Sing the Four Quarters

CHAPTER THREE

Pjerin a'Stasiek, sixth Due of Ohrid, slid his grip up the smooth wood of the haft, drew in a deep lungful of cold air, and slammed the maul down. The split round of ash exploded away from the chopping block, one of the pieces slamming into an outbuilding just as a small, dark-haired boy ran around the corner. The child cried out and fell.

"Gerek!" Throwing the maul aside, Pjerin dove toward his four-year-old son.

Scowling at the wedge of wood, Gerek scrambled to his feet. "I'm okay, Papa," he insisted, kicking indignantly at a rock sticking up through the snow. "I just jumped back from the noise and that tripped me."

Pjerin checked anyway, his hands engulfing the skinny, wool-covered shoulders as he turned the protesting boy around. There didn't appear to be any damage, so he brushed off a snow-covered bottom and stared seriously down into eyes the same dark violet as his own. "Ger, you know better than to come around the shed like that. What have I told you to do when someone's at the woodpile?"

"Go 'round by the other side so they can see you and stop chopping." Gerek managed to repeat the entire instruction on one long-suffering sigh. "But Bohdan sent me to get you. 'Cause that man is with Aunty Olina again."

"You're certain this will work?"

"Not entirely, no." Albek took a sip of mulled wine and peered at Olina over the edge of the thick pottery mug. "But anything worth achieving carries with it a certain amount of risk. Don't you agree?"

Olina smiled tightly at him and turned to kick at a smoldering log with one booted foot. "That depends on how much risk you consider a certain amount to be. As much as I despise the current situation, I have no intention of losing my head."

"Far too beautiful a head to lose," Albek agreed with polished sincerity.

"Don't change the subject." Nails tapped out her impatience on the mantelpiece. "How great is the risk?"

He set the mug down on the round table drawn up beside his chair. "We now know, thanks to record keeping that borders on the compulsive, that what we plan has either never been attempted or the attempt has never been discovered. It doesn't really matter which as both will serve us equally well. We also know that in the eight generations since Prince Shkoder sailed from the north and founded the country that so originally bears his name, high court procedures have not changed. Our plan will use the court's own formula against it."

"It still seems too simple."

"All the best plans are."

"Don't be facetious, Albek," she warned. "To use a bardic skill…"

"A skill that bards make use of," the Cemandian corrected, spreading his hands and smiling reassuringly up at her. "Not a talent, not an innate ability, just a skill. A skill that in Shkoder is confined to bards and to healers but in my country is used by anyone with enough interest to learn." While that wasn't the entire truth, it was close enough to be believed.

Olina frowned, brows sketching an ebony vee against pale skin. "And the bards can't detect it?"

"Of course they can. If it occurs to them to look for it." Albek leaned back, stretching his feet toward the fire, and reaching again for his mug. "But it won't occur to them. Especially when everything they discover will match exactly with the information they'll already have from young Leksik."

"Leksik? Who is Leksik?"

"The fanatic I told you of. Quite frankly, he makes such an unbelievable trader, I'm amazed they haven't picked him up yet. When he's finished ranting and raving, you'll have King Theron's men camped on your doorstep in no time."

"So you've already used this layered trance thing on him?"

Albek shook his head, the rubies in his ears flashing like drops of captured fire. "Remember simplicity. Why risk tampering with his memories when lying serves as well?"

In three long strides she crossed to bend over him, the fingers of one hand clamped tightly around his jaw. "And how well does lying serve?" she asked softly.

In spite of her grip, his lips curved into a smile. "I have never," he said, staring up into ice-blue eyes, his chest beginning to rise and fall a little more quickly, his voice leaving no room for doubt, "lied to you."

"Am I interrupting something?"

Olina slowly straightened, fingertips caressing the marks left on Albek's face as her hand fell away. Twitching her embroidered velvet vest back over her hips, she turned to face the door. "Pjerin," she said, exhibiting no surprise at his sudden arrival, "do come in. I thought you were out playing woodsman."

"I was." Pjerin circled around his father's sister and went to stand by the window. The pale winter light shining through the tiny glass panes touched his eyes with frost. Weight forward on the balls of his feet, he crossed his arms arid glowered. "Bohdan told me Albek had returned."

"With no intention to keep you from your work, Your Grace," Albek protested. Although he and Olina had been speaking Shkoden, he now switched to Cemandian. He always spoke Cemandian with the due. "I'm on my way home and as this is the western end of the pass…"

"On your way home now?" Pjerin interrupted. Fluent in both languages—although he spoke neither most of the time, preferring the Cemandian-derived mountain dialect of the region—he didn't care which the trader used as long as it soon included a variation on "Good-bye." "You're cutting it fine. Other years, the pass has been snowed in by Fourth Quarter Festival."

"But not this year. I've been keeping a very close eye on the weather, I assure you'll I leave first thing tomorrow, I should have the time I need." He traced a sign of the Circle over his heart. "All things being enclosed."

"Festival's day after tomorrow." Pjerin paused, then ground out, "You're welcome' to stay until after."

Such a gracious invitation. Albek thought, but all he said was. "No, thank you. I can't risk the weather."

Grunting an agreement, Pjerin tried, unsuccessfully, not to appear relieved. "What about your packs?"

"Yes, uh, well, I admit I was a little overly optimistic about the amount I could move this year." The trader dropped his eyes and appeared fascinated by the pattern woven into the thick nap of the carpet. "I was hoping you could continue to store them for me. The lighter I travel, the faster I travel, and the less chance I'll be caught in the mountains. I mean…" His gesture somehow encompassed not only the room they were in but the great, stone bulk of the keep it was so small a part of. "… it's not as if you don't have the space."

"Oh, plenty of space." Pjerin spread his arms and scowled. "What about your mules? Shall we store those, too? Next spring, why not bring an army of traders through with you and we'll billet the lot of them in the Great Hall. We're not using it for anything."

"Pjerin." Olina made his name a warning. "Don't be an ass just because you can."

He turned, smile gone. "Don't push me, Olina. I will not have my home become a tollbooth or marketplace to suit your plans to exploit the pass. Nor will I have my son exposed to…"

"Exposed to what? To new ideas? To the possibility that the seventh Due of Ohrid might actually be in a position of power instead of a hewer of wood and a drawer of water like his father and his father before him?"

Albek stood. "You'll excuse me, I've caused unintentional strife between you, I'll just…"

"Sit," Olina snarled.

He sat, smoothing the wide legs of his trousers and hiding a smile. Glancing up through his lashes, he studied first Pjerin than Olina. The due, in his late twenties, was a powerfully built man whose height made him appear deceptively slender. His aunt, eleven years older, was a slender woman who radiated power. He wore his thick black hair tied back at the nape of his neck with a bit of leather. She wore hers in one heavy braid wrapped around her head like an ebony crown. He smoldered. She flamed. They were both tall, and dark, and beautiful, and Albek loved to watch them fight.

"Ohrid controls the pass. Therefore, we control what passes through it." Olina advanced on her nephew. "We could become the linchpin between two great nations."

"Increased trade with Cemandia," Pjerin growled, "is a betrayal of everything this family stands for!"

"Because generations ago our ancestor was chased out of Cemandia?" Her posture changed from aggressive to mocking. "The first Due of Ohrid, fleeing from oppression, building a keep at the head of what he so romantically named Defiance Pass to protect his people from pursuit. He built this keep in order that he and his entire household not be dragged back to face a charge of treason. You, of course, are happy to huddle in this pile of rock, trying desperately to keep warm, holding tight to tradition when we could use what we have to become rich and powerful. To better the lives of everyone in Ohrid."

"None of my people are fool enough to believe Cemandian promises. We increase trade and Cemandia will do everything in its power to crush Ohrid's independence."

She moved closer. Pjerin stepped back, one step, then his shoulders folded the heavy tapestry against the wall and she closed the distance between them. He tossed his head like a horse fighting the bit. "If you're not happy here, Olina, go somewhere else."

"Like your mother did?" She spread the fingers of one hand on his chest and smiled with satisfaction as he tried unsuccessfully to flinch away. "Maybe if your father had been a little more open to change, she wouldn't have gone. Wouldn't have run off with that Cemandian trader. Wouldn't have caused your father so much trouble trying to get you back."

"Stop it!"

Olina waited long enough for it to become obvious she moved only because she wanted to, then she turned on one heel and strode back toward the fireplace. "It occurs to me," she said thoughtfully, "I should be speaking to King Theron, not to you."

"What are you talking about?" He jerked away from the wall and shoved at a lock of hair that had fallen forward out of the tie.

"Well…" She bent and threw another piece of wood on the fire. "… if King Theron were to tell you to open the pass to expanded trade, you'd have no choice."

"King Theron?"

"He is your liege lord," she reminded him dryly. "You do remember that great-grandfather, your great-greatgrandfather, surrendered Ohrid's ever so valued independence to Shkoder. If King Theron says jump, my dear Pjerin, you ask how high on the way up."

A muscle twitched in Pjerin's jaw. "I don't give a rat's ass about King Theron. I am Due of Ohrid and I will not allow increased trade with Cemandia." Hands curled into fists he charged toward the door, whirled, and glared down at the Cemandian trader. "See you that remember it, Albek!"

"I will, Your Grace. Oh, and I was sorry to hear about your dogs." His sincerity was undeniable. "To lose them both at once must have been very upsetting."

Pjerin stared at the Cemandian, conflicting emotions twisting his face. Unable to find an answer, he snarled what might have been a wordless agreement and slammed out of the room.

"Well, that bit of unexpected sympathy certainly confused him," Olina observed. "Which I'm sure was your intention."

"If he doesn't think of me personally as an enemy, it will make things easier tonight." Albek sighed and stretched his feet back toward the fire. "Besides, I was sorry to hear about his dogs. I had a dog once myself."

"Spare me."

"You play him very well."

Olina snorted. "It isn't difficult. He's too arrogant to see past what I dangle in front of him. It never even occurs to him that I have as little desire to run a tollgate between Shkoder and Cemandia as he does, that I want a part of something bigger."

"That you want to control a part of something bigger."

"That goes without saying."

"I liked the bit about King Theron. A nice touch. I can use it."

"Of course you can."

"But you still seem hesitant."

"I'm still considering your certain amount of risk," she told him dryly.

"Olina." Albek shook his head. "I've studied every possibility and this leaves us with the greatest chance of success. Consider," he raised a finger, "the accidental death of the due would require a full investigation before the title could go to his son. The bards would not only question us but the kigh as well, and that risk is far too great. While the kigh are not always around, we can't take the chance they won't be watching." He closed his eyes for an instant as fear beaten into him his entire life threatened to break through his control, then he raised a second finger. "Assassination, the same result. But…" A third finger lifted to join the other two. "… if he condemns himself by his own mouth, there will be no further investigation, there never is. You will be left to regent for the child with a shocked and saddened people behind you."

"And it will all be over."

"Oh, no. It will just be beginning." He dropped his hand and laced his fingers in his lap, adding with no change of expression in either face or voice, "You've bedded him."

"Yes." It wasn't a question, but she chose to answer it anyway. "Was it that obvious?"

Albek smiled, wondering why she'd chosen to let him know, fully aware she did nothing without a reason. "Wasn't it intended to be?"

"Perhaps." Pushing herself away from the mantle, she advanced on the trader. "At nineteen he was an enthusiastic partner, but as he got older…"

"He insisted on retaining control?"

"Essentially."

"And the boy, Gerek?"

"What? Do you suddenly think he's my son as well? Don't be a fool." Amusement and disdain were equally mixed in her tone. "Gerek is exactly what we say he is; the legally witnessed child of a woman who had her eye on timber rights. Pjerin, in turn, wanted an heir but had no interest in being joined; not after the mess his father made of it. She got her favor. He got his heir. I thought you spoke to Gerek's mother? You told me that, in your not so humble opinion, as long as her son was safe and happy she would be no problem."

"I did." Albek brushed a honey-colored curl back off his face and let both shoulders rise and fall in a graceful shrug. "But I had to explore the possibility. You understand."

"Yes, I understand." Her voice held an edge. She straddled his outstretched legs, and slowly, deliberately, stroked her gaze down the length of his body and back.

He shifted in the chair. "I do have to go, as I said, tomorrow morning."

"Of course you do. The pass doesn't defy the weather and won't remain open much longer."

"And tonight…" He tried to look away, found he couldn't, and wet his lips. "Tonight, I must concentrate on Pjerin."

"How pleasant for you both." Olina bent forward. Her eyes still holding Albek's, she grasped both arms of the chair and made him a prisoner beneath the arch of her body. Her smile became decidedly feral. "All things considered then, I suggest that we don't waste the afternoon."

"Papa, why don't you like Aunty Olina's friend?"

"Because I think he'd sell his own mother if the price was right." Pjerin lifted his son out of the bath and set him on the hearth, wrapping him in the towel that had been warming in front of the nursery fire.

"Oh." The piping voice came out a little muffled through the enveloping fabric. "How much does a mother cost?"

"Why? Do you want one?"

Gerek's head emerged, hair sticking out in damp black spikes, expression indignant. "I got one," he reminded his father. His mother came to visit sometimes and sometimes, although he didn't like it as much—because his grandpapa was very old and didn't care much for small boys even when they tried hard to be quiet—he went to visit her. "And I got you, and Nurse Jany, and Aunty Olina, and Bohdan, and Rezka, and Urmi, and Kaspar, and Brencis…"

"Wait a minute." Bohdan was his elderly steward;

Rezka ruled the kitchens, and Urmi, her partner, was the stablemaster; Kaspar was Gerek's pony. Pjerin made a point of knowing the names of all his people, high or low, and occasionally four-legged. "Who's Brencis?"

"A goat." Gerek shrugged at his father's ignorance and obediently turned to have his back dried. "Aunty Olina likes him."

"Who? Brencis?"

"No! Albek!" Standing naked in the firelight, he scratched the back of one leg with the other foot. "If you don't like him, how come you let him stay around. You could make him go if you wanted to."

"Your Aunt Olina likes him. And this is her home, too."

"Oh. Bohdan doesn't like him neither. Bohdan says that Albek is so slippery even the Circle couldn't hold him."

"Arms up."

Gerek raised his arms and poked them through the sleeves of his nightshirt. "Does that make him a bad man, Papa? I thought everything was in the Circle?"

Pjerin made a mental note to speak to Bohdan about his choice of words. And then he can explain theology to a four-year-old. Maybe it was time they had a priest at the keep. "Everything is in the Circle, even Albek."

"But Bohdan said…"

"Never mind what Bohdan said."

Gerek peered up at his father from under his lashes. "Ever?"

"Never mind what he said about Albek, you terror. You still mind what he says the rest of the time." The next few moments degenerated into a wild free-for-all that ended with Pjerin flat on his back and Gerek perched on his chest demanding his surrender.

"You win. I surrender."

"Kiss my ringer."

"Is that part of the surrender?"

"No. It got bit by a chicken."

"What were you doing in the henhouse?"

"Helping." At Pjerin's frown he hastily added, "Really helping. Not like last time."

Pjerin raised his head off the floor and kissed the proffered finger. Then he continued the motion, scooping

Gerek into his arms and rising lithely to his feet. With the boy cradled against his chest, he stepped around the pair of servants removing the bath and settled down into the only piece of furniture in the room large enough to hold his weight.

Gerek squirmed around until he was sitting half on his father's lap and half beside him tucked into the angle of the big chair. Stretching his bare toes out toward the fire, he said, "Can I stay with you for vigil this year?"

"Of course you can."

"Can I have my own candle?" His voice was hopeful, but he obviously didn't expect a positive answer.

"Yes."

"Really? Truly?"

Pjerin hid a smile at the tone. Last year, Gerek's candle had very nearly set the keep on fire when he'd fallen asleep and it had dropped to the floor but not gone out. Fortunately, the burning tapestry had smelled so bad that he and Olina had been able to put it out with only a handbreadth of damage done. This year, they'd be more alert. "Really. Truly."

With a satisfied sigh, the boy leaned his head against Pjerin's chest. "Nees sang me a song about the sun coming back," he said.

"Is Nees another goat?"

"No! Nees the bard!"

"Nees?" Pjerin frowned. He couldn't remember a bard named Nees and, with Ohrid right on the border, they didn't get many walking out so far.

"You know, Papa, the one who was here when it rained so much and she sang me stories and she kept making Aunty Olina mad by smiling at her."

Then he remembered. Olina had been in a mood; at her most challenging and ready to remove the evening from the Circle altogether. The bard had said quietly, I wouldn't. You'll lose. To his surprise, Olina had studied the younger woman for a long moment, nodded, and blunted the edge of her tongue. He'd been the only one close enough to hear the exchange but—if even Gerek had picked up on it-—the results had obviously been noticed by the rest of the keep. That wasn't likely to make Olina happy if she found out. "You mean, Annice, Ger."

"Yeah. Nees."

Frankly, the bard hadn't looked like the sort who could give Olina a run for her money. Although she'd worn the same annoying air of cocky independence that marked every bard he'd ever seen, the expression in her eyes had been contemplative rather than combative. Hazel eyes, the kind that turned almost green when… He shook himself free of the memory. It had ended up an interesting night all around. "So the bard sang you new stories, did she?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, maybe you should tell me a story tonight."

"No." Gerek snuggled into Pjerin's side, fingers playing with a damp spot caused by a spout of bathwater accidentally rising to meet a shirt. "You tell me about the dragon who wanted to be a boy."

"But you've heard that one a thousand times, Ger."

"So?"

Pjerin smiled, inhaled the clean scent of his child, and began. "Once upon a time, there was a dragon who wanted to be a boy…"

The knock on the heavy oak door of the tiny room he used for a study was so faint, Pjerin thought at first he'd imagined it. When it sounded again, he threw his hair back over his shoulder and turned to face it, calling, "Come." He hated ciphering and anything would be a relief from the columns of figures Bohdan had insisted he go over tonight.

Almost anything, he amended a moment later. "What do you want?"

Albek stepped apologetically into the room, a pottery carafe in one hand, two heavy mugs in the other. "I saw you were still up. I thought we might…"

"Have a drink together? Don't be an ass." He dragged the chair around to face the other man and scowled. "What my aunt does is her own business, but I don't drink with Cemandians. Get out!"

"I was hoping, that is, I hoped that until Olina went to sleep…"

Pjerin's scowl deepened. "I thought you got along with Olina?"

"I do." Albek's smile had picked up a slight twist of desperation. "But I can't… get along with her… again. Not so soon."

"You're limping."

"Nothing permanent. I assure you I can still leave in the morning."

"Good." Pjerin exhaled noisily and shook his head. It wasn't pity, exactly. It was just that Albek wore an expression he'd seen in his mirror more than once before he'd finally found the strength to tell her no and make it stick. "She'll go exactly as far as you let her, you know."

"I know." The Cemandian trader's tone was distinctly tart.

In spite of himself, Pjerin almost smiled. "She won't look for you in here."

Albek shifted his weight and winced slightly. "My thought as well."

"What's in the jug?"

"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."

"Is it done?"

"It is." Albek closed and latched the door. He pulled the tapestry back down into place, his fingers lightly caressing the stag as it fell beneath the hounds, then he turned and walked briskly across the room to Olina's bed.

Clothed only in shadows and the thick, black fall of her hair, the firelight licking golden highlights on her skin, she watched him approach. "I'm amazed he even let you in. He doesn't like you, you know."

"I know. But I gave us something in common."

"What?"

"You," he told her, pausing on the hearth, close enough to the bed to read her features but more than an arm's length away. The heat of the blazing fire was uncomfortably hot on his legs but, until he had her reaction, it posed the lesser danger of being burned.

To his surprise, she began to laugh. "Were you hiding from me, then? Taking refuge with someone who would understand?"

"Why…" he began, and stopped as it suddenly became clear. "That was why you let me know about the two of you."

"I thought you might be able to make use of it. Was it enough for him to open his door to you?"

"Not quite. I also lied about my age. As soon as he saw me as younger than himself…" Albek spread his hands and, now that he knew it was safe, moved to the side of the bed.

"You became someone to protect, if only for a short while." She slid her legs to one side so he could sit. "Very clever. And the drug?"

"Already in the mug. Once it relaxed him, I had no trouble."

Olina rubbed her bare thigh against his side, and studied him through half closed eyes. "And did you take advantage while you had the opportunity? He is very beautiful."

"My tastes do not lean toward taking advantage." His fingers lingered on the curve of her hip. Blocked from the heat of the fire by the rest of her body, the skin was smooth and cool like silk. He had seen a rope made of silk once; it had been far stronger than any made of a coarser, more common fiber. "As you very well know." The oblivion he needed had been too long conditioned. "But may I ask you something?"

She looked amused. "Ask."

It wasn't a question he should be asking, but he found he couldn't help himself. "The due is your blood, your family; doesn't it bother you that we've just arranged to have him executed?"

"This from the man who brought me the way to be rid of him? Who said he could recognize waste when he saw it and that he had a way to help me to the life I desired?" Her eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to know?"

Why indeed. "My Queen would not be happy if you were suddenly overcome with remorse." Which was true.

Olina laughed. "When I finally have a chance to hold real power? Don't be ridiculous, Albek."

He inclined her head, acknowledging her point. "I was deep in his memories. Sometimes, it's unsettling."

"And now it's my turn?"

"There are still a few loose ends that must be tucked neatly out of the way." Albek leaned forward and picked a pewter goblet off the pedestal table beside her bed; its contents prepared before he left to find Pjerin. "And as you are as little likely to voluntarily surrender control as your nephew…" He offered her the wine.

She wrapped her fingers around his, trapping them within her grip as she drank. Then she held them a moment longer just to prove she could. "So." Releasing his hand, she reached out further and laid her palm against his cheek, turning his head slightly so that she could catch his gaze with hers. "Once again I will be in your complete control." Beneath the rough stubble of whiskers, she could feel the heat of blood rising in his face. "Don't abuse the privilege."

Albek swallowed. "I wouldn't," he said, with complete sincerity, "dream of it."

Lilyana glanced up as the door to her solar opened. When she saw who moved wearily into the warmth of the small room, she motioned for her attendant to leave them alone.

The younger woman nodded, rose, bowed to the king and slipped around him, quietly closing the door behind her. She could be counted on to ensure that king and consort were not disturbed.

"You look like you had a tiring meeting," Lilyana observed, allowing the book she'd been reading to fall closed on her lap, her fingers resting lightly on the carved wood of the cover. "Are you hungry? Do you want me to call for something?"

"Thank you. But no." Theron dropped into the other chair by the fire, letting the heat bake the chill from his bones. From the middle of Third Quarter on, the larger of the two audience rooms became perpetually cold and damp and he had no idea why he'd used it today. Well, actually, yes, he did. He had no wish to see the Cemandian ambassador in any kind of an intimate situation.

"I really can't stand that son of a bitch. I wish you'd been there."

She smiled. "When I offered to attend, you told me there was no reason for us both to suffer. So, what did the ambassador say when you confronted him with the bardic reports on the traders?"

"For the most part, more of the usual. That his queen wished to establish a trade route to the sea and that the traders were merely finding the best corridor through Shkoder. Then he said that as I had raised no objection to the first he couldn't understand why I would object to the second."

"And you told him?"

"That he was a slimy little eel and I should have sent him packing before the pass closed."

"Theron." She reached out and prodded him in the calf with the toe of her fleece slipper.

He sighed and unfastened the throat of his heavy brocade overtunic, catching himself before he could roll the embossed gold button between his fingers. It was a habit he was trying to break and, besides, his valet would be unbearable if he lost another one. "Well, that's what I wanted to tell him. Instead, I informed the slimy little eel that agreeing in principle to an expressed desire did not mean that I had agreed to a small army of traders poking their noses where they don't belong. That if a corridor is to be laid out, I will say where it goes."

Lilyana nodded. "And he said?"

"That his people were just trying to help." He began to grow annoyed again, remembering, and his tone sharpened. "That all information would, in time, have been brought to me in order that I could come to a decision."

"And you said?"

"Lilyana, there was a bard there. The whole conversation was witnessed. If you want me to repeat it back to you, word for word, it would be easier to ask for a recall."

"But you're here now," she told him, "and I'm asking you."

The king glared at his consort, who met his gaze levelly, her expression clearly stating she depended on him, and only on him. He sighed again, not the least taken in, and undid another button. "I didn't lose my temper, if that's what you're afraid of. The little sea slug isn't worth it. I told him that I would express my displeasure to Her Majesty the moment the pass cleared and a messenger could be sent. Whereupon," he raised a hand to forestall her next question, "he then went on about how the pressure of the Empire against both our borders suggests that we would have much to gain from closer ties, and then he mentioned, as he always does, that we haven't chosen partners for either of our daughters and that the Heir of Cemandia is still unjoined. I reminded him that Onele is my Heir and he replied with…"

"The line about our grandchild ruling two great countries combined. He's so predictable." Lilyana drummed her fingers against the tooled leather covering the arm of her chair. "As if the two countries could combine without Cemandia trying to roll right over Shkoder to the sea."

Theron grunted his agreement. "Then, I pointed out that Brigita is, at ten, fifteen years younger than Prince Rajmund, and still too young to be considered as a partner for anyone. Which ended that topic yet again."

"He'll keep bringing it up."

"Of course he will. It's his job. All things being enclosed, I'm thankful there isn't a female member of the Cemandian royal family around the right age or he'd be nagging me about Antavas, too." He rubbed at his temples where the headache that always accompanied the ambassador still pounded. "Rajmund and Annice were of an age. This could have all been settled so easily years ago."

Lilyana's eyes widened slightly, her only reaction to the surprising introduction of a topic never discussed.

"They could have found happiness together," Theron continued. "They could have built the first span in a bridge between Shkoder and Cemandia, given me a foundation of family to build on." He frowned at the mixed metaphor and locked up at his consort. "You found happiness, didn't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she said complacently, "you know I did." She'd been sixteen when they'd been formally betrothed, nineteen when they were joined. They'd spent maybe five months of those three years together. But from the beginning they'd both been willing to make the best of the situation and, over time, tolerance had become trust, had become friendship, had become… She was no longer able to imagine life without him and knew how much he depended on her. If she had to put a name to it, Lilyana supposed that love was as good a one as any.

She studied his face. He was six years her senior and there were new lines around his eyes and mouth, and the gray at his temples had begun to spread through the soft brown curls. At least he still had his hair; her family tended toward baldness, something Antavas would not thank her for later. Almost half her life spent reading nuances off a face schooled to hiding expressions behind political dissembling told her Theron was honestly worried. She also realized that her happiness—while he did care about it—was not the issue bothering him now. Stroking the rope of pearls he'd given her when Onele was born, she added thoughtfully, "But I never had another life pulling at me. Annice did."

When Theron's frown twisted into a scowl, she met it with a neutral expression and blandly pointed out, "You mentioned her first."

The wood and leather chair creaked a protest as Theron shifted his weight. "She didn't even give it a chance," he growled. "Didn't even consider what it might mean to Shkoder."

"She was fourteen. She overreacted." Lilyana had thought at the time that if Annice had tried to find the worst possible way to handle the situation, to handle Theron, she couldn't have found anything better. If only she'd come to me. But the adored youngest princess had been jealous of her brother's new loyalties and, to be honest, Lilyana had never blamed her for that. That Theron, nineteen years Annice's senior, had also overreacted had only made things worse. They'd hurt each other very badly and pride had kept the wounds from healing.

It hadn't helped that when Theron had decided to meet Annice halfway, Annice had refused to be met. Lilyana had tried to explain how Annice felt, had tried to get Theron to apologize—for she knew that in his heart he was sorry—but without success. "I am the

king!" he had snarled, his sister's message crushed in his fist. "I held out my hand and she not only ignored it but dared to tell me what I should have done. What kind of a king surrenders to the whims of a spoiled child!"

Pride and temper—in this Annice and Theron were too much alike. Lilyana had mentioned that at the time, endured the storm produced, and never mentioned it again.

"A diamond for your thoughts?"

"A diamond?" Lilyana smiled at him. "I doubt they're worth so much. I was just thinking that Annice and you might…"

Theron chopped at the air with his left hand. The royal signet flashed in the afternoon sun slanting through the tiny panes of the window behind him. The gesture very clearly said he no longer wished to talk about it.

It isn't Annice that worries you, although this new trouble evokes the older one. Lilyana waited.

Conscious of her steady gaze, Theron stared in turn at the fire. For seventeen, almost eighteen years, Lilyana had been, as she was now, a quiet sounding board for his fears. She'd stood serene against his temper and from the maelstrom pulled, nearly every time, the true reason for his anger. Even when he hadn't been sure of it himself. He'd been a better king with her beside him. Probably a better person. Had he ever told her that? He glanced up from the flames, caught her eye, and realized she knew. For a moment, there was only the two of them, then the moment passed and he sighed.

"Queen Jirina badly wants a route to the sea, but why stop at that. Why settle for a trade corridor when she can try for the entire country? In her position, I'd certainly be considering it. I've had reports out of the Empire about mercenary troops crossing the border into Cemandia. She could easily be building an army."

"What does the ambassador say to that?"

"He denies even the possibility, of course. My guess is, Jirina's deliberately keeping him in the dark. What he doesn't know, he can't give away. Anyway, I spoke to the Bardic Captain this morning. Cemandian traders remaining on this side of the border over Fourth Quarter will be gently questioned."

Lilyana's brows rose but all she said was, "Why gently?"

Theron half laughed. "Because if it happens that she isn't considering invading, I don't want to give her ideas." He quickly sobered. "All things being enclosed, I'd give almost anything to have a bard on the other side of those mountains."

It was a hollow wish, and they both knew it. In Cemandia the kigh were considered outside the Circle and the bards, therefore, outside as well. The last bard who had crossed into Cemandia had been stoned to death, the crowd too large for him to defend himself although he Sang until the end. The kigh had brought his Song back to Shkoder and the bards, though they traveled north to Petrokia and south into the Havakeen Empire, now went no farther east than Ohrid.

"If we must defend ourselves," Theron continued, "at least there's only the one pass she could bring an army through."

"Defiance Pass. In Ohrid." Lilyana's fingers toyed with the book on her lap. "And how secure is Ohrid?"

"If you're asking about the keep, it's as secure as a paranoid man and a horde of stonemasons could make it. You know its history?" When she nodded, he went on. "Whoever controls the keep controls the pass. If you're asking about the man who controls the keep, well, you must remember Pjerin from the Oath of Fealty. He stood out."

"Theron, I was eight months pregnant, with two small children, and my partner had just become king. I had a lot on my mind."

"Tall. Long black hair. Physically powerful, even considering he was only nineteen. He's the one that overheated bard wrote 'Darkling Lover' for."

"Oh." She stared into the past and slowly smiled. "Now I remember."

"I thought you might."

"He threw the Due of Vidor's cousin—that overbearing, pompous cretin—into a pile of horse manure. He was like a breath of fresh air."

"More like a bloody gale. By all reports, he hasn't changed. If anyone can hold Defiance Pass, he can."

"So the next logical question becomes, will he?"

Theron sighed. "I like to think so. He seemed to take his oaths seriously enough. Still, he's never attended a Full Council, always sends a proxy. I didn't care much either way, but now I wish I'd gotten to know the due better. The mountain provinces are poor, far from Elba-san, and, if you ignore the obstacle of the mountains, Ohrid is considerably closer to Cemandia." He shifted again in the chair, as though the edges of potential trouble kept prodding him. "According to the captain, a bard's just returned from there and they're transcribing the recall now. I told her to send it over the instant it's readable." His voice changed slightly, picking up a speculative tone. "The due has a son."

"How old?"

"Four."

"Brigita's ten, Theron. Four years until she's old enough to consult and ten until the boy is. It doesn't sound like we have that kind of time." Lilyana stood and shook out the heavy velvet folds of her skirt, "It sounds to me that you've done all you can. Further decisions-will have to wait on more information."

The king snorted. "I don't wait well."

"Nonsense. You just don't enjoy it much." She moved around his chair and placed her hands on his shoulders. "And as Brigita is far from old enough to be consulted about joining anyone, why worry about that now?"

His shoulders rose and fell beneath her touch. "I don't know."

"Because you love her." She bent and lightly kissed the top of his head. "The father wars with the king; the demands of the heart with the demands of the crown." Her fingers tightened for an instant. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have things to ready for tonight's vigil and tomorrow's festival."

Theron sat for a while longer after she left, sat while a servant stoked the fire, sat while the sunlight faded. He didn't often have the opportunity to just sit. And think.

This could have all been solved ten years ago.

How many times had he left meetings with a succession of Cemandian ambassadors and thought that? A thousand. A hundred thousand.

Solved but at what cost?

He'd only just started to work at that. And every time he considered a joining for one of his children, he got closer to an answer.

I never wanted her to be unhappy.

She made me look like a fool. Like a tyrant. As though I couldn't be reasoned with.

But I never wanted her to be unhappy.

"Annice? Are you in there? It's almost sunset, we're going to be late."

Annice came out of the privy, adjusting her robe. "All things being enclosed, it's a good thing water's the closest quarter to the door."

"All things being enclosed," Stasya repeated wryly as they hurried toward the Center. "When was the last time you Sang water at a vigil?"

"Two years ago," Annice told her smugly. "I was on a Walk and I ended up perched on a stool in a shepherd's cottage, surrounded by about a dozen more people than the place could hold, three orphaned lambs, two cats, and seven kittens. I Sang all four quarters in rotation throughout the night. By dawn, I was so hoarse I Sang the sun back as a bass-baritone."

"Show off."

"I have a feeling tonight pays for expediting my trip downriver. When the captain gave me the assignment, she said, After all, you've had practice Singing water lately. The word practice dripped with double meaning."

Stasya laughed at the impersonation—Annice had the captain's acerbic tone down pat—but sobered quickly. "Maybe she just wanted you where I could keep an eye on you. Are you sure you're going to be able to do this?"

"I slept most of the day, I've got dried fruit and a flask of water in my pouch, and I only have to stand while I Sing." Annie followed Stasya through the Bard's Door and waited while she Sang it closed. From the outside of the building the door would now appear to be part of a wall of unbroken stone—symbolism insisted that Centers have only four entrances. "As long as I can run off to pee in between solos," she continued as they started up the spiral staircase, "I'll be fine."

"Yeah, but…"

"Stas! Don't fuss. This baby and I walked all the way back from Ohrid, didn't we? I think I can manage a vigil."

As Stasya had reached the gallery, she could only turn and silently glare.

Rolling her eyes, Annice climbed the last few steps, and set her mouth against her lover's ear. "I'll be fine," she whispered, added a kiss, and pushed the other bard toward her own position. She watched Stasya's robe—the pale gray-blue of a winter's sky—until it disappeared into the shadows, then stepped through the curtain and out onto the small semicircular balcony where she'd be spending the night.

Down below, the choir was gathered around the altar and crowds of people were standing more-or-less quietly, waiting. Directly beneath her at the south door, eddies of movement marked latecomers racing sunset. Across the great round chamber, a baby began to fuss. Annice wasn't sure if there were a greater number of children present than usual or if she were merely more aware of them.

She watched an obvious family group rearrange itself around a young woman carrying a squirming toddler, and found herself suddenly remembering the horrified expression on Theron's face when an infant Onele had started to scream the moment one of the priests began to invoke the vigil. Lilyana had calmly rearranged her mantle, lifted her shrieking daughter out of Theron's arms, and put her to the breast. The Annice of memory had somehow managed not to giggle.

Tonight, the king and his family would be in the Center at the Citadel. The captain would be Singing there with the three of the senior bards and the fledglings. Fledglings always Sang at the Citadel during their training as it helped to emphasize their duty to Shkoder. Annice had only been able to get through those years, pointedly ignored by her family, by immersing herself completely in the Song.

She shifted, her chest tight, forcing her attention back to the here and now. Closing her hands around the polished wood of the balcony rail, she turned, and with the crowds below, watched the light begin to fade from the west windows. As the colors dulled in the intricate pat terns of stained glass arcing up into the vault of the ceiling, the choir began to sing the farewell to the sun.

Annice shivered.

When the last note slid into silence, the last of the light went with it, plunging the Center into darkness.

Somewhere in the crowd, a priest called out, "From light into darkness into light again."

The people answered, "The Circle encloses us all."

From balconies in the four quarters of the chamber, the bards began to Sing. First, air; Stasya's powerful soprano rose to open the shutters in the vault. Leaning into the rush of wind, Annice called water into the Song and heard the fountain on the altar leap into life. The next instant, her body thrummed with the stones of the Center as Jazep's resonant bass evoked earth. The three of them wove a melody for a dozen heartbeats, then paused for a dozen more as an achingly pure tenor Sang fire.

The darkness vanished as a burst of flame crowned the four great candles as well as the hundreds of smaller ones held carefully by the crowd.

Annice felt the hair on the back of her neck lift as the elements united into one glorious, all-encompassing whole and it became impossible for that moment to tell if she were singer or part of the Song. Then, just as the paean trembled on the edge of what flesh and blood could bear, the choir took up the melody. Panting, fingers laced across her abdomen, Annice staggered and sat down heavily on the narrow bench, listening as Stasya Sang the first of the solos that would continue until dawn.

Final Quarter vigil had begun. Throughout Shkoder—in Centers, in their homes, out under the stars—people kept the light alive, waiting on this the longest night of the year for the return of the sun.