Sing the Four Quarters

CHAPTER TWELVE

"Ow!" Pjerin yanked his arm out of Annice's grip. "That hurt!"

"Oh, don't be such a baby." She dipped the kerchief back into the trailpot of hot water propped precariously between a pair of rocks at the edge of the fire pit. "You know that cut's got to be cleaned. I don't even want to think about what could've been on that blade."

"Then don't think about it."

"Pjerin!" He started to move away, but she grabbed his wrist and yanked him back down beside her, ignoring his hiss of pain. "This'll only take a minute if you'll just let me do it." Dragging his arm across her lap, she dabbed at the dark line of red. The flesh beneath her fingers felt both hard and yielding and very, very warm. Forget that, she told herself sternly. Those sorts of observations are what got you into this mess.

As though in response to the thought, the baby stretched, pushing hard with an elbow or a knee and bringing an entirely nonmaternal comment to Annice's lips.

"The baby?"

"Uh-huh."

The contours of his face softened and an almost hungry expression rose in his dark violet eyes as he stared at the folds of her smock.

Watching him, Annice came to a decision. Which I'll probably regret later. She lifted the hand she still held, turned it, and pressed the palm against her belly.

Pjerin stared at her, then at his hand.

Nothing happened.

For some time.

"This is deliberate." Annice blew a strand of hair back off her face. "I'm sure of it. Maybe if I pretend I'm about to go to sleep and would like a little peace and quiet, the rhythm section will star… There! Did you feel that?"

He nodded, eyes wide.

Annice had seen priests look less reverent at prayer and she felt kinder toward Pjerin than she had at any time since her Walk to Ohrid. Or more specifically, since waking up freezing beside him and discovering he'd stolen all the covers.

After sitting quietly for a moment, barely breathing, he gently lifted his hand away. "Thank you," he said, softly. "I hadn't realized it would mean so much to touch my child before it's born."

His child. Annice sighed and tugged at the edge of her smock. I knew things were going too well between us. "Pjerin, we have to talk." That said, what next? She leaned against her pack, taking the strain off her lower back, and scratched at a bug bite. "You have to understand that this isn't your child." She fought against sounding defensive and thought she'd succeeded.

He paused, halfway to his feet, his legs bent at awkward angles. "Are you saying I'm not the father?"

"No. That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what?" When he sat again, their small fire burned between them and the embers painted his face with shadow.

Nice symbolism. Why do I get the feeling he's not going to be reasonable about this? "Look, I know that Gerek was a contract birth." She let her voice fall into the rhythmic cadence that should, at least, keep him listening. "I know that he stayed with his mother until he was weaned and then moved in with you. I've seen the two of you together and I know you're a good father—he's happy and healthy and curious about everything—but this is my baby." Hearing an echo of the mad woman from the fishing village, she hastily added, "Not mine in the sense of ownership but mine because…" Because she so desperately wanted it to be? ". . because, I'm the one who's going to raise it." Remembering the expression on his face when he'd felt the baby move and unwilling to lose that completely, she added, "I'm willing to witness a contract acknowledging you as the father, though."

"And as the father, I have every intention of raising my child." There were flames reflected in Pjerin's smile.

"You've already got Gerek," she offered, feeling her way around an anger she could sense rising in him but couldn't understand.

"Does that mean I should ignore this child, then?"

"Not ignore." Although Annice had to admit that a complete lack of involvement on his part was the solution she'd prefer. "Just trust me to raise it. I mean, I am its mother."

"Its mother?" He laughed and she jerked back at the sound, wondering what he had to be so bitter about. "And what kind of mother are you going to be?"

"What?"

"You spend your life running around the countryside, never staying in one place for more than a couple of days." The accusations poured out as though they'd been rehearsed. "You don't have a home to give a child. You're like some kind of human butterfly; living here and there, thinking only of yourself."

Mouth open, Annice stared across the fire, her initial flash of disbelief quickly overwhelmed by rage. "Myself?" She slapped the word at him.

He looked almost as though he regretted what he'd said, but she didn't give him a chance to speak.

"You seem to keep forgetting that if I thought only of myself you'd be dead! Do you think I want to be out here with you? Is your ego so huge that you think I'm enjoying this? Do you think I'm happy that someone I love might have died for you?" She could feel the muscles knotting across her back, knew that she should calm down for the baby's sake but couldn't. "And as for the rest, you don't know ratshit about how I spend my life. I'm a bard, and better to be raised by a bard than by some obnoxious, narrow-minded, arrogant bigot who thinks he's the center of the Circle even though he's spent his whole life hiding in a mountain keep with his head up his ass."

"Hiding?" His features hardened, regret gone. "I am responsible for every life in Ohrid and I take my responsibilities seriously."

"And I don't? You have no idea what my responsibilities are!"

"I know you agreed not to have children!" He dropped his gaze pointedly. "This doesn't say much for your ability to keep your word."

"Is that so? Well, if I'm an unfit mother, what kind of a father are you when it comes right down to it? You've been judged guilty of treason…"

"Falsely!"

"But still judged guilty! Right now you haven't got anything but what I've given you, including your life! You've got no business making plans for my child when you've lost the one you've already got!"

When the anger left his face, Annice knew she'd gone too far. The realization that she'd intended to cut that deeply, that she knew his fears for and of Gerek and she'd chosen her words in order to do as much damage as she could, only made it worse. She closed her eyes because the utter lack of expression hurt more than pain would have; opened them again when she heard him stand.

"Pjerin, I'm sorry. And I'm wrong."

"No." He could barely force the denial past the constriction in his throat although he wasn't sure if it was anger, grief, or pride that choked him. "You're right. About the first part at least. I owe you my life and my continued liberty and therefore any chance I have of clearing my name. But I will clear my name and I will get my son back and then I'll fight for the child you're carrying."

She didn't have the energy to start screaming at him again. "It's a fight you won't win."

"Annice, I can reverse the King's Judgment because I didn't actually commit the treason I was accused of. You're carrying yours with you. You created an innocent life just so you could throw it in your brother's face."

He moved out of the circle of firelight and Annice, breathing heavily, wrapped both arms protectively around her body. She had to believe that his parting shot had oozed out of the wound she'd inflicted. Had to believe it because if she didn't, she'd have to pick up her pack and start the long walk back to the safety of Bardic Hall leaving Pjerin to the kigh; to recapture; to the block. And she couldn't do that. Thunder rumbled over the still distant mountains. A

few moments later, a flash of lightning showed Pjerin standing at the edge of the open shed, staring out at the night. He looked as if a movement would shatter him into a thousand pieces. This time, they'd gone too far for apologies. Blinking away the afterimage and ignoring the single track of moisture that spilled down each cheek, Annice dug her flute out of her pack. For the pretense of being traders, she'd had to leave her quitara behind. It could neither be hidden nor explained away as a simple hobby; the moment she played she couldn't help but show what she was. Although she'd recognized the danger, she'd refused to travel without any instrument at all. The polished rectangular flute case could be thought to hold any number of other treasured items.

Her hands steadied as she fitted the pieces together. Something had to be said, but she didn't know the words, so she closed her eyes and let the music speak. When the last note slipped away into the darkness, she opened her eyes to see Pjerin sitting back on the other side of the fire, carefully laying wood on the embers as the storm broke and a cold, damp breeze crept in under the eaves of the shed.

"I remember," he said, prodding the fire to life, "when you played like that in Ohrid. You were up on the top of the high watchtower and you either didn't know or didn't care that the whole valley could hear you. I stood there listening and wondering at the kind of courage that allowed you to throw so much of yourself into the music." He swallowed and locked his eyes on her face. "Can we go back?"

She shrugged, flute cradled against the curve of her body. "How far?"

"To the beginning? We had the time you were in Ohrid and one terrific night together and we've been assuming we know each other ever since. We don't. But we need to." When she hesitated, he added, "Our lives are irrevocably entwined, Annice. We can't change that. We've already proven we know enough to hurt each other. We have to learn enough to stop."

"I wouldn't know how to start." He gestured at her flute. "You've already started."

"All right. Then I wouldn't know how to go on."

"How do people usually get to know each other?" He half smiled. "They ask questions."

"What kind of questions? Things like, uh…" She searched for something frivolous. It wasn't easy. There didn't seem to be a lot frivolous between them. Everything came weighted with the life she carried. "… like, what's your favorite color?"

His open hands sketched compromise in the air. "I don't think we have time to be quite so thorough."

Annice nodded. "You're right." There was really only one question she wanted to ask, but she suspected it was the one question he couldn't answer. Not directly. Not in so many words. She knew how complicated her own reasons for wanting the baby were and—in spite of what His Grace might believe—wasn't egotistical enough to suppose his were any less complex.

Start thinking about this man, Annice. Stop merely reacting to him. You're a bard. Finding truth in information is pan of what you do.

"Pjerin?" She used his name to lift his gaze to hers. "What was your father like?"

The rain fell straight down, securing the open shed behind translucent walls.

Pjerin shifted uneasily. "My father?" It wasn't the question he'd expected. Perhaps he didn't have the courage of her music, but he'd be unenclosed if he didn't at least try to meet her halfway. "He was, well, he was very strong."

"Did he love you?"

"Yes." The fire had burned down enough so that he couldn't see her face, only a constant shadow amid the flickering ones. It made it easier to respond. It almost seemed as though he were talking to himself. "I was lucky, I never doubted it."

"How did he do it? How did you know?"

Pjerin thought he heard an undercurrent of yearning in her voice, almost dismissed it, and then remembered who she was. Who her father had been. As a monarch, the late king had the reputation of being a shrewd politician and, as a father, of being a monarch. Although it should have been her turn to hand over a piece of her soul, he answered anyway. "It's hard to explain. I always knew that I was the center of his life. My earliest memory of him is of the day he fought and got me back from my mother."

"From your mother?" Annice repeated. She had a strong suspicion she knew what accusations the old due had shouted as he retrieved his son and heir. Oh, baby, it isn't going to be easy to get your daddy to let go. "Were you a contract birth?"

"No. They were joined." Pjerin could hear the bitterness in his voice and didn't bother trying to soften it. "My father was an attractive man and a due. She saw him in Marienka; she wanted him; she got him. She didn't think much of Ohrid, though; there was no one there to appreciate her prize. You've been in the keep. It wasn't the kind of place to keep a woman like her happy. She wanted bright lights, attention; love wasn't enough."

"How old were you when she left?" A flash of lightning lit the distance and the thunder grumbled overhead.

"She didn't know I existed when she left. Father finally heard she'd had a child, found her, and got me back three years later."

And told you these stones all your life. Well, that answers my question. Annice shifted position and traced comforting circles against the taut drum of her skin. She braced herself for the inevitable question about her father, about her family, about leaving them, about being alone. "Your turn."

"What does it mean to be a bard?" All at once, she wished she could still see his face. "Why?"

"Because I have a good idea of what it is to be a princess and I want to know why you gave it up."

He's more than just a pretty face, baby. But, to be fair, she already knew that. If he'd answered her questions less than honestly, she could've spun him a story with enough truth in it to satisfy. As it was…

"Bards are the eyes and ears and voice of the country." It was what she'd told Jurgis when he'd asked. A thousand years ago. "We bring the mountains to the coast and the coast to the river and the river to the forest and the forest to the cities. We're what keeps all the little bits of Shkoder together—the people, the land, the kigh. We keep the pattern whole. We harmonize the physical and the spiritual, the intellectual and the emotional, joining body and soul." But that was only what bards were, what they did, not what it meant to be one.

Lifting the flute, she traced circles in the air. "Most people are aware of only their own little Song. Bards find the connections between Songs, find them and gift them to others. To keep someone with the ability and the desire from the training to use it, is to condemn them to glimpses of the world through prison bars.

She paused for breath, then raised a hand too late to stop the shaky laugh that followed. "It just occurred to me that I should've probably told all that to Theron."

"Probably," Pjerin agreed, not the least surprised that she hadn't. "What did you tell him?"

Her second laugh held little more humor. "Essentially, that he'd be sorry if he tried to push me around."

Pjerin knew he was treading close to dangerous ground but he had to ask. "And now you're calling his bluff?"

"You created an innocent life just to throw it in your brother's face." Annice recognized the gentler version. "No. I want with this child what you have with Gerek. Is that so hard to understand?"

"No." He stood. "But so do I."

"Then we're back where we started."

"We're a long way from where we started." He smiled down at her. Annice remembered that smile. The last time she'd seen it, they'd made a baby. "We've managed to stop the bleeding from the damage we inflicted earlier. Not a bad evening's work. Let's get some sleep." Without waiting for an answer, he moved into the darkness at the far end of the shed to check on the mule—dubbed Milena after Annice's older sister and tethered inside with a small pile of hastily gathered forage lest she destroy the surrounding shoots of flax.

And he dares to call me imperious. He's pushy, isn't he, baby? But I think I might be starting to like him.

A little while later, the packed dirt floor of the shed having shifted about to cradle her bulges almost comfortably, she peered across the fire pit and sleepily asked, "Pjerin, what is your favorite color?"

"Blue," he murmured, then, to her surprise, went on. "The sapphire blue of the sky over the keep just after sunset. When the day's gone but the night hasn't quite arrived over the mountains."

If they hadn't been treading around each other so carefully, she'd have accused him of being bardic.

Stasya Sang the kigh a gratitude and watched as it swooped down to run its fingers through the pinfeathers of an annoyed pigeon, spun up to swirl once around the pennants flying from the top of Bardic Hall, then finally raced off to Elbasan to tell the captain that her message had been received.

Shivering a little in the cool dawn air, Stasya looked out over the sleeping city and wondered if behind one of the half-timbered walls, Annice was stirring, complaining about being roused, racing for the privy. Or were they already on the road?

Are you seeing that she eats? she asked the due silently, grinding the question between her teeth. Are you making sure she rests? If you're giving her a hard time, I can guarantee I'll find out about it, and you'll pay.

Stasya had arrived at Bardic Hall very late, directly from the riverside celebrations marking the safe arrival of the first boat. She knew that the guard troop Theron had sent after Annice and "the father of her child" still hadn't caught them, but she didn't know much else.

"And I hate not knowing."

Although she knew she'd get the same response she'd gotten on other mornings, she whistled up a kigh. It appeared almost instantly, frisking around her like an ethereal puppy, eager to please until she Sang the notes that made up Annice's name, then its elongated features twisted with distaste and it tried very hard to drag her off the balcony as it left.

Fingers wrapped white-knuckled around the rail, Stasya tried to calm the pounding of her heart. "I don't think I'll try that again," she muttered, forcing herself to release her grip. "At least not unless I'm on solid ground." Brow furrowed, she backed in off the small balcony and pulled the shutters closed behind her—a First Quarter sun, just up, shed nowhere near enough heat to leave them open.

The king was going to Ohrid to take the liege oath of the new due.

Tymon would receive a similar message later in the morning and by noon the criers would be telling all of Vidor.

"And I'm to prepare Ohrid for His Majesty's arrival." She sighed. "As quickly as I can."

Vidor to Ohrid at the less than frenetic bardic pace would take her about twenty-eight days. Unfortunately, the message had stated, as explicitly as was possible with the kigh, that she had about half that much time.

"Good thing the ice has moved out of the rivers." She pulled her tunic off the pile of clothes she'd dropped on the floor when she'd finally headed for bed the night before. "Sounds like I'm going to be Singing another unenclosed riverboat all the way to Marienka."

"But why must you leave so soon, Theron?" The paneled door closed behind the server and Lilyana picked up a piece of cheese. "By law, the new due has four full quarters to swear the oath."

"Two reasons." Theron reached for his soup, head bent so that he wouldn't have to meet his consort's eyes. It had been her suggestion that they lunch alone—no servants, no courtiers, just the two of them—and he strongly suspected it was because she knew he hadn't told her everything and wanted to give him one last chance. He'd managed not to actually lie to her, but he'd done it by not telling her the full truth. He didn't count the Due of Ohrid's faked execution because she'd believed the lie he'd told the country. "I want Queen Jirina to see Shkoder's immediate presence in Ohrid now that her plot has been discovered. We must make her realize that we control the pass. And secondly," He paused, took a mouthful of the chowder, and took his time swallowing. "Secondly, things are quiet in all other areas—there's nothing Onele won't be able to handle if I leave now. Who knows what the Circle'll contain if I wait—or if I take my time on the way."

"Who, indeed," Lilyana murmured at a delicate crescent of clam.

They ate in silence for a few moments.

"You'll have to take four nobles, to witness the oath," she pointed out at last.

"I know." Theron ripped a roll in two, spraying poppy seeds over his desk. "The chamberlain's informing the four I want." Three of them carefully chosen from a list of those both politically expendable and likely to consider it an honor to die in a hopeless cause at the side of their king should the worst occur; the fourth, although equally expendable, not likely to consider it an honor to die in any cause and so might just ensure that they didn't. "I'll be talking to them this afternoon."

"Will the chamberlain be telling them they'll be expected to spend thirty days in the saddle?"

"Only parts of thirty days," he protested. "If a bard can walk from Elbasan to Ohrid, from one edge of the country to the other, in thirty-six, thirty with horses isn't setting a killing pace." Theron hadn't actually been pleased at the time the journey would take. The messenger he'd sent to inform Gerek a'Pjerin, the seventh Due of Ohrid, of his father's execution would cover the distance in sixteen. Travel arrangements for kings, however, were more complicated.

Lilyana thoughtfully sectioned an orange, imported into Shkoder from the southernmost reaches of the Empire. Theron watched, fascinated, as she pulled the pieces apart with strong, sure twists of her fingers and hoped she wouldn't do the same to the story he'd had to tell her. But all she said, as she wiped her fingers on the linen napkin, was, "Are you sure one troop of guards will be enough?"

No. "Any more and we'll have to take supply wagons. There's a limit to the number of people I can expect to have fed on route in First Quarter."

"I'm rather curious about you leaving Mathieu behind."

Theron studied her expression but saw nothing that gave him any clue as to what she actually meant. "Mathieu is Constable of Shkoder. Why would he accompany me on a state visit?"

"Because you need four nobles, he's one of your oldest friends, he'd enjoy the chance to get out of the capital, and you'd enjoy his company."

"Unfortunately, I need him here."

"Oh?" Her head tilted to one side, Lilyana placed the empty lunch dishes back on the silver tray. "Why?"

"To calm the Council. Onele will need his help." He tried not to think about how much Onele would need the constable's help if he didn't succeed at stopping the Cemandian army at the border. It was a little like not thinking about a blue goose—his mind kept circling back toward it. But if the possibility of disaster showed on his face, Lilyana gave no sign.

"Then why not take Antavas?"

"Antavas?"

"Our son. He'd old enough to be no trouble and young enough to think the whole trip a grand adventure."

"No." He saw her brows go up and merely shook his head. "I can't."

Lilyana sighed and stood. She took a moment to smooth the folds of her skirt, then she lifted her head, caught the king's gaze, and held it. "Theron, I trust you and I trust that whatever it is you're up to is for the good of Shkoder, but if you get yourself killed up in the mountains, there is nowhere in the Circle your spirit can hide from me. Do you understand?"

Theron smiled and stood as well. He stepped around the desk and took her shoulders in his hands. "I understand," he said softly. "I love you, too."

She lifted her mouth to his but broke the embrace when a knock sounded at the door. "You won't be leaving for a few days," she said pointedly as he tried to pull her back against his chest. "We'll have time."

With not entirely exaggerated reluctance, Theron stepped away. "Come."

"Bardic Captain's here with another bard, Majesty. Uh, Majesties," the page corrected hurriedly.

"Tell the captain I'll be with her in a moment."

"Yes, sire."

"You'd better have that bard doing recall every step of the way," Lilyana warned him. "When you get home, I'm going to want a full and complete accounting." She reached out and straightened his tunic, then turned and swept from the room.

A moment later, Theron stared across his desk at the beautiful young man standing beside the Bardic Captain.

"Uh, yes, well, I'm sure you're an excellent bard, but this will be a long trip with much of each day spent in the saddle and, well, you're…"

"Blind?" Tadeus flashed a brilliant smile in the king's direction. "As long as the horse can see, Majesty, I'll be fine."

"More importantly, Majesty, Tadeus Sings a strong air and will be able to keep you in contact with both Stasya and myself."

"Then he'll have to know what's actually going on."

"I took the liberty of informing him already, Majesty."

"Liberty, indeed," Theron growled.

"Majesty?" Tadeus took half a step forward, an expression of intense sincerity visible around the fringed scarf. "Please don't be angry. I made such a nuisance of myself that the captain had to tell me why she wanted me to see you in order to shut me up." The smile blossomed again. "Let me go with you, Majesty. I know I can do what you need and it would mean so much to me."

"Well…" Apparently enthralled by the graceful movements of Tadeus' hands as they danced in the air, Theron sat listening to the young bard explain why he was the best bard for the situation. "It could be dangerous," he managed to interject at last.

"More dangerous for you, sire. Could I send my monarch into a danger I'd avoid myself? Besides, if Stasya hasn't found the traitor when we arrive, I can be very useful." His voice deepened. "No one ever suspects me of anything."

Don't lay it on too thickly, Liene thought acerbically as Tadeus sketched possibilities. And although it seemed to be working at present, and had certainly gotten her out of a sticky situation, she would have to tell him later to stop flirting with the king.

There were no footprints, no mule prints, no trail of any kind in the mud. With the rain in the night and the ground not yet dry from First Quarter thaw, there should have been a trail a child could read.

Otik scratched at the stubble on his jaw and stared through the dusk toward the mountains.

With Captain Luci and her troop still quartering

Vidor, he'd followed the fugitives to Turnu and through the village. He'd found the flax shed where they'd spent the night. Then he'd lost them.

They hadn't gone back to the track.

They hadn't gone over or around the new shoots of flax surrounding the shed.

It was as though they'd sprouted wings and flown away.

But if they had, they were still flying to Ohrid.

And so was he.

"Annice. They're still doing it." Pjerin stepped forward and the ground rippled behind him, absorbing the imprint of his foot.

"Oh, center it, I forgot to tell them to stop." She lifted her head, wet hair dripping down her face, and softly Sang a gratitude. The earth rippled one last time, then settled into stillness. "I guess they thought it was a good idea."

"Thought?" Pjerin bent and picked the trailpot off the fire. "I didn't know the kigh could think."

Annice shrugged. "I'll tell you what the captain tells the fledglings; all living creatures think." She bit her lip as she remembered Stasya's incredulous, "Even men?"

Don't be dead, Stas. I couldn't bear it.

It wasn't difficult to read her emotions from her expression. Pjerin knew he should say something but didn't know what. As there wasn't any comfort he could give, he gently pushed her head forward and poured the warm water in the pot over her hair. "That got the last of the soap. Come over by the fire so you don't get chilled."

"Bards don't get chilled." She rubbed the water off her shoulders and accepted his offered hand. At his snort of disbelief, she pulled herself to her feet and said, "No, it's true. We're incredibly healthy, especially when you consider that we're always so exposed."

His brows went up and she shook her head, pulling on her smock and buttoning it. "That's not what I meant!" But he'd made her laugh and in a much lighter frame of mind she walked over to sit in the small lean-to Pjerin had built upwind of the fire. The reflected heat off the cedar boughs made it almost warm inside.

Although they'd stopped in early evening—rather than a stop to eat and a final stop hours later when they'd nearly lost the light—Annice was tired and she contentedly watched Pjerin refilled the pot from the spring and begin to prepare a meal. Her hands twitched. She wished she'd thought to bring some knitting. "Maybe it's something to do with the kigh."

"Maybe it's the fresh air and exercise."

"Maybe." She yawned. "What are you making?" Before he could answer, something screamed off in the bracken.

Annice jerked erect, but Pjerin raised a hand and smiled triumphantly. "Rabbit stew," he said. "I set the snares earlier."

"Are you sure you're ready?" They were face-to-face, cross-legged under the lean-to, knees touching, the fire just high enough for Annice to see his eyes.

No. He wasn't ready. The last thing he wanted was to once again find himself trapped in his own mind. The loss of control terrified him as much as it enraged him. Wiping his palms on his thighs, he snarled, "Go ahead."

She knew that not all the shadows on his face were caused by the night but knew as well that he'd shake off any offer of reassurance. "I'm going to use the exact wording of the Judgment, even though you obviously won't be able to step forward."

"Just do it."

Annice nodded and locked his gaze with hers. "Pjerin a'Stasiek, step forward."

Pjerin jerked as the compulsion hit.

"Pjerin a'Stasiek, you will speak only the truth."

He swallowed, waiting.

Annice took a deep breath. "Did you betray your oaths to Cemandia, agreeing to allow a Cemandian army passage into Shkoder through Defiance Pass?"

It was happening. "Y… yes."

"Is that the truth?"

The pounding of his blood between his ears nearly drowned out the question. "Y… yes."

Annice frowned. "Let's try that another way. When you say yes, are you telling me the truth?"

"No." Pjerin's eyes widened and he stared at her in astonishment. "No. No, I'm not telling the truth! I d… di …" But the momentary control was gone. "I betrayed my oaths."

Hurriedly grabbing his hands, Annice leaned toward him. "Calm down," she said as his chest began to rise and fall with frightening speed and the air barely whistled through his teeth before it whistled out again. Sweat plastered the hair to his temples, reflecting flame as it ran down the sides of his face, and tension radiated off him in a palpable force. "Pjerin! Calm down!"

Pjerin closed his cold fingers around her warm ones. Slowly his breathing steadied, making time with hers, and his heartbeat quieted. "Why," he asked, ready to close his teeth on the words if they began to slide out of his control, "could I answer that?"

"I think because it's not a question that you'd ever be asked during Judgment because everyone knows you can't lie under Command. There was no need to guard your answer. Do you want to keep going?"

"Yes!"

As he was still under Command, she couldn't doubt his desire, but she watched him closely. She had no wish to provoke the kind of internal conflict that might kill him. "Are your memories of this betrayal true memories?"

"Y… yes."

"Pjerin, please stop fighting this. The answers aren't as important as the questions."

He couldn't look away, but there was nothing to stop him from scowling. "Then ask the right questions."

"I'm working on it." Annice thought for a moment. She had to stay far away from anything that might be asked during Judgment. Considering what they were trying to find out, that shouldn't be hard. "Who told you these are true memories?"

"Albek!" Pjerin's lips drew back off his teeth in a wolfish grin. "Albek," he repeated.

"Interesting when you consider that he essentially made himself useless for any further intrigue by setting himself up as your Cemandian contact."

"You consider it," Pjerin growled. "I'm going to consider wrapping my hands around his neck and squeezing until the bones crush."

"Ow!" Annice managed to maintain eye contact but only just. "The only bones you're crushing are in my hands!" She shook feeling back into her fingers as he released his grip. "All right, now we know who, let's find out how. How did Albek twist your memories so that you'd believe a different truth?"

"I don't know."

"Do you remember him doing it?"

"Yes."

"But you don't know what he did?"

"No."

"Did it happen at the keep?"

"Yes."

"Were the two of you alone?"

"Yes."

"When did it happen?"

"The night before Fourth Quarter Festival."

She shook her head in exasperation. "At this rate, it could be Fourth Quarter Festival again before we get anywhere. Pjerin, I'm going to Command you again."

"Again?" He tried to drag his gaze free, but he continued to be held in the depths of a pair of hazel eyes. "I'm still under Command."

"I know. But it might not be enough. You're not a bard, you're not trained to do recall." She saw he understood. "I won't do it if you don't want me to." She could feel his hands trembling where they touched her knees, so she gathered them up in hers again. He would have to actually break bones to do much more damage than he already had. "Pjerin?"

It seemed that the surrounding night waited for his answer, even the constant piping chorus of frogs pausing to hear.

"Do it."

"Pjerin a'Stasiek, remember the night Albek twisted your memories. Remember and tell me everything that happened…"

"… mulled wine. Your cook has a very fine touch with it."

"I know. How old are you?"

The question seemed to take the other man by surprise. "Twenty-six."

Pjerin glanced down at his accounts and then jerked his head at the other chair. "Sit. If you can. I suppose we can find something to talk about that won't have us at each other's throats."

They started with the weather. Pjerin, used to the extreme conditions of the mountains, considered lowlanders to have no weather at all. Albek didn't change his mind with a vivid description of the wind screaming down over the Cemandian plains, destroying everything in its path but he did grudgingly admit that it might have, as Albek said, "a terrible beauty."

As Albek refilled both cups with the last of the wine, they discovered a mutual love of hawking and that started a conversation that carried them through to the dregs.

"No." Pjerin set down his empty cup and slapped his palm against the desk. He blinked and stared at it for a moment, surprised by the amount of noise it made.

"No, what?" the trader prodded, gently.

"No…" Frowning, Pjerin tried to recapture the thought. "No sealing. Cruel to sew a bird's eye shut when a well-made hood works as… works as…" He slumped back in his chair. "Heavy…"

"Tired," Albek suggested.

The due tried to nod. "Yes. Tired."

"Isn't that the door to your bedchamber?"

Pjerin swiveled his head around. "Yes. Door."

"I think I'd better put you to bed. Will your man be waiting for you?"

"My man?" He snorted. "Mountain dues can dress and… undress themselves."

Albek smiled. "Not tonight, I think."

It was cold in the bedroom and the Cemandian swiftly stripped the larger man and slid him under the heavy eiderdown.

"Not… coming in with me," Pjerin warned.

"More's the pity," Albek replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Actually, we have some things to discuss, you and I." He stretched out a long-fingered hand and turned the other man's head to face him. "Can you see what I'm holding, Your Grace?"

"Hunk… of clear rock."

"Technically correct. It's called quartz crystal. It's pretty, isn't it. See how it catches the light from the candle and scatters it about."

Pjerin wet his lips and stared dreamily up at the spinning crystal. It was pretty. Spinning around and around and around. Orange and yellow and white. And around and around and around. It seemed to be catching the liquid cadences of Albek's voice and throwing it about as well. And around and around.

"Your eyelids look very heavy, Your Grace. Why don't you close them."

They were heavy. He couldn't remember them ever being so heavy. He didn't so much close them as just stop keeping them open—they fell closed on their own.

Albek's voice filled the darkness. "What I'm going to tell you, Your Grace, you will remember as the absolute truth every time you hear the phrases 'Pjerin a'Stasiek, step forward,' and 'Pjerin a'Stasiek, you will speak only the truth.' You have betrayed your oaths to Shkoder…"

"… and then he told me that I would remember nothing of what he'd done. I'd remember only that we'd talked until the wine was gone and then he'd left." He was panting as though he'd just run a race and sweat ran down his face and neck.

"Pjerin, how would you describe Albek's voice?"

"Beautiful. Like music."

Annice broke eye contact. "Witnessed," she said softly. They'd heard all they had to.

Pjerin's head fell forward.

Although she wanted to give him a moment's privacy, Annice knew that after so long in one position she wouldn't be able to stand without his help. Because there wasn't anything else she could do, she twisted sideways as much as the unyielding bulk of her belly allowed and began to rebuild the fire from the stack of dead branches they'd gathered and left ready.

When the flames licked again at the darkness, she reached out and gently touched his shoulder. His hand whipped up and snared hers, the action strangely impersonal, as though the memories continued to hold him. She could still only see the top of his head. There was a danger in being too long under Command and Annice began to fear that in Commanding him the second time she'd passed the barrier. "Pjerin?"

"He must have drugged Olina, too. She certainly gave him enough opportunity." Slowly, he lifted his head.

Knowing that he had been helpless and under Albek's control made him feel violated, his will raped. "I'm going to be there when he comes back through that pass and I don't care if he has the whole unenclosed Cemandian army behind him, I'm going to tear him limb from limb."

The power of that promise lifted the hair on the back of her neck and ran a line of ice down her spine. Annice pulled her fingers free. She understood Pjerin's anger and to an extent she shared it, but hers was directed in another way. "I feel sorry for him."

"Who? Albek?" He glared at her in disbelief. "Annice, he's a spy and saboteur and… and…"

"And in Shkoder, he would've been a bard."

Pjerin surged to his feet, stumbled, and caught himself on the edge of the lean-to. "What are you talking about?"

"You must know what Cemandians do to those who show signs of being able to Sing the kigh. If they can't be reeducated, they're executed. Albek's got the ability or he could never have twisted you around and made it hold up under Command. He's had to repress it all his life, but he's managed to find the one acceptable thing he can do with it that won't get him killed."

"Wrong. I am going to kill him."

She rubbed the back of her hand over her cheeks and nodded. "I know. He might even thank you."