by Tanya Huff
“You have been given no command save that of stepping forward,” Theron told her evenly. “And I am king in Ohrid as in Shkoder by virtue of oaths sworn by your great-grandfather to mine.”
Olina spread her hands. “I swore no oaths. You cannot accuse me of treason.”
“I am not accusing you of treason. The Death Judgment is called for another crime. Do you deny that you arranged, with the help of Cemandia, to have your nephew killed?”
“I deny nothing. I admit nothing. To do either, would acknowledge your right to judge me, which I do not.”
Pjerin stepped forward. “Do you deny that I am Duc of Ohrid?” he asked quietly.
The crowd stilled to hear him.
“Does your master allow you to speak, then?”
“Answer me, Olina. Do you deny that I am duc?”
“You are the duc,” she answered. She knew where he was going with this and planned to meet him there. Over the last few days when Cemandian guards made it clear that Prince Rajmund would not protect her, she’d had little to do but plan.
With a hiss of steel, Pjerin pulled the Ducal sword free of the scabbard and held it out, point aimed at her heart. “The day I gave my blood to Ohrid with this sword, you swore to have me as your lord.”
“Agreed.” Her smile held no humor. “But if you wish to be a part of Shkoder, then you should know that only the king can sit in a Death Judgment. You have surrendered your right to judge me to someone who has no right.” She turned and addressed the people. “The kigh rule the bards, the bards rule the king, the king rules your duc. Do you want the kigh to rule in Ohrid?”
“NO!”
The cry still echoed off the mountain when Vencel pushed his way into the open.
“The kigh,” he declared, “are not the issue.”
“Vencel …” Pjerin began, but Theron cut him off.
“Let him speak. If Lady Olina wishes the people to decide whether I am to judge her, I will abide by their judgment.”
Sweat darkened the pale sides of Vencel’s tunic but he wet his lips and went on. “How anyone feels about the kigh doesn’t change the fact that you arranged to have His Grace killed.”
Ebony brows rose. “Who says I did?”
“Well, His Grace!”
“Who you also heard say that he broke his oaths and sold Ohrid out to Cemandia. Which time was he telling the truth?”
“You ran to Cemandia when he returned!”
“Have you seen my nephew in a rage?” Her voice was silken reason. “I had no wish to meet him until he calmed. You know what happened to Lukas.”
The crowd fell silent, and she felt her chance slip free. She’d heard that Lukas had gone off the inner tower, that Pjerin had been up there with him. She knew his rages. How could he not have taken advantage of that opportunity?
Urmi slipped between two of her stablehands to stand at Vencel’s side. “Lukas threatened to drop Gerek off the tower. Whatever was between you and His Grace, or Lukas and His Grace, Gerek wasn’t a part of that. We,” her gesture took in everyone in the court, “all heard you insist that Gerek had been taken away by a bard you knew was half-conscious in a pit …”
“Lukas,” Olina began.
Gerek twisted out of his nurse’s grasp and ran across the court to stare up at his aunt. Except for the sword, his stance was a copy of Pjerin’s. “I saw you!” he told her. “I saw you put Stasya in the pit, and if you say you didn’t, you’re telling lies.”
“You were willing to let a young child die!” Urmi spat. “And for what?”
“So all of Ohrid would have a chance to be more than it was,” Olina snarled.
“Less!” Vencel shouted. “You can’t be more if the cost is an innocent life!”
When the shouting died down, Theron stood. “People of Ohrid. Am I to judge?”
The response was deafening. It was one thing for ambition to remove a grown man and quite another for that same ambition to demand the life of a child. In all the confusion, that, at least, was certain.
Pjerin stared into Olina’s eyes, the Ducal sword still pointed at her heart. “I promised that I’d nail you to the door of the keep with this,” he growled.
Her smile was ice. “I wonder if you’ve found everything we put in your head,” she purred. “You’ll never know, will you?”
“It’s over, Olina.”
“Yes. It’s over. But I said in the beginning that no one would take my head.” Her face twisted and a trickle of blood ran down her chin as she bit through her lip.
Pjerin stared down at her grip on his wrist, too astounded to react.
She yanked herself a little closer and another handbreadth of the blade slid in under her breastbone.
Someone screamed as the point ripped out through her back.
Pjerin could still feel the heat of her fingers on his skin as they slid off to stiffen, once, twice, in the air. She stumbled. Fell to her knees, the blade pulling free with a rush of crimson. Eyes wide, her mouth worked as she tried one last time to speak. She tumbled forward.
An instant later, the sword rang on the cobblestones beside the body.
“What a waste,” Theron said softly. “What a terrible waste.”
* * * *
“Are you sure about this, Annice?”
“I’m sure.” Annice settled the baby more securely in her sling and carefully sat on the stool Stasya had carried out for her.
“His Grace won’t like it,” Jazep murmured, adjusting the tambour strap around his neck.
“His Grace doesn’t have to like it,” Annice pointed out tartly as Tadeus reached out and twitched Jazep’s collar down. “This has nothing to do with Pjerin. It’s bardic business.”
Overhead, the stars seemed close enough to touch. Around them were the remains of Annice’s kigh. Most of the earth had been returned to fields—as far as the people of Ohrid were concerned, fear of the kigh did not extend to starving to death over the winter. Newly planted crops were already nearly the height of the corn that had been destroyed. Luxuriant growth hid any crack or crevasse in the pass that hadn’t been completely cleared.
“Are you sure you’re strong enough for this, Nees?” Stasya squatted beside the stool. “You haven’t really slept for more than an hour at a time since you had the baby and remember the captain’s message—you’re supposed to be resting your voice.”
“Stas,” Annice reached out and stroked the other woman’s cheek. “Tadeus and Jazep are leaving tomorrow with the king. It has to be tonight.”
Tadeus turned toward Cemandia. “He might not be anywhere he can hear us.”
“He is.”
“How can you be so certain?” Jazep asked softly.
Annice sighed. “I’m not.”
Shaking her head, Stasya stood. “They’ve crippled him, Nees. He might not be able to come to us even if he hears.”
“I know.” She checked her sleeping daughter and when she looked up, her expression was grave. “But how could we live with ourselves if we don’t try?”
The night came alive as Jazep stroked a heartbeat out of the drum. Eyes closed, he Sang. He wasn’t calling the kigh, but he was calling, voice anchored to the earth and reaching into Cemandia.
Tadeus nodded in time and added a Song that burned along the path Jazep laid.
One hand resting lightly on Annice’s shoulder, Stasya’s Song rose to touch the stars.
Earth. Fire. Air.
“Annice, he’s a spy, and a saboteur, and …”
“And in Shkoder, he would have been a bard.”
Water.
Tears.
The other three faltered as Annice added her voice to theirs. For a moment, the longing, the pain, the loneliness overwhelmed everything but the steady beat of Jazep’s drum.
Stasya recovered first. Then Tadeus wrapped his denial around hers. When Jazep gathered them all together, they stopping Singing and became the Song.
Slowly, they answered the longing, and eased the pain, and
Annice saw him first and fell silent.
The Song she’d been Singing carried on. The voice was untrained, rough, but it didn’t matter because it was the heart that was Singing.
A moment later, he Sang alone, then the kigh, gathered thickly about him, spun away and carried the last note into the night.
His face twisted with terror, trembling so violently he could hardly stand, Albek stared at the four bards. “What have you done?” he whispered hoarsely.
Annice stood and reached out toward him. “Only told you that we understand.”
He shook his head and took a step back. “No.” Another step back. In moment he was going to bolt and run.
Then the baby began to cry.
Albek started at the sound.
Without thinking, Annice Sang comfort to her.
When she looked up, Albek was on his knees, sobbing in the circle of Tadeus’ arms, the dark head bent close to the gold one, and Singing the same Song.
* * * *
“… and nursing my daughter on the Cemandian border in the middle of the night.” Pjerin wanted desperately to yell—had wanted desperately to yell since he and Theron and half the inhabitants of the keep, who’d been roused weeping from their beds by Annice’s song, had met the five of them coming back through the gates—but the baby was asleep and Annice wouldn’t leave her. “What were you thinking?”
“I don’t need to explain myself to you, Pjerin.”
“You know who he is. What he is.”
She reached into the cradle and touched the rosebud curl of her sleeping daughter’s hand. “Better than you do.”
Pjerin sucked in a deep breath and jabbed a finger at her. “Don’t hand me some crap about bards being more sensitive, more all-seeing than the rest of us because I’m not in the mood. I heard what you Sang; you pulled out all the stops on telling him how pathetic his life was and then promised you’d make it better.”
“That’s not quite what happened, Your Grace.” Stasya unfolded her legs and slid off the bed.
“Stay out of this, Stasya. This is between Annice and me.”
“That wasn’t his Song she was Singing, Pjerin. It was her own.”
“What are you talking about?” He frowned down at Annice. “What’s she talking about?”
“Don’t even try,” Stasya cautioned as Annice opened her mouth to deny the accusation. “Words might hide the truth, but a Song never lies. That was your pain. Not Albek’s.”
“Was,” Annice admitted, refusing to look at either of them. “But I let go of it.”
Stasya sighed and shook her head. “How am I supposed to believe that when you spent ten years telling me it didn’t exist?”
Brow furrowed, Pjerin heard again the incredible loneliness, the heartbroken sense of betrayal that had pulled him out of a dream where he’d had Olina by the shoulders and was asking her over and over again, “WHY?” “Your brother did that to you.” His tone bordered on treason.
“No.” This time she looked up. “I did it to myself. Or maybe we did it to each other, I’m still not sure how Theron feels. Albek had it done to him, but I don’t have his excuse.” She stroked the baby’s cheek and smiled a little at the dark line of lashes so like Pjerin’s. And so like Stasya’s, too, for that matter. “If I’m going to be responsible for her life, I’ve got to take responsibility for my own.”
“And everyone else’s?” Pjerin wondered, thinking of how she’d thrown herself in front of Albek and Tadeus when he’d charged across the court demanding the Cemandian’s heart. The edge had left his voice and it wasn’t really a question as he already knew the answer.
“I’m someone’s mother now, Pjerin. I’m no longer that extreme …”
Over her head, Stasya and Pjerin exchanged identical expressions of disbelief.
Keep reading for a preview of the next book in the Quarters series
Fifth Quarter
Trained to kill from childhood, siblings Bannon and Vree have only known life as assassins in the Imperial Army. The army is both their mother and father, their lives subject to the whims of the Crown.
When their latest target steals Bannon’s body for his own, Vree saves her brother by dragging his spirit in to share hers. But two assassins in one body is one assassin too many. To save both their lives, they must abandon the only life they’ve known, risking Imperial ire and possible execution, to regain Bannon’s body. It isn’t until after they capture Gyhard, the body thief, that they realize they can’t force him to do anything while he holds Bannon’s body hostage.
But Gyhard is willing to trade Bannon’s body for their assistance. All they have to do – while being hunted for desertion and dealing with an unknown power able to Sing the dead out of the grave – is betray the oaths they’ve lived by and help Gyhard secure the body of an Imperial Prince.
Pick up a copy to see what happens next in...
Fifth Quarter
One
There were guards on duty at the entrance to the marshal’s tent but they’d expected that and were accustomed to using less obvious entrances. Problem was, there were guards on duty at the sides and rear of the tent as well.
“Looks like they’re expecting us,” Bannon whispered, his mouth lightly touching his sister’s ear, the esses softened to prevent the sound from carrying.
Vree nodded, right hand rising to brush at the lingering caress of warm breath, eyes locked on the flickering circle of torches that left no paths of darkness.
The guards were spaced in such a way that removing one would alert the others.
She gestured at a sputtering flame; the thick knob of oil-soaked hemp had nearly burned away. Soon, it would have to be replaced. Bannon signed his agreement.
They were in position, ready, when the marshal’s personal body servant appeared with a new torch. As the nearest guard half-turned to watch the exchange, they rose from a sheltering hollow and raced into the skirts of shadow around the base of the tent. His gaze sweeping a heartbeat behind their movement, the guard resumed scanning his assigned area.
Contorted to fit into the triangle of darkness, they could hear only one voice from inside, but as it rose and fell in a conversational cadence, they assumed the marshal had company.
Pressed flat against the ground, Vree slid under the weighted edge of canvas and continued to slide under the red-and-gold patterned carpet laid to define the floor. When she felt Bannon’s touch on her ankle, she dug fingers and toes into the dirt and began to creep on her belly around the perimeter. The marshal’s voice grew louder, and for the first time she heard the rough whisper that answered. Commander Neegan. She grinned. They’d expected as much and made allowances for his presence.
The crushed and dying grass beneath the carpet made breathing difficult, but Vree sucked air past her teeth and kept moving through the thick growth. A parade of heavy-footed officers had mashed the floor flat in the center of the tent, but out where the billowing walls touched the earth, it rose and fell like the dunes of Hedyve. Between the patterns in the carpet and the flickering shadows—the marshal was well known for conserving lamp oil—an extra pair of lumps in the floor would not likely be noticed. When Vree finally paused, she could feel Bannon’s movement in the vibrations of the fabric against her shoulder blades. But only Bannon’s movement. She froze, listening. Wood and leather creaked above and to her left. Both marshal and commander were seated, discussing possible routes for a massed attack.
“They know we’re coming; what makes you think they haven’t moved the furniture around?” Bannon asked, rubbing his palms together as he peered down at the diagram sketched in the dirt.
“Two reasons.” Vree sat back on her heels. “First, the marshal always sits facing the entrance. Always. That doesn’t leave a lot of options with a map table that size. Second …” She looked up at her brother and drew a circle around the sketch with one seemingly delicate, long-fingered hand. “… they don’t think we can make it that far.”
Bannon grinned in anticipation. A shadow-bladed knife flickered against his palm, then disappeared back into a hidden sheath, the motion almost too fast to follow. “More fools they.”
* * * *
“Well, Neegan …” The marshal leaned back in the folding camp chair and set the empty flagon on the table with a sharp crack. “… second watch is nearly over and still no sign of them.”
“Too early to relax, Marshal.” Commander Neegan’s whisper had been given him many years before by an enemy archer. The commander had not only survived the battle but seen to it that the archer did not.
Marshal Chela smiled, the expression bracketing the rounded curves of her face with deep creases. “I never relax,” she said cheerfully. “It’s why I’ve lived to a ripe old age.” She reached for the flagon, remembered it was empty, and sighed. “There’s another bottle in that case behind you, Neegan. Get it, would you?”
“Allow me, Marshal.” In one lithe motion, Bannon rose to his feet, set the clay bottle on the table, and lightly touched his blade to the commander’s neck, just by the white pucker of the old scar.
Chela leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you removing the wrong target?” she murmured.
Vree tapped the older woman gently on the shoulder and laid a line of steel across her throat. “Don’t move,” she warned. “It’s very sharp.”
Apparently oblivious to the knife tip dimpling his skin, Neegan held out his hand. “You owe me forty crescents, Marshal. I told you they could do it.”
* * * *
“I don’t want this becoming a siege; they’re on springs and we aren’t.” Marshal Chela laced her fingers over her ample belly, the silver and ruby ring that proclaimed her a priestess of Jiir, Goddess of Battles, gleaming on her shield hand. “Any suggestions?”
Commander Leesh stepped forward, her voice a bare shade off eager. “Why don’t we just charge the city? They wouldn’t survive an all-out attack.”
“Neither would most of us,” Chela pointed out dryly. Leesh was the youngest of her four commanders and anxious to prove a political promotion deserved in spite of evidence to the contrary. “And try to remember that the people of Ghoti are as much citizens of the Havakeen Empire as you are. It is our duty to attempt to find a solution that doesn’t end in slaughter.”
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