Sing the Four Quarters

by Tanya Huff

  “Lukas a’Tynek was a superstitious fool!” Pjerin’s voice rose above the din. “Olina used him! She used you!”

  “Kigh lover!”

  The first blow occurred simultaneously in a number of places.

  Gerek clutched at Annice’s shift. “Is my papa gong to get hurt?”

  “I don’t think so, sweetheart.” Annice added her grip to Stasya’s. The last thing they wanted was for Gerek to plunge into the fray. “No one’s hitting him. He’s trying to stop the fighting.”

  “Why doesn’t he just tell them to stop?”

  “Nobody’s listening.”

  It was one thing to agree to capture a foreign king, convinced he was the overlord who kept Ohrid isolated and poor, but it was another thing entirely to physically strike the hereditary duc—the man who was Ohrid. The blows Pjerin took were accidental as he waded into the battle pulling men and women apart.

  A knife flashed in an upraised fist. Pjerin smashed his forearm into the snarling face below it. The knife went flying, clattered against the cobblestones, and was lost amidst the dance of scuffling feet.

  Flesh pounded against flesh. Urmi, her nose streaming blood, kicked the legs out from under a cursing villager and followed him to the ground. A pair of cousins rolled and spat obscenities as they struggled for a hold. Vencel sucked air past a split lip as an elbow caught him in the stomach, but he recovered in time to block the next blow and return a quick flurry of his own. Someone screamed as teeth clamped down on a fold of skin. Pressed against the base of the tower near his brother’s body, Nikulas, skinning knife in his hand, watched and waited for a clear shot at the Duc of Ohrid’s back.

  His brother was dead. The duc was alive. That wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Lukas’d had plans. Big plans. Now he was dead.

  Pjerin grunted as a flailing arm slammed into his wounded shoulder. He staggered back, yanked two villagers off the keep’s scullion, helped the boy to his feet, and ducked a swinging fist.

  Nikulas crept out from the wall. Not even the demon kigh would be able to follow the strike in this confusion. He fixed his eyes on the dirt-streaked skin just below the tangled mass of the duc’s hair, where the heavy muscle bulk over the ribs gave way to softer tissue. Up and under. Then away. No one would ever know. His brother would be avenged.

  Only Annice and Stasya saw the first pair of guards gallop into the keep. The second and third were harder to ignore. By the time the fourth and fifth were taking their positions, the fighting had begun to stop as people were pushed into an increasingly smaller area in the center of the court.

  Recognizing his last and best chance, Nikulas lunged forward. A lance cracked down on his wrist. Crying out, he dropped the knife and cradled the swelling arm against his belly. When he tried to hide himself, he found the lance blocking his way and a smiling guard shaking her head. She might not know exactly what was going on, but the laws were clear concerning back-stabbing. Nikulas could only stand and watch as horses plunged past struggling combatants and the people of Ohrid staggered to their feet to face this new threat together.

  By the time the king, his standard bearer, Tadeus, and the four nobles rode into the court, the guards were ranged around the perimeter in what became a closed circle the moment the last rider cleared the gate. Pjerin and his people stood, differences forgotten, shoulder to shoulder, wiping away blood and glaring about them at this show of force.

  “Nees! I can’t see!” Gerek bounced up and down on the doorstep and scowled at the pair of dusty haunches that blocked his view.

  Trying very hard not to break into hysterical giggles, Annice took his hand and pushed between the two horses. “Excuse me, Corporal Agniya.” She tapped the guard lightly just above her greave. “If you wouldn’t mind shuffling your mount to the left just a bit.”

  Corporal Agniya looked down and her jaw dropped. “You’re … I mean, you …” The orders she’d been given didn’t begin to cover this. Wondering just what in the Circle was going on, she did the only thing she could. She moved her horse.

  “Pjerin a’Stasiek, Duc of Ohrid.” The sunlight blazed on each point of the crown encircling Theron’s helm and threw the stern lines of his face into burnished relief. “I am pleased to see you got safely home.” Although he spoke the local dialect with a strong accent, astonishment that he spoke it at all showed on most faces in the court, including Pjerin’s.

  As the tall man, bare torso streaked with blood, stepped forward to bow before the king, Tadeus translated Theron’s words into Shkoden for the benefit of the guard and nobles. Several of the guard broke discipline enough to exchange astonished glances. The last they’d heard, Pjerin a’Stasiek, Duc of Ohrid had been executed for treason.

  “Although it seems,” Theron continued, “that your welcome was not all you might have hoped.” He scanned the crowd behind the duc, noting those who moved closer to their lord and those who backed away. Finally, his gaze rested on the broken body lying a little apart. “I came to Ohrid to find the traitor who thought to sell our country out to the Cemandian horde. It appears I’ve come too late.”

  There was enough of a question in his last words that Pjerin, as confused as everyone else, opened his mouth to reply. Before he got the chance, Vencel shook off the hands holding him and stomped forward.

  “What treason is it to want a better life?” he demanded.

  Theron bent his head to meet the young man’s angry eyes. “None at all,” he said. “But what kind of life can be gained by the betrayal of an innocent man? Not a better one.”

  Vencel dabbed at his mouth with the back of his hand and shot a glance at Pjerin. “But you killed …” His voice trailed into uncertainty as he realized what he was saying.

  “Killed him?” Theron asked gently. He very much doubted the boy was even as old as Onele. An easy age to lead with confusion and anger.

  “What about the kigh?” Beneath the king’s steady gaze, Vencel fell back on the one thing everyone kept shouting about. “You listen to the kigh!”

  “No.” Theron shook his head an Annice was surprised to hear an undertone of disappointment in his voice. “I cannot hear the kigh. But I do listen to those who can. Don’t you think it’s important that we’re aware of the world around us?”

  “But the kigh are outside the Circle!”

  “All things are within the Circle. That is the very Center of what we believe. If all things are not enclosed, then there is no Circle.”

  “But the Cemandians believe …”

  “The Cemandians are afraid.”

  Vencel stiffened, resenting the implication. I’m not afraid of anything, his posture declared and others around the court mirrored it. “We were promised that the world would come to Ohrid.”

  “Who promised this?”

  The only sound came from the horses as Vencel turned toward the corpse of Lukas a’Tynek.

  Theron straightened and his voice filled the court. “I am Theron, King of Shkoder, High Captain of the Broken Islands, Lord over the Mountain Principalities of Sibiu, Ohrid, Adjud, Bicaz, and Somes.” Above his head, a breeze spread the royal standard so that the crowned ship sailed over the keep. “Acknowledging the claims of your duc, I have come to you to see that the promises made to Ohrid by the crown are kept. I will bring the world to Ohrid if you but let me.”

  Shaking her head, Annice couldn’t help but admire how Theron had taken control through sheer force of personality. He was king. Without doubt. Without question. And by speaking in the local dialect he’d explicitly said, I am king here. Even Vencel was beginning to look impressed.

  Tucked in behind her shoulder, Stasya murmured, “Practically bardic.”

  Annice smiled but concentrated on separating out individual statements from the muttering of the crowd.

  “… means something coming from the actual king …”

  “… kings can break promises as easily as traders …”

  “… here, isn’t he?”

  “We mean enough to

him, that he came here …”

  Brows drawn into a dark vee, Pjerin raised his hand and gradually silence returned. Obviously, there were layers upon layers upon layers of understanding involved here but this was not the time to find out who knew what and when. The king no longer believed him forsworn and that would do for now. “Majesty, I regret to inform you that we have not actually dealt with the treason in Ohrid.”

  Around him, faces paled, as people remembered suddenly that they had agreed to turn this king over to a Cemandian army.

  “Lukas a’Tynek …” Pjerin gestured at the body, “… was only a tool for my father’s sister, Olina i’Katica.”

  “And where is your father’s sister now?” Theron asked.

  A muscle jumped in Pjerin’s jaw. “Probably Cemandia. When she discovered I was alive, she ran.”

  “Let her run.” Theron smiled and his voice rang against the stones. “And let the Cemandian army come. The keep of Ohrid holds the pass!”

  As the bruised and bleeding people in the court began to cheer and Tadeus had to practically Sing his translation in order to be heard, Annice had to admit she’d never really appreciated her brother’s power as king before.

  When the cheer died, Theron spoke again. “There is, however, still a treason that must be dealt with.” Then he turned his head and looked straight at Annice.

  Annice felt her heart stop. How could I have forgotten. She tried to back up, but Stasya blocked the way.

  “He’s seen you, Nees. You’ve got to face him.”

  “But …”

  “Nees.” Stasya laid a gentle kiss on the top of the other woman’s ear. “If you can’t trust him, trust me. Go. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Gerek squirmed out of her hands. “Nees, why is everyone staring at you?”

  Stasya reached forward, grabbed his shoulder and pushed him toward his nurse. “I’ll explain everything later, Gerek.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  He looked mutinous, but he went.

  Annice thought she was used to people staring at her. She was a bard. People always stared at bards. But the weight of speculation, concern, astonishment, pity dragged at her, and she wouldn’t have made the last few feet had Pjerin not reached out and pulled her to his side.

  “Your Majesty,” he began, switching to Shkoden.

  “Your Grace.” Theron cut him off in the same language. “Be quiet.” He sighed, and pulled off his helm, resting it in front of him on the saddle. “Did you honestly believe,” he asked sadly, running one hand through sweat-flattened curls, “that I would have you put to death for bearing a child?”

  Annice blinked. This was not the king who had just gathered the hearts of Ohrid into his hand. This was not the man who had first threatened her with Cemandia’s heir, then used his power like a sledge against her. This was the brother she thought existed only in memory. Did she honestly believe that he would have her put to death for bearing a child? And if she didn’t, why hadn’t she gone to him, told him what she suspected about Pjerin?

  Was she so petty as to risk the life of her baby, to risk Shkoder itself just because ten years ago a king, newly crowned, had lashed out in pain. She bit the inside of her lip as, for the first time, she realized that if Theron had rejected her, she had equally rejected him and he’d very likely been as hurt as she had been.

  “Answer him, Annice,” Stasya whispered.

  Did she honestly believe …?

  She closed her eyes. “I don’t know.” How far would he let that mix of pain and pride take him? She couldn’t know—not when hers had insisted he remain the villain for ten long years.

  When she opened her eyes again, Theron had dismounted and was standing in front of her, only slightly more than an arm’s length away. He still looked majestic. He still looked like the brother she remembered. Both Pjerin and Stasya fell back.

  “Your captain tells me that the king’s word must be perceived as law, but bad laws should be changed.” He took a deep breath. “I, Theron, King of Shkoder, High Captain of the Broken Islands, Lord over the Mountain Principalities of Sibiu, Ohrid, Adjud, Bicaz, and Somes do on this day remove all conditions on the bard known as Annice who was my sister and I hope will be again.”

  “Witnessed,” Tadeus declared as he finished the translation. Still in the saddle, he smiled over the king’s head at Annice who couldn’t seem to find a reaction to Theron’s words. “Don’t be a gob, Nees. He loves you, and there’s never enough of that to go around.”

  Theron rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Tadeus.”

  Tears spilling down her cheeks, Annice covered her mouth with both hands but couldn’t prevent a ragged giggle from escaping. She rubbed the back of her wrist over her nose and shook her head. “Long trip?” she asked her brother, shooting a glance up at the bard behind him.

  Theron opened his arms. “Too long,” he said softly. “Come home, Annice.”

  One step. Two. He met her halfway.

  She burst into sobs against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she murmured for his ears alone. “I’m sorry I humiliated you in front of Father. I’m sorry I was too self-absorbed to recognize a peace offering when you made it. I’m sorry that even for a moment I believed you might actually hurt my baby.” She felt him sigh, felt warm moisture seeping through her hair where his cheek lay against her head.

  “I’m sorry, too,” Theron said softly. “My anger at your betrayal hid the fact that I betrayed you first—it wasn’t you I couldn’t forgive, it was me. I didn’t want to think of myself as the kind of king who could use someone who loved him in such a way. I’m sorry that I allowed my pride to dictate the distance between us for so long.”

  “I was just so afraid that if I gave you the chance, you’d hurt me again.”

  Theron remembered how once she had trusted him more than anyone alive. “You have no idea,” he told her, throat closing around the words, “how sorry I am for that.”

  After a moment, he kissed her and pushed her gently away. “We’ll have much to speak about later, but right now, we’ve one unenclosed mess to straighten out.” Annice nodded. It felt as though knots had been untied all through her body. She wiped at her face with her palms. “I understand. You’ve got an army to get ready for.”

  “The army’s not likely to be the problem now that His Grace is back in control of the keep,” Theron said with a smile, changing back to the local dialect and raising his voice enough to be heard by everyone in the court. “But there are a number of explanations, long overdue.”

  “Begging your pardon, Majesty.” Stasya stepped forward. Her voice still sounded as though she’d been storing it in brine and her eyes were half shut against the light, but the gray had begun to leave her skin and she stood unassisted. “Explanations will have to wait. The pass can’t be closed. The palisade has been emptied and partially dismantled.”

  “What!” Pjerin spun around, grabbed a handful of Vencel’s tunic and nearly hauled him off his feet. “What do you know about this?”

  With the full force of his lord’s temper not a handbreadth from his face, Vencel blanched and stammered defensively, “The palisade needed repairs! A crosspiece at the bottom needed to be replaced. We took it out, but—I mean—it wasn’t finished because there’s been field work to do, and, well, other things kept coming up …”

  “Other things?” Pjerin’s tone dripped disbelief.

  Vencel stiffened. “Yes, Your Grace, other things.”

  “And who kept you busy with these other things?”

  “It’s still First Quarter, Your Grace,” someone called from the crowd. “There’s always things that need doing.”

  “It was First Quarter when you emptied it,” Pjerin growled, cutting off the murmur of agreement.

  “But Lukas said,” someone else began, then stopped, realizing that anything Lukas said would not now help their case.

  “Said what? That there was no need to hurry?” At Vencel’s nod, Pjerin overcame the urge to shake the boy until his teeth rattled and, jaw set, released him with only one, near involuntary, jerk. He was beginning to regret that Lukas had died so easily although he took some small comfort in knowing that Olina had undoubtedly given the actual orders. “Lukas was in no hurry because he needed the pass open for a Cemandian army. Something—” his angry gaze raked the crowd, “—that I’m sure crossed a number of minds considering what’s been going on around here. Whatever else you may be, I know you’re not stupid.” Unable to raise his left arm, he clutched at the ornate hilt of the Ducal sword and snarled, “Anyone who’d rather be with the Cemandians, can leave now.”

  No one moved.

  “You?”

  Vencel looked mulish, but he shook his head.

  “Good. Where’s the crosspiece you took out?”

  No one spoke.

  “Well?”

  Urmi pushed forward, her face streaked with drying blood. “It, uh, was cut up for the kitchen fires, your Grace.” She swallowed and squared her shoulders. “The palisade hasn’t been repaired for some time, Your Grace. It was an easy lie to believe and things were, well, unsettled while you were, uh, dead.”

  Pjerin could feel them waiting for his response could feel his bond with his people teetering in the balance. Glancing at Annice and Theron, he thought of how much holding onto the past had denied them. What was done, was done. He snorted and some of the stiffness went out of his posture. “Well, it was unsettling being dead.” As an echo of his easing rippled through the crowd, he turned to the king who’d been standing quietly watching Ohrid pull itself back together. “We have a problem,” he said shortly. “We won’t have time to repair and refill the palisade. We’ll have to rely on a wooden barricade, well soaked to keep it from burning.”

  The king nodded. “How long will that take to build?”

  “We’ll need some big timber to anchor it.”

  “Your Grace?” Vencel twitched his tunic straight but did not allow anxious hands to pull him back into the crowd. He lifted his chin defiantly. “We could use the logs in the palisade.”

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