by Tanya Huff
“Jurgis is …”
“Jurgis is fine. Petrelis is beside himself. They’re still getting to know each other, of course, but the boy has fit himself into the Hall like a missing puzzle piece and soaks up music like a little sponge. We have a percussion lesson, he and I, every other morning.”
The thought of Jurgis finding a place where he belonged so perfectly combined with the sudden realization that she’d done it and her baby was safe jerked Annice’s emotions from one extreme to the other and shoved them right over the edge. To her horror, she burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, both hands waving in the air as if they were searching for her lost control. “It’s just … I mean, I don’t … He was so …”
Liene cleared her throat, at a loss for something to say. Raw emotion, unconfined by verse or chorus, made her profoundly uncomfortable. “You’re tired,” she said at last, coming around the desk and gathering up Annice’s outerwear and instrument case from the floor. “I think you should go and lie down. We’ll discuss this latest Walk of yours after you’ve had a chance to rest.”
Annice struggled to her feet. “But recall …”
“Recall can wait. This interview is over.” The captain accompanied her to the door and whistled a piercing summons down the corridor.
Leonas appeared almost instantly. He gave the captain a cursory nod and glared at Annice who was scrubbing at her cheeks with her palms. “What’s wrong?” Concern leaked out around the brusque tone. Not even in the early days, at her most lost and confused, had he ever seen the princess cry.
“Nothing,” Annice began indignantly but Liene cut her off.
“She needs to rest.”
He snorted. “She’s expecting a child. She needs to rest. She needs to eat properly. She needs to not be out tramping around the countryside.” He pointedly took the clothing and instrument case from the captain, every movement a criticism. “Probably walked since dawn, skipped breakfast, skipped lunch.”
“I had breakfast.”
“But not lunch,” he concluded triumphantly, shoving the end of her scarf up under one arm and starting down the corridor. “Come on.”
Annice shot an apology at the captain who merely rolled her eyes and said, “I’ll see you when you’re rested. I’m looking forward to hearing Jurgis’ story from you.”
All at once, as tired as everyone seemed to think she should be, Annice fell into step beside Leonas. She essentially played parts of the truth so loud they’d drowned out the bits she didn’t want heard and the performance had exhausted her. But it wouldn’t have worked if I hadn’t been playing a tune the captain wanted to hear. When Tadeus got back to the Hall, she’d have to see what she could do to start clearing the whole mess up. He had to have misunderstood what the Cemandian meant.
“I lit a fire in your rooms when I heard you were in the building,” Leonas told her as they moved in slow procession up the stairs. “It should be nearly warm in there by now.”
“Isn’t Stasya back from her Walk yet?”
“Didn’t they tell you?”
“Didn’t who tell me what?”
“Stasya’s the bard they sent into Ohrid.”
“They sent Stas?” The disappointment hit her as almost a physical blow; she’d been looking forward to the other woman’s company for days. Blinking back yet another unexpected rush of tears, Annice fought to let only the annoyance show in her voice. “She’ll be gone for months.”
“Needed a bard who Sings a strong air to travel that far in this weather.”
“I know that, Leonas.”
“Stasya was the strongest in the Hall at the time.” He snickered. “Got a good blunt Command on her, too. Yours, now, it works because you expect it to. Hers works because she dares it not to. Duc of Ohrid won’t know what hit him.”
“The Duc of Ohrid,” Annice ground out, trying to determine which of them she was so suddenly jealous of and why, “can take care of himself.”
* * * *
“You’ve been this way before?”
Stasya smiled tightly at the guard riding beside her, leading her horse. “I’ve Walked this way, Nikulas. It’s not the same thing.”
Nikulas nodded. “You move a lot faster on horseback.”
“You see less and it hurts more,” she amended.
“I thought they fixed that at the Healers’ Hall in Vidor?”
He looked honestly concerned, so Stasya allowed her smile to relax a fraction. “The memory remains painful,” she told him, shifting in the saddle. A bard on foot took eight to ten days, Elbasan to Vidor and, on the way, they talked with the people, observed the minutiae of the kingdom, sang, laughed, made love. The troop she traveled with had done the same distance in four days, pounding down the frozen River Road, pounding past many of her favorite inns, pounding the insides of her thighs raw. Drifting snow between Vidor and Caciz had slowed the pace, even though she used the kigh to push through a path, but the Troop Captain seemed determined to make up the lost time.
Speak of something unenclosed and lo, it appears, she thought as Captain Otik galloped back to fall in at her other side.
“I don’t like the look of those clouds,” he grunted without preamble. “Could be a storm forming up.”
“Could be,” Stasya allowed, squinting into the distance where the sky seemed to be resting its weight on the horizon.
“Best Sing it away.”
“Excuse me?”
Her tone pulled him around in the saddle and he glared at her from under the fleece-lined edge of his helm. “That is one of the reasons you’re riding with us, Bard. To control the weather so we can reach this traitor before he’s warned and gets away.”
“First of all, Captain, I can’t control that storm, I can merely redirect the results. Secondly, I won’t even do that unless it actively threatens our route. Thirdly, we don’t know that the duc is guilty of anything until I arrive and ask him.”
“You don’t seem to understand the seriousness of this expedition, Bard.”
Stasya caught his gaze and held it. “And you don’t seem to understand that I take my orders directly from my captain and she takes hers directly from His Majesty the King. So go away and stop bothering me before I Command you to stuff your head up your ass where it seems to belong.”
The realization that she could do exactly as she threatened spurred the captain back to the head of the double line, temper barely held in check only because lack of reaction made it obvious he’d been the only one to hear her.
“You don’t like Captain Otik much, do you?”
Stasya carefully turned. “What gave you that idea?”
Nikulas grinned at her, the ice in his mustache cracking. “Oh, not hearing the last thing you said to him, I suppose. The captain’s really not such a bad sort. He’s just a bit pompous and he desperately wants to do something heroic. Scooping a traitor out of his mountain stronghold and dragging him back to Elbasan in chains is probably the best chance he’ll have.”
“We don’t know he’s a traitor until I ask him,” Stasya reminded.
“Oh, come on, you don’t believe that, do you? I mean, from what I heard, that Cemandian was pretty specific when you guys questioned him. The duc’s head is on the block.”
“Does everyone feel that way?”
The guard shrugged. “Pretty much. They figure you’re along as a kind of formality; you know, the icing on the cake.”
There wasn’t much Stasya could say to that, so she concentrated on clinging to the horse as, up ahead, Captain Otik waved the troop forward into a trot. Go ahead, take your revenge, you asshole. I should’ve kept my big mouth shut.
She’d tried to contact Annice the morning they’d left the city, but the kigh had disappeared with her message and not returned. Obviously, unfortunately, the pregnancy had advanced to the point where earth had completely superseded air. She’d wanted to ask Annice about this man whose head had so suddenly become so perilously attached. She’d wanted to ask what she co
uld expect him to say and how good were the chances of her word being the one that sent him to the block.
She’d wanted to say good-bye.
* * * *
“As you know, Majesty, the messages the kigh carry are less than explicit without a strong emotional content.” The Bardic Captain reluctantly moved away from the fire as a server approached with a load of wood. “I have, however, received reports that the troop is making excellent time and they expect to be in Ohrid in twelve to fifteen days, weather permitting.”
Theron nodded and looked up from the map spread out over his desk. Behind him, the frost coating the inside of the windowpanes sparkled in the sun. “They’re still following the Hijma River?”
“It’s the best route in Fourth Quarter, Majesty. Everything beyond Lake Marienka is frozen solid and, as far as the gorge, it makes a better road than what goes by that name in the area.” She spread her hands. “The problem, of course, will be storms.”
* * * *
Stasya woke just before dawn, the sound of the kigh scrabbling at the shutters pulling her up out of sleep. “All right, all right,” she muttered, “I heard you the first time.”
Crawling out of bed, aching in muscles she hadn’t known she had until she’d been ordered up into the torture device sadists on horseback called a saddle, she stumbled across the common room, over and around the sleeping guards. While a chorus of protest rose behind her, she cracked open the door, and looked out.
“Shit.”
A short while later, as the sun touched the horizon and the whole troop clattered out of the inn yard, she wrapped both hands tightly around the saddlehorn and began to Sing.
By mid-morning, they’d left the original storm behind them. By noon, they’d ridden into another. By midafternoon, when they arrived at a tiny hamlet tucked up tight against the riverbank, their path an eerie eddy of calm defined by Stasya’s Song, it became obvious they’d be staying for a while.
Stasya Sang a gratitude and slid off her horse into the waiting arms of a guard. The storm, free of constraint, howled at full strength around them. Astounded villagers, brought to their doors by the final notes of the Song, muttered about stupid lowlanders and hurriedly began to divide mounts and riders into the available shelter.
Still cradled in the guard’s arms, Stasya watched as Captain Otik fought the wind to her side.
“Why are we stopping?” he yelled, clapping his hand to his head as a gust threatened to rip off his helm. “We’ve still got hours of daylight.”
Stasya smiled at the three kigh who were trying to knock the captain over. “Look behind you,” she told him hoarsely, her voice barely rising over the storm. “What do you see?”
Struggling to keep his balance, he turned and squinted into the blowing snow. “Nothing.”
“Well, that’s Ohrid. Trust me on this one, Captain, the duc isn’t going anywhere.”
* * * *
“Expecting someone, Olina?”
Scraping away the ice her breath had laid on the tiny pane, Olina stared out into the courtyard. “I’m watching the storm.”
“Yeah?” Pjerin snorted and stretched his feet out nearer to the fire. “What’s to see?”
“Passion. Strength.” Her voice caressed the words. “Blind and uncontrollable fury wrapped in beauty like a dagger in a diamond sheath.”
Gerek scrambled up from his place by the hearth, raced across the room, and pushed under her arm. “I only see snow,” he sighed after a moment.
Olina’s sigh echoed his as she pushed him gently back into the room and let the heavy tapestry fall into place over the window embrasure. “You are so like your father at times.”
“Really?”
Unable to resist his smile, she nodded, smiling down at him in turn. “Really.”
“I’m going to be just like my papa when I get big.”
Not if I can help it, Olina promised silently as he ran back to the fire. You’re going to be civilized. You’ll be the first Duc of Ohrid to realize the worth of the title. No drafty, cold stone keeps for you, boy. You’ll have glass in all your windows, carpets on all your floors, and a city built at your feet. You’ll control crowds of rich and powerful people. She dropped back into her chair. And I shall control you.
If she had a tail, Pjerin thought, watching his father’s sister from the corner of one eye, she’d be lashing it. I wonder what she’s up to? The storm had confined them all day in the keep and the desire for warmth had kept them together in this one small chamber. Only Olina’s bedroom and the nursery had been modernized to the same extent and there were reasons for not gathering in either of those places. He personally couldn’t believe that in his grandfather’s time the entire household had gathered in the Great Hall where the high, narrow windows remained open to the winter and the central hearth had thrown either too much or too little heat and coated everyone in a fine patina of smoke. With most of his people in houses of their own down in the village, smaller rooms and inset fireplaces made a lot more sense and he had to give Olina credit for forcing the changes on his father; no matter how much he disagreed with the changes she tried to force on him.
Attention still apparently on the half-finished carving in his hands, he studied her as she lifted a stone game piece from the small round table beside her. She rolled it between long, pale fingers, its polished surface reflecting firelight, candlelight, and, he’d be willing to swear, the gleam in her eyes.
Without warning, her fist closed around the stone and she flung it into the fire.
Startled by the sudden spray of sparks, Gerek tumbled backward, rolled, and stared at her accusingly, protest cut off by his father’s lifted hand.
“Next year,” Pjerin said quietly, forcing the words through clenched teeth, “why don’t you travel to Elbasan with that tame trader of yours. You could take rooms in town for a couple of quarters. Your rank would ensure you a position at court.”
She twisted lithely in her chair, facing sideways to stare at him. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Not in the least,” he replied. “But you seem … bored.”
“And with what should I pay for a house in Elbasan, Your Grace; have you considered that?” Her eyes narrowed. “With favors from the king given to honor our historical duty in holding the pass? That should get me nothing and the cup to drink it from. Thank you, no. I’ll stay here and make the best of things.”
Pjerin straightened and, for the first time, turned to look directly at her. “I will not operate a tollgate between Cemandia and Shkoder.”
Her voice was a gentle contrast to the sharpened edge in her smile. “I’m not asking you to.”
“No fighting!” Gerek stomped between them, hands on his hips, frowning alternately up at them both. “I’m not allowed to fight. You’re not allowed to fight.”
The two adults exchanged a startled glance.
“Nobody’s going to fight anybody,” Pjerin told his son.
The stiff, indignant posture relaxed slightly. Papa had never lied to him, but Gerek wasn’t entirely satisfied. “Well, you sure looked like you were going to,” he muttered.
Pjerin’s mouth twitched. He caught the disbelieving look on Olina’s face, threw back his head, and roared with laughter.
A heartbeat later, Olina joined in.
He is such a beautiful man, she mused as he scooped Gerek up and tossed the boy into the air. She loved to watch the way his muscles moved beneath the heavy, distracting layer of winter clothing. Such a pity he’s in my way.
* * * *
Alone in the common room, quitara balanced on her shrinking lap, Annice absently worked through the fingering for a sea chantey. From where she sat, she could see out into the courtyard and watch people scurrying about from building to building, heads bent and shoulders hunched against the driving rain. The days were definitely getting both longer and warmer although it hardly seemed possible that Fourth Quarter was two-thirds over.
Stasya should be at the keep in Oh
rid by now. Although Annice knew that the kigh brought daily reports to the captain, she hadn’t been able to come up with a reason for those reports to be shared with her. Her ability to Sing air had completely deserted her and not even with Jurgis’ cheerful help had she been able to command the kigh.
If it hadn’t been for the distraction offered by Jurgis, the middle third of the quarter would’ve been unbearable. She had no idea how one small boy could so completely fill a building the size of Bardic Hall, but he seemed to manage it with no apparent difficulty. As he was far too young to choose commitment as a bard, his training so far consisted of nothing more than control over his talent and the kind of lessons any six-year-old might have. The former, his father took care of. The latter, he took with the other children of the Citadel.
Annice had never noticed the number of children around before although she supposed they’d always been there. With Ondro and his mother gone for the quarter, there was only the one other bardic child—Or was Bernardas at two still an infant? Annice had no idea.—but a number of the servers had children as well as some of the healers and a few of the guards. Now that she was aware of them, they seemed to be all over the place—running, shouting, laughing, living pretty much incomprehensible lives.
She shook her head as a familiar flutter drummed against the inner curve of her belly. And it’s far too late to change my mind. The baby only served to remind her of Ohrid and Ohrid reminded her of Stasya and thinking of Stasya reminded her of how lonely she was without the other woman around. This was the first time they’d ever been apart that the kigh couldn’t bridge the distance. Helping to train the fledglings kept her fairly busy, and Jazep, who had been going over the Songs of earth with her, filled in some of the gaps, but nothing could relieve the emptiness of the night.