to put a name to it, Lilyana supposed that love was as good a one as any.
She studied his face. He was six years her senior and there were new lines around his eyes and mouth, and the gray at his temples had begun to spread through the soft brown curls. At least he still had his hair; her family tended toward baldness, something Antavas would not thank her for later. Almost half her life spent reading nuances off a face schooled to hiding expressions behind political dissembling told her Theron was honestly worried. She also realized that her happiness—while he did care about it—was not the issue bothering him now. Stroking the rope of pearls he’d given her when Onele was born, she added thoughtfully, “But I never had another life pulling at me. Annice did.”
When Theron’s frown twisted into a scowl, she met it with a neutral expression and blandly pointed out, “You mentioned her first.”
The wood and leather chair creaked a protest as Theron shifted his weight. “She didn’t even give it a chance,” he growled. “Didn’t even consider what it might mean to Shkoder.”
“She was fourteen. She overreacted.” Lilyana had thought at the time that if Annice had tried to find the worst possible way to handle the situation, to handle Theron, she couldn’t have found anything better. If only she’d come to me. But the adored youngest princess had been jealous of her brother’s new loyalties and, to be honest, Lilyana had never blamed her for that. That Theron, nineteen years Annice’s senior, had also overreacted had only made things worse. They’d hurt each other very badly and pride had kept the wounds from healing.
It hadn’t helped that when Theron had decided to meet Annice halfway, Annice had refused to be met. Lilyana had tried to explain how Annice felt, had tried to get Theron to apologize—for she knew that in his heart he was sorry—but without success. “I am the king!” he had snarled, his sister’s message crushed in his fist. “I held out my hand and she not only ignored it but dared to tell me what I should have done. What kind of a king surrenders to the whims of a spoiled child!”
Pride and temper—in this Annice and Theron were too much alike. Lilyana had mentioned that at the time, endured the storm produced, and never mentioned it again.
“A diamond for your thoughts?”
“A diamond?” Lilyana smiled at him. “I doubt they’re worth so much. I was just thinking that Annice and you might …”
Theron chopped at the air with his left hand. The royal signet flashed in the afternoon sun slanting through the tiny panes of the window behind him. The gesture very clearly said he no longer wished to talk about it.
It isn’t Annice that worries you, although this new trouble evokes the older one. Lilyana waited.
Conscious of her steady gaze, Theron stared in turn at the fire. For seventeen, almost eighteen years, Lilyana had been, as she was now, a quiet sounding board for his fears. She’d stood serene against his temper and from the maelstrom pulled, nearly every time, the true reason for his anger. Even when he hadn’t been sure of it himself. He’d been a better king with her beside him. Probably a better person. Had he ever told her that? He glanced up from the flames, caught her eye, and realized she knew. For a moment, there was only the two of them, then the moment passed and he sighed.
“Queen Jirina badly wants a
“What does the ambassador say to that?”
“He denies even the possibility, of course. My guess is, Jirina’s deliberately keeping him in the dark. What he doesn’t know, he can’t give away. Anyway, I spoke to the Bardic Captain this morning. Cemandian traders remaining on this side of the border over Fourth Quarter will be gently questioned.”
Lilyana’s brows rose but all she said was, “Why gently?”
Theron half laughed. “Because if it happens that she isn’t considering invading, I don’t want to give her ideas.” He quickly sobered. “All things being enclosed, I’d give almost anything to have a bard on the other side of those mountains.”
It was a hollow wish, and they both knew it. In Cemandia the kigh were considered outside the Circle and the bards, therefore, outside as well. The last bard who had crossed into Cemandia had been stoned to death, the crowd too large for him to defend himself although he Sang until the end. The kigh had brought his Song back to Shkoder and the bards, though they traveled north to Petrokia and south into the Havakeen Empire, now went no farther east than Ohrid.
“If we must defend ourselves,” Theron continued, “at least there’s only the one pass she could bring an army through.”
“Defiance Pass. In Ohrid.” Lilyana’s fingers toyed with the book on her lap. “And how secure is Ohrid?”
“If you’re asking about the keep, it’s as secure as a paranoid man and a horde of stonemasons could make it. You know its history?” When she nodded, he went on. “Whoever controls the keep controls the pass. If you’re asking about the man who controls the keep, well, you must remember Pjerin from the Oath of Fealty. He stood out.”
“Theron, I was eight months pregnant, with two small children, and my partner had just become king. I had a lot on my mind.”
“Tall. Long black hair. Physically powerful, even considering he was only nineteen. He’s the one that overheated bard wrote ‘Darkling Lover’ for.”
“Oh.” She stared into the past and slowly smiled. “Now I remember.”
“I thought you might.”
“He threw the Duc of Vidor’s cousin—that overbearing, pompous cretin—into a pile of horse manure. He was like a breath of fresh air.”
“More like a bloody gale. By all reports, he hasn’t changed. If anyone can hold Defiance Pass, he can.”
“So the next logical question becomes, will he?”
Theron sighed. “I like to think so. He seemed to take his oaths seriously enough. Still, he’s never attended a Full Council, always sends a proxy. I didn’t care much either way, but now I wish I’d gotten to know the duc better. The mountain provinces are poor, far from Elbasan, and, if you ignore the obstacle of the mountains, Ohrid is considerably closer to Cemandia.” He shifted again in the chair, as though the edges of potential trouble kept prodding him. “According to the captain, a bard’s just returned from there and they’re transcribing the recall now. I told her to send it over the instant it’s readable.” His voice changed slightly, picking up a speculative tone. “The duc has a son.”
“How old?”
“Four.”
“Brigita’s ten, Theron. Four years until she’s old enough to consult and ten until the boy is. It doesn’t sound like we have that kind of time.” Lilyana stood and shook out the heavy velvet folds of her skirt, “It sounds to me that you’ve done all you can. Further decisions will have to wait on more information.”
The king snorted. “I don’t wait well.”
“Nonsense. You just don’t enjoy it much.” She moved around his chair and placed her hands on his shoulders. “And as Brigita is far from old enough to be consulted about joining anyone, why worry about that now?”
His shoulders rose and fell beneath her touch. “I don’t know.”
“Because you love her.” She bent and lightly kissed the top of his head. “The father wars with the king; the demands of the heart with the demands of the crown.” Her fingers tightened for an instant. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have things to ready for tonight’s vigil and tomorrow’s festival.”
Theron sat for a while longer after she left, sat while a servant stoked the fire, sat while the sunlight faded. He didn’t often have the opportunity to just sit. And think.
This could have all been solved ten years ago.
How many times had he left meetings with a succession of Cemandian ambassadors and thought that? A thousand. A hundred thousand.
Solved but at what cost?
He’d only just started to work at that. And every time he considered a joining for one of his children, he got closer to an answer.
I never wanted her to be unhappy.
She made me look like a fool. Like a tyrant. As though I couldn’t be reasoned with.
But I never wanted her to be unhappy.
* * * *
“Annice? Are you in there? It’s almost sunset, we’re going to be late.”
Annice came out of the privy, adjusting her robe. “All things being enclosed, it’s a good thing water’s the closest quarter to the door.”
“All things being enclosed,” Stasya repeated wryly as they hurried toward the Center. “When was the last time you Sang water at a vigil?”
“Two years ago,” Annice told her smugly. “I was on a Walk and I ended up perched on a stool in a shepherd’s cottage, surrounded by about a dozen more people than the place could hold, three orphaned lambs, two cats, and seven kittens. I Sang all four quarters in rotation throughout the night. By dawn, I was so hoarse I Sang the sun back as a bass-baritone.”
“Show off.”
“I have a feeling tonight pays for expediting my trip downriver. When the captain gave me the assignment, she said, After all, you’ve had practice Singing water lately. The word practice dripped with double meaning.”
Stasya laughed at the impersonation—Annice had the captain’s acerbic tone down pat—but sobered quickly. “Maybe she just wanted you where I could keep an eye on you. Are you sure you’re going to be able to do this?”
“I slept most of the day, I’ve got dried fruit and a flask of water in my pouch, and I only have to stand while I Sing.” Annie followed Stasya through the Bard’s Door and waited while she Sang it closed. From the outside of the building the door would now appear to be part of a wall of unbroken stone—symbolism insisted that Centers have only four entrances. “As long as I can run off to pee in between solos,” she continued as they started up the spiral staircase, “I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, but …”
“Stas! Don’t fuss. This baby and I walked all the way back from Ohrid, didn’t we? I think I can manage a vigil.”
As Stasya had reached the gallery, she could only turn and silently glare.
Rolling her eyes, Annice climbed the last few steps, and set her mouth against her lover’s ear. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered, added a kiss, and pushed the other bard toward her own position. She watched Stasya’s robe—the pale gray-blue of a winter’s sky—until it disappeared into the shadows, then stepped through the curtain and out onto the small semicircular balcony where she’d be spending the night.
Down below, the choir was gathered around the altar and crowds of people were standing more-or-less quietly, waiting. Directly beneath her at the south door, eddies of movement marked latecomers racing sunset. Across the great round chamber, a baby began to fuss. Annice wasn’t sure if there were a greater number of children present than usual or if she were merely more aware of them.
She watched an obvious family group rearrange itself around a young woman carrying a squirming toddler, and found herself suddenly remembering the horrified expression on Theron’s face when an infant Onele had started to scream the moment one of the priests began to invoke the vigil. Lilyana had calmly rearranged her mantle, lifted her shrieking daughter out of Theron’s arms, and put her to the breast. The Annice of memory had somehow managed not to giggle.
Tonight, the king and his family would be in the Center at the Citadel. The captain would be Singing there with the three of the senior bards and the fledglings. Fledglings always Sang at the Citadel during their training as it helped to emphasize their duty to Shkoder. Annice had only been able to get through those years, pointedly ignored by her family, by immersing herself completely in the Song.
She shifted, her chest tight, forcing her attention back to the here and now. Closing her hands around the polished wood of the balcony rail, she turned, and with the crowds below, watched the light begin to fade from the west windows. As the colors dulled in the intricate patterns of stained glass arcing up into the vault of the ceiling, the choir began to sing the farewell to the sun.
Annice shivered.
When the last note slid into silence, the last of the light went with it, plunging the Center into darkness.
Somewhere in the crowd, a priest called out, “From light into darkness into light again.”
The people answered, “The Circle encloses us all.”
From balconies in the four quarters of the chamber, the bards began to Sing. First, air; Stasya’s powerful soprano rose to open the shutters in the vault. Leaning into the rush of wind, Annice called water into the Song and heard the fountain on the altar leap into life. The next instant, her body thrummed with the stones of the Center as Jazep’s resonant bass evoked earth. The three of them wove a melody for a dozen heartbeats, then paused for a dozen more as an achingly pure tenor Sang fire.
The darkness vanished as a burst of flame crowned the four great candles as well as the hundreds of smaller ones held carefully by the crowd.
Annice felt the hair on the back of her neck lift as the elements united into one glorious, all-encompassing whole and it became impossible for that moment to tell if she were singer or part of the Song. Then, just as the paean trembled on the edge of what flesh and blood could bear, the choir took up the melody. Panting, fingers laced across her abdomen, Annice staggered and sat down heavily on the narrow bench, listening as Stasya Sang the first of the solos that would continue until dawn.
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