Sing the Four Quarters

by Tanya Huff

  Not fond of small, enclosed spaces at the best of times, which this most assuredly was not, he held a picture of Olina in his mind’s eye, his hands crushing the ivory column of her perfect throat. The image pulled him forward, teeth gritted, muscles tight. She’d pay for what she’d done to him, and to Gerek, and to Ohrid.

  The Ducal sword scraped along the stone as he crawled through a puddle less foul than the rest and smelling faintly of lye. He’d long since lost his bearings in the darkness and the stench but he was sure he’d passed the kitchens, so the laundry had to be close.

  Had to be.

  A strand of hair stuck to his cheek and he fought the urge to yank free his dagger and hack it off short rather, than consider what agent plastered it to his skin.

  Up ahead he could see the graying that meant another opening into the drain. Eyes streaming, he scuttled for the circle of dim light and thankfully sat back on his heels trying to work the painful kinks out of his back. The stone was damp and cold under his bruised and filthy legs, but that was all. When he stretched up his arm, he could touch the grate over the opening.

  The laundry. The drain ended just beyond it at the cisterns. Moving as quietly as he could, Pjerin unbuckled his swordbelt and rehung the weapon around his waist. Up on one knee, he paused, head cocked to one side, straining to hear any sound from above. Nothing. Not that there would be if Olina waited, bow drawn, for his head to crest the stone.

  Rising to a crouch, the steel grid pressed against his shoulders, he straightened bent legs.

  Tried to straighten bent legs.

  As far as he could remember, there were no bolts. The skin between his shoulder blades crawling with the thought of arrows trained on his back, he shifted position slightly and tried again.

  The instant age and rust finally released their hold, he threw up his good arm, toppled the grate, and vaulted stiffly out of the drain. If this began the moment when Olina made her move, he’d have less than a heartbeat’s grace to defend himself.

  The laundry was empty, cool, and clean. A shuttered window laid only broken bands of light against the smooth stone floor, but he’d been in darkness so long the room seemed brilliant. Water dripped from a loose tap into the massive copper kettle, but no fire burned beneath it and the two huge cedar tubs standing beside it on the platform against the cistern wall were dry.

  His sigh of relief nearly choked him with his own stink.

  What good secrecy when they could smell him coming in Marienka?

  Climbing into one of the tubs, he stripped off his shirt and opened the cistern spout, ducking down under the gush of cold water.

  “What are you doing?”

  Heart pounding, feeling like an idiot, he stood in the laundry tub flourishing the Ducal sword, water slamming against his back and rapidly rising up around his feet. “What am I doing?” he snarled. “What are you doing here?”

  Annice clutched at the wooden rim and glared up at him. “This is not the time to be …” Then she gagged and turned away, hand clamped over her mouth. “You’re covered in shit.”

  Somehow he resisted the urge to scream at her. Grabbing up a boarbristle brush, he scrubbed violently at skin, clothes, and hair until he felt flayed and blood dribbled from the edge of the purple scar in the hollow of his shoulder. With as much of the encrusted filth removed as quickly as possible, he slammed the spout closed and clambered out onto the floor.

  “All right,” he growled, water streaming from breeches and boots and hair and running for the open drain, “let’s try this again. What are you doing here? I told you to go back to Bohdan’s …”

  Her stomach still twisting, Annice sank down on the platform. He hadn’t told her to do anything. She’d decided not to attempt the drains. “Stasya needs me.”

  Stasya. He might have known. “I told you I’d get her out.”

  “I know. But …”

  “But you couldn’t wait. Didn’t trust me.”

  “It’s not that …”

  “What did you do? Just dance in through the gates?” When she nodded, Pjerin’s eyes narrowed. “I’m crawling through shit and you just danced in through the gates!?”

  “Well, they’re not going to recognize me, are they? Not like this! You’re the one who had to stay hidden.”

  “Really? Did you even once think that with you as a hostage Olina can dictate her own terms with the king?”

  “Hostage?” Annice looked startled. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re a princess, Annice. Even if you, and His Majesty, and the whole unenclosed country have pretended otherwise for the last ten years.”

  “I’m a bard!” Or was. She tried to swallow, but her throat was too tight.

  “And you’re the king’s sister. And you’re carrying my child. Think what Olina could do with that, Annice, think.”

  It started with her lower lip and then her whole body began to shake. She couldn’t stop it. He was right and she was so tired. “I wanted to be there for Stasya.”

  “She’s been down there for six days!” He closed his hands on her shoulders, too angry to hold back. “How long does it take to die of thirst?”

  Annice stared up at him, every muscle suddenly rigid. “Shut up.”

  “No, I wo …”

  “SHUT UP!” The words ripped past the constriction in her throat, force of will making up for the ruined delivery. “She’s not dead. I know she’s not dead. She has her pack. Gerek said she has her pack. Without you, I can’t free her. I can’t even find her.” Tears streaming down her face, she closed her eyes and broke the Command. “You just get her out like you promised, and then you leave us alone.”

  Cursing his temper, Pjerin reached out and lightly touched her cheek. When she slapped his hand aside, he walked a few steps away and tried to find an apology. If someone he loved were down in that pit, he’d have done the same thing, taken the same stupid risks, refused to believe the worst.

  “Annice? I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged and wiped her nose on her wrist. “I don’t care.”

  He wanted to hold her. He didn’t know where the desire came from, but he knew better than to give in to it. “Come on. Let’s go rescue Stasya.”

  * * * *

  Sobbing in frustration, Gerek fought to free his quiver from a tangle of thornbush, his struggles dumping the arrows out onto the ground where they slid further down the steep slope. A deep bleeding scratch across one cheek and several smaller ones up both arms were a painful testimony to the battle, but he refused to give up. His papa would never give up.

  * * * *

  Sarline ground her teeth and kicked at an uneven edge of cobblestone in the outer court of the keep. Lukas hadn’t been in his chamber, or the kitchens, or the stables and she didn’t know where to look next in this great, echoing pile of stone. None of the servers hurrying about their early morning duties had seen him and she trusted none of them enough for a message. The servers in the keep had a personal loyalty to the duc that would overcome common sense about the kigh.

  Rozyte would have missed her by now, the kids would be up, the cow would be bawling. In another minute, he’s on his own with this.

  Then she saw him, coming around the corner by the stable yard, hitching up his breeches. Her clogs ringing against the stone, she ran toward him.

  “Where have you been?”

  Lukas gaped at his cousin in astonishment. Partnered as she was to the old steward’s daughter, he hadn’t even thought of approaching her with the Lady Olina’s plan. “I was having a shit. Why?”

  “Pjerin a’Stasiek was in my house last night.”

  “The duc?” Lukas traced the sign of the Circle on his breast. “His spirit came to you?”

  “Not his spirit, you idiot, he’s alive!” Sarlote grabbed up two handfuls of tunic and shook him, hard. “And he’s with a bard! And they’re both in the keep right now! If you want the kigh out of Ohrid, you’ve got to stop them!”

  * * * *

  S

he’s alive. Stasya’s alive. Annice repeated the litany over and over as Pjerin lit a torch and led the way into the cellars. She hasn’t died. I’d know it if she died. How long did it take to die of thirst? Six days? No. She’s alive.

  “Here,” Pjerin began, but Annice had seen the grille and the shadow below it and dove forward.

  “Stasya!” Searing pain shot through both hips as she strained to lift the steel. “Stasya! Can you hear me?” She fought Pjerin’s grip as he tried to move her out of his way. “Stasya!”

  “Hold the torch!” He pushed her back and forced her fingers around the butt. This was the third grille he’d had to remove since dawn and he threw his anger—or whatever emotion that Annice had evoked in him—against it.

  “Stasya!” Annice leaned dangerously far forward, torch shoved out over the hole. Shadowed holes in a gleaming ivory skull stared up at her. Her throat closed around a disbelieving moan. A giant’s fist wrapped around her heart and squeezed. Pjerin caught the torch as it dropped from slack fingers and then caught her as she began to fall.

  * * * *

  Stasya knew that voice. Even hoarse and desperate, there could be no mistaking it. It spoke to her in her dreams every time exhaustion overcame the cold and she slept. Slowly she unwrapped herself from her fetal curl and shoved the stable blanket back. Eyes shut tightly against the light, she lifted her head and tried to answer.

  Days of cold and damp and thirst held her voice. No sound emerged.

  The light burned through her lids and she raised a trembling hand to shield her face.

  “N … Nees?”

  * * * *

  “Pjerin is alive.”

  Lukas wet his lips. Standing well out of her reach, his tongue occasionally outrunning the story, he’d told her everything Sarline had told him. “Yes, Lady.” Her calm soothed him. He could feel his heart begin to beat a little less erratically.

  Olina pushed the last pin into the ebony crown of her hair and stood. She’d dismissed her dresser the moment she’d seen Lukas’ expression as he stood quivering at her bedchamber door. “It seems you did well to take down that bard, after all,” she mused. “She’s given us time we wouldn’t otherwise have had.”

  When she turned her ice-blue gaze on him, Lukas shivered.

  “I am curious though, as to why you added delay in coming to me rather than sending your cousin while you dealt with my nephew.”

  “Myself?” His eyes darted from side to side, searching for a way out. “Lady, His Grace is a swordsman. I could never defeat him. But you …”

  “Indeed. Well, you’ve told me. Now go and leave me to deal with him.”

  “Yes, Lady.” Lukas bowed himself back out the door and scurried off. There were things he wanted from his chambers and then he had no intention of remaining in the keep. Not until he knew who won.

  Olina picked up a beautifully carved horn comb, stared at it for a moment, then snapped it in half.

  “Pjerin is alive,” she repeated, throwing the pieces to the floor. It was the one thing she had not planned for. Albek had assured her it would not be necessary.

  Eventually, Albek would pay for that error.

  Striding across the room, she pulled a padded surcoat from a trunk and slipped it on. Mouth pinched white at the corners, she lifted her sword from where it rested on curved pegs over the bed and buckled the belt around her waist. It dragged at her hip, an unaccustomed weight.

  Pjerin was a swordsman. And she was the only other person in the keep trained to fight with the sword.

  Not that she had any intention of doing so.

  Pjerin knew she had betrayed him. He was larger, younger, stronger and the moment he saw her would be consumed with a blinding rage—she knew her nephew too well to doubt the last. Had Lukas done the intelligent thing and run to the village for all twenty of their committed people, there might have been a chance of stopping him.

  But her face him in single combat?

  She laughed bitterly and ran for the stables.

  Pjerin was alive.

  If she wanted to remain alive, she had only one chance.

  The Cemandian army.

  Let Pjerin and King Theron have the keep; they’d find the pass not so easy to defend as they assumed. Especially in the midst of trying to explain the situation to confused and angry villagers.

  Lukas could save himself by crawling back under the rock where she’d found him.

  * * * *

  “Nees?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes. Stasya, I’ve got you. Hold onto me. Everything’s going to be all right. You’re safe.” Annice breathed the last two words into a blood-encrusted cap of dark hair as she shoved the torch at Pjerin and tumbled Stasya onto her lap.

  Without a rope, Pjerin had lain on the floor, his arms stretching into the hole. Stasya, harp case slung on her back, had crawled erect up the curved wall of her prison and, with the stone supporting her, lifted her arms over her head.

  His hands had closed around her wrists and inch by inch he’d dragged her out of the mountain.

  “S’cold, Nees.” Her lips were cracked and bleeding, and every word ground shards of pain into her throat.

  “C-can’t … stop …” shaking.”

  “I know. We’ll go into the sun. You’ll be fine.” Lips pressed against the clammy skin of Stasya’s face, Annice repeated, “You’ll be fine,” as if defying her not to be.

  “My voice …” Her voice had lost all the highs and lows; all the music. Even Pjerin, who had heard Annice reduced twice to a rough whisper, could tell the difference.

  “You’re just cold. It’ll come back.”

  “No.” Stasya clutched at Annice as hard as numb fingers allowed. “Too c-cold, too long. I’m afraid. Oh Nees. No K-Kigh. No K-kigh for so long. I can’t Sing anymore. I c-can’t Sing.”

  * * * *

  Urmi stared at Olina in astonishment, wiping sausage grease from around her mouth before she spoke. “You want Fortune saddled now, Lady?”

  “Now, Stablemaster.”

  Under her tan, Urmi paled. Her gaze dropped to the sword hanging at Olina’s hip. “Yes, Lady. But he’s in the paddock, it’ll take me a moment.”

  “A moment and no more, Stablemaster.”

  “No, Lady. I mean, yes, Lady.”

  * * * *

  “Can you manage from here?”

  Annice nodded, Stasya supported in the circle of her arms.

  Pjerin jabbed the torch at the floor, then took off at a dead run. Olina had escaped her fate for as long as she was going to. He pounded across one end of the Great Hall, down a short flight of stairs, and through the kitchen, ignoring the crash of breaking crockery as he was recognized by the cook’s helper. Shoving the slack-jawed youth aside, he exploded out into the inner court. The fastest way to Olina’s rooms was around—not through—the building.

  He raced past his woodpile, heard a shout of disbelief from the direction of the stables, and turned in time to see Olina swing up into the saddle. Her lips pulled off her teeth in a feral smile as she drove her spurs into the stallion’s flanks and tried to ride him down. At the last instant, he dove aside. A hoof slammed into the packed earth a prayer away from his hip. Another grazed his calf as he rolled, the glancing impact still enough to drive a cry of pain through clenched teeth. Then he was scrambling back onto his feet, rage blocking everything but his desire for revenge.

  Roaring Olina’s name, Pjerin broke from between the buildings into the outer court just in time to see Fortune’s glossy hindquarters disappear out the gate.

  “NO!”

  * * * *

  Satchel clutched in a white-knuckled grip, Lukas tottered a disbelieving step forward. “Lady?” She was abandoning him. How could she abandon him? “Lady!”

  Behind him, he heard a bellow of fury. Unable to stop himself, he turned.

  Lukas did not consider himself an imaginative man, but what he saw standing at the edge of the court was not the taciturn lord who allowed the kigh such license within Ohrid nor even the huge, soot-covered figure who had struck him down in Fourth Quarter. His bare and heaving chest streaked with blood, his hair a tangled mass of darkness about his shoulders, his face contorted with rage, Pjerin a’Stasiek looked like one of the old gods broke free of the Circle.

  The sudden realization that with Lady Olina gone, the duc would deal instead with him, brought a rush of cold sweat dribbling down his sides.

  The same realization came to the duc.

  “LUKAS!”

  The satchel fell from limp fingers. Fear froze him to the spot. Lukas watched his death approach, unable to move, unable to protest. Then some instinct of self-preservation broke through the paralysis, and with a shriek of terror he started to run.

  He didn’t know where he was running to. He just knew he had to escape. Plunging into the dark recesses at the base of the inner tower, he searched for sanctuary and found only the narrow, spiral stairs leading up four stories to the roof. A mistake. He should never have come inside.

  Too late to go back.

  Whimpering, all he could do was climb.

  * * * *

  His face tear-streaked, his tunic tattered, Gerek came through the gate in time to see Lukas run into the tower with his papa following close behind. Hitching his quiver and the one arrow he’d saved over his shoulder, he darted forward.

  “Gerek!”

  “I’m okay, Jany,” he yelled toward the edge of the court and his suddenly hysterical nurse. He could hear her crying and babbling his name, and it made him feel bad, but he had to help his papa.

  * * * *

  From the top of the tower, there was nowhere to run. On the one side, the mountain fell away from the tower’s base, adding even greater distance to the ground. On the other, there was only the court with its border of upturned faces.

  From the stairwell came the sound of leather slapping stone. The duc was nearly on him. Lukas cringed back against the battlements.

  * * * *

  Annice pushed past a babbling group of servers, too astounded by the return of their duc—of both their ducs—to notice a pair of exhausted bards. Supporting much of Stasya’s weight, as well as her own, she sank gratefully into a sunny doorway where the wood and dark stone had collected all the heat of the morning.

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