Sing the Four Quarters (52 page)

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 hand-breadth 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."

At Theron's raised brow, Pjerin nodded. "We'd have to go at least a day's travel to find trees that size." Turning to Vencel, he smiled approvingly. "Good idea."

The due's praise was as overwhelming as his temper. Vencel colored and looked away, ears red.

"Before we get to work, I do have one explanation I need to make." Stepping away from Pjerin, Theron let his gaze sweep over the guard and the four nobles who had accompanied him, unaware that they probably rode to war.

Obviously, they now knew differently and deserved to be told the whole.
No, not the whole
, he decided.
Cemandia
would be at the sea before I started to untangle it
.

He spoke Shkoden this time and finished the severely edited chain of events leading up to this moment with,

"… now we must stand side by side with the people of Ohrid to defend our land from Cemandian invasion!"

There's something about being a king
, Annice decided as the guards, caught up in the appeal, cheered,
that lends a
certain grandeur even to overblown rhetoric. From anyone else, that ending would've been over the edge
. Even as Tadeus repeated it, it had lost a little of its majesty.

She glanced up at Pjerin, trying to gauge his reaction. If they hadn't run, then Olina would never have believed him dead, and they wouldn't have been able to regain the keep, and they wouldn't all be preparing to stand off a Cemandian invasion. If
only Olina hadn't emptied out that palisade
…

The two younger nobles—as Theron had known they would—looked thrilled at a chance to prove themselves against such overwhelming odds. One hated the Cemandians for personal reasons and had spent the entire trip wishing for much this situation. The fourth merely smiled.

"You're not surprised, Lady Jura."

The scarred and grizzled veteran of the Broken Islands campaign inclined her head. "Sire, I am many things, but I am not a diplomat, nor a courtier, nor a friend who might keep you company on the trip. Now I understand why I was chosen. How long have we to prepare?"

Even the horses seemed to hold their breath waiting for the answer.

Theron spread his hands. "Two days, maybe three. No more."

"Rider in the pass!"

All heads turned toward the high watchtower. Some things needed no translation.

"Maybe less," the king amended dryly.

"Surrender?" Theron folded his hands over the saddlehorn and looked calmly out at the Cemandian herald. Although the herald had addressed him in fluent Shkoden, he continued to speak the local dialect. "I don't think so."

The herald shot an anxious glance at Tadeus who was Singing softly so that all those gathered on the battlements above could hear the conversation. A muscle twitched along the side of his face, but holding both lance and reins he had no way to make the sign against the kigh. "Majesty, Prince Rajmund wishes me to point out that you are vastly outnumbered and unable to close the pass. You may be able to hold the keep, but you cannot keep us out of Ohrid. It will only be a matter of time."

"Then it will be that matter of time."

"Majesty, there will be many deaths for no reason…"

"There may be many deaths, but they will all be for a reason. To keep this land free of Cemandian rule."

"My prince says that he believes the people of Ohrid have no wish to die for such a reason."

"Your prince is wrong." Pjerin's voice barely needed bardic assistance to fill the pass. "You can tell him I said so. And you can tell my aunt that if she had a heart, I'd cut it out and feed it to her."

"I will tell them both, Your Grace." The herald turned his attention back to the king. "Majesty, my prince suggests that it is not yet too late for a joining between himself and your heir to unite these kingdoms in peace."

"Tell your prince that I do not wish these kingdoms to be united and I, and my heir, will fight to our last breath to prevent it." Theron's voice changed slightly. "And herald, tell your prince that it is not too late for him to take his army home before he spills the blood of Cemandia to no avail."

The herald, who recognized a dismissal when he heard one, bowed, wheeled his horse, and galloped back over the border, flesh crawling with the certain knowledge that his every move was watched by the kigh.

"I should be on the barricades!" Pjerin tossed his hair back off his face. "This can wait."

"No, it can't, Your Grace." Elica put her hand on his good shoulder and pushed him back into the chair. "Unless you want to lose the use of that arm, it has to be healed. Now. You haven't exactly taken care of it."

"I haven't exactly been in a position to," Pjerin growled.

"Let her work," Theron said quietly coming into the room. "We'll need you whole come morning. But if you have a moment, Healer, I was wondering about Annice."

"Well, she's exhausted and perhaps a little thinner than I'd like, but, all things being enclosed, I don't think there's anything to worry about. The blood…"

"Blood?" both men exclaimed.

"The blood," Elica repeated, once again pushing Pjerin back into the chair, "is perfectly normal for this time in her pregnancy given that it's been only pink or brown spotting. I wouldn't have even mentioned it had I realized she hadn't told you."

"What else hasn't she told me?" Pjerin wondered, shifting irritably. "She said she was fine."

"She is fine. After a little sleep, she'll be in much better shape than you are if 1 don't take care of that wound. In fact,"

Elica sighed, "she'll be in better shape than I am after half a Quarter in the saddle." The rest of the king's party had arrived in the late afternoon to find the keep on a war footing and explanations more confusing than enlightening. Elica had taken one look at Annice and ordered her to bed; had taken a second look at Stasya and ordered her to follow.

During the examinations, she'd heard the complete story.

Annice's healing of Gerek—if that's what had actually happened—would have to be investigated by the Healers' Hall.

Before she left, she'd take a look at the boy herself. At the moment, with a war imminent and no other healers closer than Marienka, Elica was willing to acknowledge that the Circle held many wondrous things and leave it lie.

"Stasya," she continued, anticipating the king's next question, "may need healing to help her body overcome the effects of that pit. I'll know in the morning. His Grace," she added pointedly, "needs healing now because when I'm finished, he's going to want to sleep."

"When you're finished," Pjerin declared, "I'm going back to the barricades."

The healer rolled her eyes. "Was there anything else, Majesty?"

"No, nothing else." Theron nodded at the due and Elica and left the room. When a healer used that tone of voice, even kings gave way.