by Tanya Huff
Annice paced the length of her solar and back, her shoes slapping a staccato beat against the tiles. “You have to speak to His Majesty for me, Theron. You’re the Heir, he’ll listen to you.”
She read the answer off his face and took a slow step away from him, eyes locked on his. “Father didn’t arrnage this, did he? You did.” Her expression changed from confusion to betrayal. “This isn’t for the country! This is for you! I’m not stupid, Theron, and I had the same tutors you did! You don’t even see me in this!”
Too close to the truth. The healers said the king was dying, but he’d been dying for too long, and if Theron wanted to strengthen his position, his youngest sister was the only card he had to play. “Nees, you’ve got to understand …”
“Oh, I understand.” Her chin lifted defiantly. “Let me tell you something, Your Royal Highness, my life isn’t a prize you can trade for the chance to be taken seriously!”
He forgot his reasoned arguments of how this joining, this family link, would give them a chance to bridge the gap growing between their two cultures, to build a permanent peace with Cemandia now that the much larger country had begun to press against their border. Forgot the arguments that might have made her see there was more to it than his own personal agenda. “Don’t fight me on this, Annice, because you can’t win.” The words were forced out through teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. “Remember, in a very short time I will be your king.”
Her face flushed as she stomped to the door and threw it open, waiting pointedly beside it for him to leave. “Well, you’re not king yet!
* * * *
“Majesty?”
Theron shook off the memories. It had been a long time since he’d played that scene through.
“Majesty? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” He tugged on a vest button, pulling at the indigo brocade, and exhaled noisily. “I was just thinking of how different things would be if I’d handled Annice better. If I’d actually taken the time to explain why I wanted her to join with Prince Rajmund.”
In all the years since he’d taken the throne, in all the years the captain had stood as one of the throne’s primary advisers, this was the first time the king had ever been willing to discuss that bit of family history. She smothered a sigh. The time was long past to set the recall straight. “Your pardon, Majesty, but Annice and Prince Rajmund would never have been joined, regardless of the reasons, or the benefits, or any political maneuvering.”
Both the royal brows rose. “Because you wanted her for Bardic Hall?”
“Because she was qualified for Bardic Hall, Majesty. Queen Jirina would never have allowed her son to be joined to someone who Sings the kigh. You know how the Cemandians feel about that. Their version of the Circle holds neither kigh nor bards.
“But Annice wasn’t a bard …”
“She was born with the ability, Majesty. We only trained it.”
Theron swore as his vest button twisted off in his fingers. “But the Cemandian ambassador came to me!” he protested.
“And was horrified when he discovered what he’d very nearly done. And was called home. And was, if I recall correctly, executed for daring to suggest the Heir to the royal house of Cemandia join with someone who Sings the kigh.”
“The Cemandian ambassador is still after a similar joining.”
“Neither of your daughters Sing the kigh, Majesty. You can be certain he’s checked.”
“It’s been ten years,” Theron growled. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”
Liene closed her eyes for an instant, weighed the potential for disaster, and decided. “Because you wouldn’t listen, Majesty. Just the same way she wouldn’t listen. It’s taken the threat of war to force you to look beyond your personal”—and, she added silently, highly inflated—“sense of injustice.”
His expression unreadable, although the tips of his ears were red, the king made no answer for a long moment. The captain began to fear she’d misjudged the timing. Bloody fool thing for a percussionist to do.
Finally, without looking up, he said, “Do you believe in destiny, Captain.”
She bowed. “I’m a bard, Majesty. Destiny is my stock in trade. Why?”
“It seems as though there’s been an incredible series of events to bring us to this moment.” He turned the button over and over in his fingers. “Including the difficulty between my sister and myself.”
“Could as easily be coincidence, Majesty.” She bowed again. “Also a bard’s stock in trade.”
Theron looked dubious. “I’ve always considered myself above both.”
“I can’t say as I’m surprised, Majesty.” It had been a long day and Liene felt she was entitled. “So does Annice.”
* * * *
“Annice.” Pjerin had reached the end of his limited supply of patience. “Recall, if you would, that we’re trying to be forgettable.”
“You’re the one who said I needed a bath. That,” she jerked her thumb back toward the village, “was our last chance at hot water.”
“And a good chance at being remembered if the guards are behind us.”
“The guards still think we’re in Vidor.”
“You don’t know that.”
Annice smiled across the mule at him. “They’ve got horses, Pjerin. If they were after us, don’t you think they’d have caught us by now?”
He jerked the mule to a stop. “Do you want to go back?” he asked, spitting the words out through clenched teeth.
“Too late.” A nudge in the ribs got the mule moving again. “If we suddenly reappear now that we’ve wandered past, they’ll definitely remember us.
Pjerin brushed his hair back off his face with a barely under control sweep of his hand. “Then maybe we could look for a campsite before it gets dark?”
“A sheltered campsite.” Annice glanced up at the horizon to horizon blanket of gray-green cloud. “It looks like it’s going to storm.” She squinted into the gathering shadows. “We’d better hurry.”
Pjerin only ground his teeth and continued to scan both sides of the road. He was well aware it was going to storm and that sleeping rough would be harder on Annice than on him. He felt obliged to lessen her discomfort as much as possible. Which irritated him right out of the Circle. She wasn’t an easy person to be considerate of.
A rectangle of darkness loomed up suddenly out of the dusk.
He frowned. Although there were walls on the narrow ends, the sides were open to the night. It didn’t look like any kind of building he knew. “What is it?”
Annice leaned awkwardly forward and peered around the barrier of the mule. “Flax shed. This is a big linen-producing area. It’s mostly just a roof to keep the rain off while they’re hackling. There won’t be anything in it right now, but there should be water nearby and possibly a fire pit so they don’t have to depend on the weather for drying the stalks after retting.”
“Are you sure?”
Her eyes narrowed at his tone. “Yes. I’m sure.”
“Good.” Pjerin began turning off the track.
“I don’t think so.” It was a young man’s voice, rough edged but not unfriendly.
Pjerin glared at Annice.
She shrugged.
Together they turned and looked back the way they’d come.
There were three of them. Although none of them were very big, they moved with an aggressive cockiness that suggested no one had better mention it. They wore breeches with ridiculously wide legs, a style gone out of fashion with the young toughs of the cities but apparently still popular in the country, and all three heads of hair had been clubbed up into greased topknots. One of them had the beginnings of a scruffy beard; the other two might not have been old enough to manage even that.
“Where did they come from?” Pjerin growled.
“They followed us from the village. I saw them hanging around outside the alehouse.” Her chin rose as he swiveled around to stare incredulously at her. “I guess
I forgot to mention it.”
Pjerin opened his mouth and closed it again. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Well, that wasn’t quite true; he could think of several things to say but they’d all take time and would have to wait.
“Throw us the lead rope.” The suggestion came from the bearded young man and was the same voice that had hailed them initially. He stood a little in front of his companions, obviously in charge. “We’ll have a look-see through your packs, pick out a few trinkets, and no one will get hurt.”
Annice smiled sweetly at the trio. “Go away, we’ll forget we ever saw you, and no one will get hurt.”
All three of them looked confused for a moment, then their spokesman shook his head and flicked a dagger down from a wrist sheath.
Increasing darkness made it difficult to focus on a single pair of eyes, so Annice opened her mouth to Sing. Perhaps she could get the kigh to open a large, deep hole in the road under their feet.
“Annice.” Pjerin’s fingers closed around her wrist like a vise. “I’ll handle it.”
“But …”
He shoved the lead rope into her hand. “I said,” he snarled, “I’ll handle it.”
He moved back up the track, hands carefully out from the long dagger hanging sheathed at his side. An opportunity to actually do something, to hit back at the unenclosed chaos his life had become, was an opportunity not to be missed.
The three looked smaller in comparison, Annice realized; smaller, younger, less dangerous. But there were three of them. And one of them had a blade ready.
“Should’ve kept her quiet,” the leader said genially, flashing broken teeth. “Now, we’ll have to cut you.”
Pjerin returned his smile. “You’ve got to the count of three to run.”
They looked at each other and laughed.
They were still laughing at three.
They weren’t laughing at four; had anyone still been counting.
Breathing heavily and pressing the edges of a shallow slice across his forearm together, Pjerin returned to where Annice waited.
Watching as two of their attackers limped into the night, dragging their moaning leader back toward the village, Annice had to admit she was impressed. To herself. She had no intention of admitting it aloud.
“Feel better?” she asked as Pjerin took hold of the rope and began to lead the mule off the road.
He flashed a grin back over his shoulder. “Much better. Thank you.”
“I’ll have a look at that arm when we get settled.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Your nose is bleeding.”
“It’ll stop.”
Shaking her head she stepped over a muddy ditch as they left the track, heading for the flax shed. Please, she begged the life nestled under her heart, be a girl.
Twelve
“Ow!” Pjerin yanked his arm out of Annice’s grip. “That hurt!”
“Oh, don’t be such a baby.” She dipped the kerchief back into the trailpot of hot water propped precariously between a pair of rocks at the edge of the fire pit. “You know that cut’s got to be cleaned. I don’t even want to think about what could’ve been on that blade.”
“Then don’t think about it.”
“Pjerin!” He started to move away, but she grabbed his wrist and yanked him back down beside her, ignoring his hiss of pain. “This’ll only take a minute if you’ll just let me do it.” Dragging his arm across her lap, she dabbed at the dark line of red. The flesh beneath her fingers felt both hard and yielding and very, very warm. Forget that, she told herself sternly. Those sorts of observations are what got you into this mess.
As though in response to the thought, the baby stretched, pushing hard with an elbow or a knee and bringing an entirely nonmaternal comment to Annice’s lips.
“The baby?”
“Uh-huh.”
The contours of his face softened and an almost hungry expression rose in his dark violet eyes as he stared at the folds of her smock.
Watching him, Annice came to a decision. Which I’ll probably regret later. She lifted the hand she still held, turned it, and pressed the palm against her belly.
Pjerin stared at her, then at his hand.
Nothing happened.
For some time.
“This is deliberate.” Annice blew a strand of hair back off her face. “I’m sure of it. Maybe if I pretend I’m about to go to sleep and would like a little peace and quiet, the rhythm section will star … There! Did you feel that?”
He nodded, eyes wide.
Annice had seen priests look less reverent at prayer and she felt kinder toward Pjerin than she had at any time since her Walk to Ohrid. Or more specifically, since waking up freezing beside him and discovering he’d stolen all the covers.
After sitting quietly for a moment, barely breathing, he gently lifted his hand away. “Thank you,” he said, softly. “I hadn’t realized it would mean so much to touch my child before it’s born.”
His child. Annice sighed and tugged at the edge of her smock. I knew things were going too well between us. “Pjerin, we have to talk.” That said, what next? She leaned against her pack, taking the strain off her lower back, and scratched at a bug bite. “You have to understand that this isn’t your child.” She fought against sounding defensive and thought she’d succeeded.
He paused, halfway to his feet, his legs bent at awkward angles. “Are you saying I’m not the father?”
“No. That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what?” When he sat again, their small fire burned between them and the embers painted his face with shadow.
Nice symbolism. Why do I get the feeling he’s not going to be reasonable about this? “Look, I know that Gerek was a contract birth.” She let her voice fall into the rhythmic cadence that should, at least, keep him listening. “I know that he stayed with his mother until he was weaned and then moved in with you. I’ve seen the two of you together and I know you’re a good father—he’s happy and healthy and curious about everything—but this is my baby.” Hearing an echo of the mad woman from the fishing village, she hastily added, “Not mine in the sense of ownership but mine because …” Because she so desperately wanted it to be? “. . because, I’m the one who’s going to raise it.” Remembering the expression on his face when he’d felt the baby move and unwilling to lose that completely, she added, “I’m willing to witness a contract acknowledging you as the father, though.”
“And as the father, I have every intention of raising my child.” There were flames reflected in Pjerin’s smile.
“You’ve already got Gerek,” she offered, feeling her way around an anger she could sense rising in him but couldn’t understand.
“Does that mean I should ignore this child, then?”
“Not ignore.” Although Annice had to admit that a complete lack of involvement on his part was the solution she’d prefer. “Just trust me to raise it. I mean, I am its mother.”
“Its mother?” He laughed and she jerked back at the sound, wondering what he had to be so bitter about. “And what kind of mother are you going to be?”
“What?”
“You spend your life running around the countryside, never staying in one place for more than a couple of days.” The accusations poured out as though they’d been rehearsed. “You don’t have a home to give a child. You’re like some kind of human butterfly; living here and there, thinking only of yourself.”
Mouth open, Annice stared across the fire, her initial flash of disbelief quickly overwhelmed by rage. “Myself?” She slapped the word at him.
He looked almost as though he regretted what he’d said, but she didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“You seem to keep forgetting that if I thought only of myself you’d be dead! Do you think I want to be out here with you? Is your ego so huge that you think I’m enjoying this? Do you think I’m happy that someone I love might have died for you?” She could feel the muscles knotting across her back, knew t
hat she should calm down for the baby’s sake but couldn’t. “And as for the rest, you don’t know ratshit about how I spend my life. I’m a bard, and better to be raised by a bard than by some obnoxious, narrow-minded, arrogant bigot who thinks he’s the center of the Circle even though he’s spent his whole life hiding in a mountain keep with his head up his ass.”
“Hiding?” His features hardened, regret gone. “I am responsible for every life in Ohrid and I take my responsibilities seriously.”
“And I don’t? You have no idea what my responsibilities are!”
“I know you agreed not to have children!” He dropped his gaze pointedly. “This doesn’t say much for your ability to keep your word.”
“Is that so? Well, if I’m an unfit mother, what kind of a father are you when it comes right down to it? You’ve been judged guilty of treason …”
“Falsely!”
“But still judged guilty! Right now you haven’t got anything but what I’ve given you, including your life! You’ve got no business making plans for my child when you’ve lost the one you’ve already got!”
When the anger left his face, Annice knew she’d gone too far. The realization that she’d intended to cut that deeply, that she knew his fears for and of Gerek and she’d chosen her words in order to do as much damage as she could, only made it worse. She closed her eyes because the utter lack of expression hurt more than pain would have; opened them again when she heard him stand.
“Pjerin, I’m sorry. And I’m wrong.”
“No.” He could barely force the denial past the constriction in his throat although he wasn’t sure if it was anger, grief, or pride that choked him. “You’re right. About the first part at least. I owe you my life and my continued liberty and therefore any chance I have of clearing my name. But I will clear my name and I will get my son back and then I’ll fight for the child you’re carrying.”
She didn’t have the energy to start screaming at him again. “It’s a fight you won’t win.”
“Annice, I can reverse the King’s Judgment because I didn’t actually commit the treason I was accused of. You’re carrying yours with you. You created an innocent life just so you could throw it in your brother’s face.”