Sing the Four Quarters

by Tanya Huff

  “S’cold, Nees,” Stasya murmured, red-rimmed eyes still squinted nearly shut after so long in darkness. “Still no k-kigh.”

  “That’s because you’re with me. Remember?” Annice settled the other woman more comfortably in the bend of her elbow and with her free hand worked the stopper out of a jug she’d picked up as they made their way through the deserted kitchens. “Here, drink some more of this.” Glancing up at the tower where Lukas had become momentarily visible as he looked down into the court, she added softly, “When this is settled, I’ll go far enough away that the kigh will come and you can Sing the news to the captain.”

  “No.” Stasya shoved her face into the curve of Annice’s neck. Too long with the dark and the cold. Too long with no kigh. If she tried to Sing, and failed, she’d know for sure her voice was gone. Better not to know. Better not to Sing.

  Annice heard the subtext under Stasya’s denial and tightened her hold. With her own voice uncertain, it was the only comfort she had to give.

  * * * *

  Too angry to remember that cornered rats would fight, Pjerin charged out onto the top of the tower and was slammed sideways to the stone.

  Lukas cursed and stumbled back. The duc had been moving too fast and a kick intended to smash into his temple had hit only the solid flesh of his upper arm. It wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t be nearly enough. His advantage gone, Lukas began to babble. “Your Grace, I can explain. It wasn’t me, it was …”

  Pjerin shook off the blow, lurched to his feet, and lunged, growling wordlessly. The two men crashed back against the battlements and Pjerin’s hands closed around the steward’s throat.

  Crouched at the top of the stairs, Gerek readied his bow and his single arrow.

  Gasping for breath, unable to break the duc’s hold, Lukas jabbed his knuckles again and again into the bleeding scar below Pjerin’s left shoulder.

  Muscles began to spasm and howling with as much frustration as pain, Pjerin stumbled back, his left arm falling useless to his side.

  For an instant, Lukas stood alone, silhouetted against the sky. Gerek took a deep breath, held it as he’d been taught, and released the string. The arrow flew wide, rang against the stone, and rumbled over the edge, falling end over end into the court below.

  Both men wheeled to track its path.

  Lukas saw one final chance to survive. Diving for the stairs, he grabbed up the boy and held him, kicking and shrieking against his chest as he scuffled back to the edge of the roof.

  The sight and sound of Gerek’s danger pulled Pjerin from his frenzy and gasping for breath he took a step forward.

  “No farther,” Lukas warned, shifting his grip and swinging the child out over the drop.

  Gerek screamed and fought harder to be free.

  “Gerek, be still!” Pjerin commanded, muscles knotting with the effort to remain where he was.

  Twisting his small body around to face his father, Gerek hiccuped and went limp.

  “Good boy.”

  “Papa …”

  “Shh, everything’s going to be all right.” Pjerin lifted his gaze to Lukas’ face. “Lukas knows that if he drops you, he’ll go off right after you. That if he hurts you, he’ll wish he’d never been born.”

  The steward’s lips twitched up in a hideous parody of a smile. “What difference would that make? You’re going to kill me anyway.”

  “Let him go, Lukas.”

  “Grant me safe passage out of the keep. Give me your word I can go free.”

  Pjerin nodded and although every instinct said to rush forward, he stepped back. “Without Olina,” he said quietly, “you’re nothing.”

  Nothing. When he’d been so close to having it all. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Pjerin a’Stasiek should have everything and Lukas a’Tynek nothing. Not power, not wealth, not even a child. His only daughter had been taken from him, destroyed by the kigh. No second chance for his child. No one to pull her to safety. Blinded by tears of self-pity, Lukas heaved Gerek roughly up onto the stone and let go.

  “PAPA!” With too much of his body still dangling over the court, Gerek slipped backward.

  “GEREK!” Pjerin dove, right arm desperately reaching, but he arrived at the edge half a heartbeat too late.

  Below, a dozen voices shrieked and a dozen people surged uselessly toward the tower.

  Surrounded by stone, with no earth to hear her Song, Annice heaved her body around, threw open the door, and plunged inside. “Sing, Stasya!” she cried as she put thick walls between her influence and Gerek’s only chance.

  Eyes locked on the falling child, Stasya staggered to her feet. No time to think of what she was doing. No time for fear.

  She Sang.

  And the kigh answered.

  Long pale fingers clutched at Gerek’s arms and legs until the child was hidden to bardic sight behind a surging mass of slender bodies. As he continued to plunge screaming toward the stones of the court, the air below him grew translucent, then opaque.

  A handbreadth from the ground he stopped, held by Stasya’s Song. Tears streaming down her face, she Sang a gratitude just in time for the kigh to loose the sobbing boy into the comfort of his nurse’s embrace.

  The wind howled about the walls of the keep as each of the kigh swirled joyously around Stasya’s head. They pulled her hair and tugged at her clothes and one even went so far as to poke an ethereal finger up her nose. Then, en masse, they rose to circle the tower.

  His heart having stopped as Gerek fell and started again as he was saved, Pjerin leaned into the rush of air and breathed a prayer of thanks to every god the Circle contained. He couldn’t see the kigh, but he’d heard Stasya’s Song and understood what had to have happened. His son was safe. Nothing else mattered.

  “No! Get away! Help me!” Whites wreathing his eyes, Lukas frantically worked his right hand in the sign against the kigh. The wind roared around him. His left arm flailed at the air and he stumbled from one side of the roof to the other in an attempt to escape the invisible demons he knew were there. He lurched against the battlements, overbalanced, and began to topple. “Your Grace! Save me!”

  Eyes nearly closed by the force of the wind, Pjerin fought his way along the crenellations. Bits of loose mortar, sand, and dirt, stung bare skin. His reaching fingers grazed a bit of rough, homespun cloth, a wrist … nothing.

  All at once, the silence became absolute.

  Pjerin stared down into the court. Lukas lay face up, staring at the sky, a dark stain slowly spreading out from under his flattened skull. The fingers of his right hand remained bent halfway through the sign against the kigh.

  Sagging against the stone, Pjerin half turned to meet Stasya’s gaze. Even over that distance, he could see her measuring him. You didn’t Sing, he thought. Although you found time and strength both to save Gerek. Are you wondering how hard I tried?

  Had it been anyone other than Lukas, would I have reached him in time?

  Eighteen

  “Did you hear that?”

  Theron swiveled to face the bard. On the road since dawn, they’d just broke out from under the cover of the trees and he’d been squinting up the length of the valley at the brooding bulk of Ohrid’s keep backlit by the morning sun. “Hear what?” he asked. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Stasya. She’s Singing the kigh.”

  “Is she all right?”

  A sudden gust of wind rocked Tadeus back in his saddle. “As near as I can tell.” He raised a hand, fingers stroking information from the air. “But someone else is dead.”

  “Who?” Theron demanded. If Annice was at the keep and Stasya was Singing and someone was dead…

  “A man.” Tadeus Sang a short series of notes, his hair whipping around his head even while the pennants on the lances hung limp. After a moment, he slammed his fist down onto the saddle horn. His horse sidestepped nervously. The king reached over, grabbed the reins, and pulled it up short. “Stasya’s gone again! And the kigh won’t go back into

the keep.”

  “Annice?”

  “Probably.”

  Theron nodded grimly. “That’s it. Captain!”

  “Sire?”

  “Form up the guard to advance on the keep.”

  “Sire!”

  “Tadeus, I want everyone to hear this.”

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  Wheeling his horse around in a tight circle, Theron’s gaze swept over the company stretched back along the narrow track, somehow seeming to include even those he couldn’t see. “There’s trouble up ahead,” he said as the bard’s quiet Song lifted his voice, carrying it over the noise of the guard leaving their positions and moving to the fore. The faces of the four nobles lit up, but then, they’d been chosen because they thrived on trouble. “Servers and pack animals will follow as they can.” The noncombatants knew who they were. “The rest of us are needed at the keep.” When he unhooked the crowned helm from behind his saddle and slipped it on, a murmur of excitement rose from the ranks. Even the horses seemed to catch it.

  “You forget how incredibly dull State Visits are,” he’d told the Bardic Captain the day the company had left Elbasan. “Even truncated ones. We’re talking days of tedious travel interspersed with tasteless banquets and endless posturing. By the time we reach Orchid, if I’m any judge, this lot will consider taking on the entire Cemandian army a welcome relief.”

  At the time, the words had been for the most part the only sort of bravado kings were permitted. Now, Theron hoped they held an element of truth.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he barked a moment later as Tadeus brought his horse into line.

  Ebony brows flicked above the tolled leather mask the bard wore over his eyes. “Preparing to gallop to the rescue, Majesty.”

  “You’re blind!”

  Tadeus flashed him a brilliant smile completely free of compromise. “The horse isn’t.”

  * * * *

  “Vencel!” Braid flying, the boy raced across the field, leaping the rows of young corn. “Vencel! The king is coming! He has soldiers and he’s galloping!”

  “Soldiers?” Vencel grabbed his little brother and gave him a shake. “What are you talking about?”

  Too familiar with this form of interrogation to be bothered by it, the boy grinned and explained. “They’re in two lines and they’re on horses and they’re galloping and they have flags and helms and everything just like in the stories.”

  “How far from the forest?”

  “Not far. I was down by the creek with Miki and …”

  “Never mind that. Where’s Tas?”

  The child shrugged. “Sheep pen, I guess.”

  “Find her. Tell her what you told me, then tell her I said to get the others and to go right to the keep.”

  “I want to watch the King!”

  “Do it!”

  Ducking his brother’s fist, the boy bounded away, throwing a jaunty, “And what did your last slave die of?” back over his shoulder.

  “Come to the keep in ones and twos,” Lukas had told them. “You’ll have lots of time.”

  Something had gone wrong. Vencel didn’t know what, but he did know they no longer had the time they’d been promised. If he ever wanted to be more than what he was at this moment, he had to change the rules. Dropping his hoe, he ran for the village. At least two people were in the forest and wouldn’t be able to beat a galloping horse back to the keep. There’d be less than the full twenty archers on the walls but still enough to give the King of Shkoder a welcome he wouldn’t forget.

  * * * *

  The stablemaster stood, wiping her fingers on her breeches as she turned away from Lukas’ corpse. “He’s dead,” she said flatly.

  As though they were only waiting for that confirmation, a hundred questions rose to beat at the air.

  “Stasya didn’t take me nowhere!” Gerek’s piping voice pierced through the chaos in the court, offering the only answer. “Lukas and Aunty Olina put her in a hole, so I went to get Papa.”

  “But how did you know he was alive, little one?” Jany demanded, scrubbing at the tear streaks on his face with the hem of her shift. Her own eyes continued to well and spill, but the action seemed to calm her.

  Gerek shoved her hand away. “Stasya told me.”

  Heads swiveled to stare at the two bards huddled in the open doorway, holding each other and paying little attention to the world outside their embrace. Several hands rose to flick out the sign against the kigh, but only a couple completed the motion. Most stopped at the point where they realized their fingers were folded in the same position as the stiffening fingers of Lukas a’Tynek.

  “Papa!” Tearing himself out of his nurse’s grip, Gerek raced to the base of the tower and threw himself into his father’s arms.

  Pjerin winced at the impact but gathered the small body up against his right side and rested his head on the dark cap of hair, breathing in the clean child scent. He had a thousand things he wanted to say, from “Don’t ever do that again!” to “Thank every god in the Circle you’re alive!”, but none of them meant as much as just absorbing the presence of his son and he knew he’d only be allowed an instant of it.

  “Your Grace …”

  “They sent a messenger! He said you were dead!”

  “There was a Death Judgment …”

  “… guilty, Your Grace, we heard you under Command!”

  “You were dead …”

  “… alive …”

  “Enough!” One by one the voices stilled. Pjerin shifted Gerek’s weight on his hip. “The Cemandians have a way to subvert Bardic Command. Olina used it to remove me and gain control of the pass.”

  “But you’re her blood,” someone protested.

  Pjerin’s eyes grew darker. “So is my son. That didn’t seem to matter. She made Lukas a’Tynek her tool, although how much she told him …” His glance flicked down to the corpse and up again. “… we’ll never know. Right now, we’ve …”

  A dozen villagers—most showing some indication of tasks hurriedly left—pounded through the gate, into the court, and rocked to a stop. Pjerin a’Stasiek was alive! The duc was alive! They jostled about for a moment as those in the rear pushed forward, then a heavyset man with a full, curling beard broke into the clear and threw himself down beside Lukas’ body.

  A heartbeat later, he sat back on his heels and looked up at Pjerin, eyes wide. “You’re alive and my brother is dead. How did this happen?” One hand made the sign against the kigh, the other hovered over the hilt of the skinning knife he had shoved through the wrapped ties of his bloodstained, bullhide apron.

  Gaze locked on Nikulas a’Tynek, Pjerin set Gerek on the ground and turned him to face across the court. “Go to Annice,” he said shortly.

  “But …”

  “Just go.”

  Gerek sighed deeply but trotted across to where the two bards still stood in the open doorway.

  “Gerek, are you all right?” one of the new arrivals called as Annice drew the child in against her legs.

  “ ’Course I am.” The weary indignation in his voice clearly added, how many times do I have to tell you. “I just went to find Papa.”

  “We thought the bard took you …”

  “And murdered you!”

  “My brother is dead and a dead man is alive!” Nikulas roared, rising to his feet. “Tell me what is going on!”

  Tersely, Pjerin explained again how Olina had made him appear an oathbreaker in order to gain control of the pass. How she’d used Lukas and, finally, how Lukas had died.

  “He fell?” Nikulas snorted. “And am I to believe you didn’t push him?”

  “Shame, Nikulas! Shame!”

  “… saw His Grace fight to save your brother with every right to let him fall!”

  “Lukas would have dropped the boy …”

  “… accident …”

  “… shame!”

  Breathing heavily, Nikulas backed away a step. With no one supporting his accusation, not even those members of the family scattered amid the group still standing just inside the gate, the last thing he wanted was a one on one confrontation with the duc. “Still more questions than answers,” he muttered.

  “I have a question!” Vencel pushed his way forward. “Now that you’ve returned, Your Grace, where do you stand? Are we in Ohrid to continue as forgotten vassals of the King of Shkoder, valued only for our willingness to stupidly throw our live between him and conquest? Or will you lead us to victory?”

  “Articulate farmers in these parts,” Stasya murmured for Annice’s hearing alone.

  Annice nodded. “He’s going to lose his tongue if Pjerin loses his temper.”

  “Lead you to what victory?” Pjerin demanded.

  “In throwing off the yoke of Shkoder!”

  “And replacing it with the yoke of Cemandia?” His voice had taken on a dangerous edge.

  Vencel ignored it. “We were promised change!” he declared, punching the air. “A chance to be more!”

  Several people muttered in agreement and a wave of movement traced a restless shift in position.

  “You believed those promises?” The edge in Pjerin’s voice had become a sneer.

  “Cemandia gave us trade!”

  “It was what you wanted, Your Grace.”

  “It was what Olina wanted,” Pjerin bellowed, his grip on his temper slipping. “Those were not my words! The Cemandians will grind you under their boot heels! Take away your freedoms!”

  “We want our chance!” Vencel yelled.

  The court erupted in a cacophony of shouting.

  “Let it be.” Stasya grabbed Gerek with one hand and Annice with the other. “Olina has played these people against themselves, fears against desires for nearly two quarters. Their duc was dead. Now he’s alive. Cemandia’s bad. Cemandia’s good. Cemandia’s bad again. No one knows what or who to believe. Can’t you feel it? This storm has to break.”

  “Someone’s going to get hurt, Stas.”

  Still holding Gerek, Stasya let Annice go and gestured at the seething mass. It was no longer possible to determine who had been originally at the keep and who had come up from the village. “How,” she asked, “do you suggest we stop it?”

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