Sing the Four Quarters (16 page)

Otik smiled. "Who will witness?"

"Wait." Tempted to put Command on the word, Stasya settled for filling the hall with it. "A life is at stake here. That's too important a matter to witness on one question."

"He had no choice but to tell the truth." The captain snapped in Shkoden. "You yourself gave the Command."

"I know." But she could see the inner struggle going on in the man before her and while it might be nothing more than the realization that he had doomed himself, she had to be sure. For Annice's sake if no one else's.

"Very well " In victory, Otik could afford to be generous. "Ask as many questions as you like. You, of all people, should know it won't change things."

"… next spring, bring an army through." Pjerin remembered saying it, but the memory seemed somehow removed as though it belonged to someone else and as he repeated it, the shape felt wrong in his mouth.

"Are you satisfied?" Otik asked. Many of the due's people were weeping openly.

"Not quite," Stasya replied, although she personally had no doubt remaining.

"Olina i'Katica, you will speak only the truth."

"… and I reminded him of his liege oaths and he said that he didn't give a rat's ass about King Theron. That
he
was Due of Ohrid."

Pjerin remembered the conversation. But it hadn't been like that. It hadn't been treason. Horror growing, he tried to rip the fog aside but found himself flailing at nothing. Found himself agreeing that those were his words.

"Bohdan a'Samuil, you will speak only the truth."

"… I don't know what they discussed." Tears ran unheeded down the old man's cheeks. "His Grace spoke only Cemandian with the trader. But it was probably nothing. Nothing at all. You see, we're storing some of the trader's packs."

"Satisfied now?" Otik prodded one of the packs with his boot. An opened bundle of crossbow quarrels spilled across the floor, metal ringing accusingly against stone.

Sick at heart, Stasya nodded.
I'm sorry, Nees. But he condemned himself
. Only Pjerin had known what the packs contained. Olina had been furious that the man she'd thought had been lingering at the keep for her company had actually been plotting with her nephew. Bohdan had been sobbing too hard to speak.

"Well, then." The captain moved out to the center of the Great Hall and swept his gaze over the stunned crowd. As the questioning had progressed, they'd pushed back toward the walls in a futile effort to remove them selves from their due's betrayal. "Who will be the four who witness?"

Lukas a'Tynek was the first to step forward. He had lost weight since the fire and the skin of his face hung slack along his jaw. The bruising of Pjerin's blow, although it had long since faded from his flesh, still showed in the anger in his eyes. He stood alone for a moment, then another man and a woman joined him.

"One more," Otik prodded.

Finally, a second woman shuffled to the center of the hall, her eyes and nose red from weeping.

The captain nodded his approval and pivoted briskly to face the pale and trembling Due of Ohrid. "Pjerin a'Stasiek, as of this moment, you are found guilty of high treason."

"Witnessed," Lukas' voice sounded over the other three.

"Bard?"

Stasya closed her eyes for a heartbeat. If he'd only look defiant instead of hurt and confused, it would be easier to bear.

When she opened them again, nothing had changed. "Witnessed," she said.

"NO!" All at once, the fog was gone. Pjerin charged forward, hands outstretched, unsure of who exactly he was going to grab but knowing that his life depended on making them listen. "I never did those things. I never said those things!

It's a lie!"

The first guard hit him low, the second swung locked fists into his gut.

He couldn't feel the pain, he couldn't feel anything but the need to make them understand that he'd been trapped, held prisoner inside his own head while something else answered for him. "I didn't do it! It's a lie!"

It took four guards to hold him down.

"You can't lie under Bardic Command," the captain told him smugly. "Although this isn't the first time some arrogant fool has thought he would get away with it. You've put your own neck on the block. For pity's sake, take it like a man."

"You…!" Rage lent him strength. Pjerin dragged one leg free and kicked out.

Captain Otik crashed backward and down, both hands clutching his left thigh.

Misjudged the safety zone, you asshole
, Stasya thought, barely preventing herself from saying it aloud. But when the captain stood, drawing his sword, she decided enough was enough. "Stop it!" she told him, whirled, stared down at Pjerin, and repeated the command. "Stop it, right now." Shaking, she pushed her hair back off her face and swept her gaze over the crowd. "It's over."

In the silence that followed, Gerek twisted out of his nurse's grip and ran to his father's side. He hadn't understood much of what had happened and his nurse's tears had frightened him, but no one was taking his father away. No one.

"Don't you touch him! Not any of you!" Fists flailing, he threw himself at one of the guards kneeling on Pjerin's arms.

Taken by surprise, and unwilling to hit a child, the guard rocked back and raised both hands to protect his face.

"Go away! Go away! Go away!" Half screaming, half crying, Gerek stumbled and fell.

"Gerek!" Pjerin scooped the boy up in his free arm. "Hush. Quiet."

Stasya glared the captain into silence. Then she gestured the guards away. They moved slowly and they didn't move far, but they went.

His attention solely on his son, Pjerin got to his feet, Gerek pressed tight against his chest. "Hey. Come on, look at me."

Still sobbing, Gerek raised his head.

Gently drying the boy's cheeks with his palm, Pjerin searched for an explanation. "I have to go away for a while. To see the king."

"They're going to hurt you."

"No. They're just going to take me to the king."

One grubby finger pointed at the captain. "But he said…"

"He's wrong. There's been a mistake made."

"The king will make everything better?"

"That's right."

"I want to go with you."

"I need you to stay here and look after things."

"Till you come back?"

"That's right. Until I come back. Now, we're not leaving right this moment but… uh… but we need to make travel plans. So give me a kiss and go to your Aunt Olina." Olina would keep her head, not frighten Gerek nor lie to him either. Later, when he'd calmed down, the boy could go back to his nurse.

Gerek stretched his mouth up to his father's, then allowed himself to be placed on the floor. "I don't understand," he complained and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"It's all right, Gerek." Pjerin stroked the soft black curls. "Nothing bad will happen to you."

"Witnessed."

His head jerked up and he stared at the bard, hope warring with fear. She nodded, the motion deliberate and unmistakable, and he felt as though a knife had been pulled from his heart. He could bear whatever happened, whatever the outcome, as long as none of it touched his son. Blinking back tears, he made no protest as two of the guards took his arms and led him from the hall.

Only Lukas a'Tynek met his eyes as he left.

"The block's too good for you," he snarled and spat at Pjerin's feet.

"Majesty."

Theron knew what news the Bardic Captain brought. He could read it in every line of her body, in the forced neutrality of her expression, in the somber undercurrent that darkened her perfectly modulated voice. Combined, they told him she brought death. As well as anger, for he and his people had been betrayed, he felt grief for both the betrayal and the life it would claim. He wished he could send her away, now that her message had been delivered, but the formalities must be played out. "You have a report from Ohrid, Captain?"

"Yes, Majesty." Liene drew in a deep breath and passed the roll of parchment she carried to her king. He took it and laid it on his desk, but his eyes never left her face. "Pjerin a'Stasiek, the Due of Ohrid, when Commanded to speak only the truth, did admit to dealing with Cemandia, to agreeing to open the pass to a Cemandian army, to the use of his keep as a Cemandian base."

"There is no doubt?"

"My bard was most thorough, Majesty." More than thorough from the impressions brought by the kigh. It had taken Liene most of the morning to unravel the tangled messages and had the emotions behind them not been so strong she doubted she'd have had much success. "They are returning with the traitor to Elbasan, Majesty. For your judgment."

There was, always had been, only one judgment passed on treason.

"How long?" Theron asked, the parchment roll collapsing beneath the sudden pressure of his ringers.

"They should arrive ten to fifteen days after First Quarter Festival if everything goes well."

It is impossible to lie under Bardic Command. But I heard my mouth twist the truth, twist my words, twist my
memories
. His mind not on the placement of his feet, Pjerin stumbled and would have fallen had one of the two guards walking close beside him not stretched out her hand. He nodded his thanks.
Careful shepherds, seeing that their sheep
makes it to the slaughterhouse
.

I am not guilty of treason. But it's impossible to lie under Bardic Command. Everyone believes that. King Theron
believes that. So, by my own words, I'm guilty. Except that they weren't my words. All right, whose words are they?

Who can twist a man's mind in such a way? Who can…

Up ahead, Stasya began a marching song, her clear soprano drawing in those of the guards who knew the tune. All around him, heads lifted, shoulders straightened, and arms swung out. Pjerin found his feet beginning to move to the rhythm.

Who can twist a man's mind? The answer became suddenly very clear.

But it wasn't this bard. She had no opportunity. It happened earlier.

He remembered a woman who'd matched him passion for passion, who'd sung to his son, who'd brought news of the world into the isolation of the mountains, and taken news of the mountains out into the world. Annice. It had to be Annice. How and why, he had no idea. How and why didn't matter.

It was impossible to lie under Bardic Command.

Everyone believed that.

He was going to die.

No. He wasn't going to die. Not without a fight. They were still in Ohrid and he knew his land. Knew how to live off it, knew where to hide. In time, he could clear his name, but to do it, he had to survive.

It wouldn't be easy. At every stop, that bastard of a troop captain had gleefully recounted the questions and answers that had condemned him. At every stop, he'd seen his people turn against him.

How can they believe me a traitor
? For a moment, he felt physically ill.
They believe because the words came out of
your mouth
.

The road—no more than cart tracks for the roads Shkoder had promised three generations ago still came no farther than the head of Lake Marienka—followed the north edge of a steep-sided ravine. If he could reach the bottom, he could lose himself in the tangled paths of frozen water courses. Once he was free in the mountains, Shkoder would have to bring an army to dig him out.

Heart pounding, muscles tensed almost to pain, Pjerin waited until the marching song reached its final chorus then, with most of the guards singing, dropped his pack and threw himself off the road. He kept his feet under him for only the first two strides. When he hit snow, he allowed himself to fall.

A winter's worth of snow had been packed and frozen by a day of rain and a subsequent drop in temperature creating not only a solid surface for walking but a slick and dangerous route down the side of the ravine. Ignoring the cries from above, Pjerin concentrated on avoiding the trees and rocks rushing toward him at deadly speeds. He'd been sliding down these mountains all his life. This was a path the guards wouldn't dare to take.

Then the ice ended. He slammed into bare rock, bit back a cry of pain, tumbled, dropped five feet straight down and landed on another strip of frozen snow. Arms and legs flailing, fighting to regain control, he crashed off the trunk of an ancient pine, gouged his jaw on a protruding branch, and spun without slowing through the tearing clutches of a thorn bush. Only
a
frantic grab for the trunk of a small tree kept him from plummeting over a final drop and onto the jagged bed of stone at its base, the sudden jerk nearly tearing his arm from the socket.

Gasping for breath, Pjerin pulled himself to his knees and froze as a crossbow quarrel thudded into the tree just above his hand.

"The next one nails your hand to the tree. Stand up."

Shaking with disappointment, Pjerin stood.

"Now turn around."

He turned. The ice had taken him diagonally, not straight down. Captain Otik and two guards, bows cocked and aimed, stood braced against a fallen tree about three body lengths from the road. The scrub and rock between them offered nothing to block a shot. He could chance it. Leap off the edge, count on the rock to shield him. Defy the odds that said if they didn't shoot him in the back, he'd break a leg in the landing.

No. It was a long way to Elbasan. There'd be other, better chances.

"Get your traitor's ass back up here," Otik growled, "or I'll have the corporal shoot you through the knee and we'll drag you to Elbasan and the block."

The corporal looked as though she'd be more than willing to pull the trigger.

Hauling himself back up to the road, bruised muscles and joints protesting every movement, Pjerin kept his eyes locked on the captain's face and took a savage pleasure in having the other man finally wheel away.
This isn't the end
, he vowed, blood staining the snow from the wound on his face. I
am no lamb to go meekly to the slaughter
.

Rough hands yanked him over the last distance and threw him down in a circle of boots. He rolled over and squinted up at uniform expressions of animosity.