Sing the Four Quarters (20 page)

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

Because there was nothing in the Command to stop him, he laughed.

Behind him, he heard the crowd growl; a single sound torn from a hundred throats. He could hear their impatience in it. Knew that if given a chance, they'd pronounce his sentence themselves, and he laughed again.

"Stop it."

Eyes still held by the Bardic Captain, he dipped head and shoulders as far as he was able in a mocking bow.

Cocky bugger
. Long years of practice kept the thought from showing on Theron's face.
Just the type to think he could
get away with something like this and then refuse to believe it when it turned out he couldn't. What a waste
.

What a stupid, pitiful waste
. He shifted on the throne, that small movement silencing the crowds and drawing their attention as he knew it would. In a voice as neutral as he could make it, he asked, "Pjerin a'Stasiek, Due of Ohrid, are you forsworn?"

NO!

"Yes."

And it began again. But this tune, rage not terror fueled Pjerin's battle against the distance that separated the man he was from the man who spoke. Chest heaving, he strained against invisible bonds while words he couldn't control continued spilling from his mouth.

Feeling sick, Annice watched his struggle, hearing neither questions nor answers, barely conscious of Stasya's hand gripping hers.
Why are you so angry? Because you were discovered? Because you're about to die
? Either answer could easily be believed. Neither answer felt right.
Why, Pjerin, why
?

As though echoing her thoughts, Theron leaned slightly forward. "Why did you do it?"

For a heartbeat, the Great Assembly Hall fell perfectly quiet as everyone—Council, crowd, king—waited for the answer. This question was the king's alone and had not been asked before. Even Pjerin stilled, wondering what his reply would be.

"Power, wealth, attention; what have my oaths got me from Shkoder? Empty promises. Cemandia offered me a chance to be a part of something more than sheepshit and a drafty stone keep perched on a mountaintop." Listening to the reasons he gave for the treachery he hadn't committed, Pjerin couldn't help but agree with them, at least in part. The promises made three generations ago when the mountain principalities became a part of Shkoder had
not
been kept.

Scowling, he tossed his head back as far as he was able and discovered that with the inner and outer man in agreement, the distance between them had been bridged for that instant. "Shkoder promised roads, Majesty; roads, healers, an end to isolation. Only your tax collectors have come." His voice grew harsher. "And your bards." But when he tried to continue, to accuse the bards of twisting his mind to speak the truth they desired, he found he'd lost control again.

Annice flinched back from the raw hatred. He
hadn't
felt that way. He'd been glad to see her, glad of the news she'd carried. He'd enjoyed her music. He'd left her alone with the son he'd clearly adored. The passion they'd shared had been, if nothing else, real passion. I
shouldn't have come. Why did I come
?

"Nees?"

She shook her head at Stasya's worried whisper. She shouldn't have come, but since she was here, she'd stay until the end.

A muscle jumped in Theron's jaw and his fingers were white on the arms of the throne. Roads took time to build.

There weren't so many healers he could order a dozen here, a dozen there. How dare this arrogant young pup suggest his treason was Shkoder's fault. Slowly, he stood.

"Pjerin a'Stasiek, Due of Ohrid, you stand accused of high treason against the crown and the people of Shkoder, your oaths forsworn. You have been condemned by your own mouth. Have you anything more to say?"

Pjerin knew what was expected. I
wouldn't beg for my life if I was guilty, I'll be unenclosed if I beg when I'm not
. He shook his head.

"Then I, Theron, King of Shkoder, High Captain of the Broken Islands, Lord over the Mountain Principalities of Sibiu, Ohrid, Ajud, Bicaz, and Somes, do on this day declare you guilty of high treason. As of this moment, your titles, lands, and responsibilities pass unencumbered to your son, Gerek a'Pjerin, now Due of Ohrid. Tomorrow, noon, your life is forfeit. Witness."

The Bardic Captain, who had been standing, eyes locked on the eyes of the accused, the eyes of the condemned, took a step back. "Witnessed," she said.

Pjerin, free of all constraints save the bindings around his wrists, turned his head the fraction necessary to meet the King's eyes for the first time since the questioning began, a wild hope rising unbidden.
Surely, he'll see. Surely, he'll
know
. But there would be no sudden realization by the king, no power inherent in his position to see past the surface to the heart. In spite of oaths and loyalties and a golden crown, Pjerin saw the king was just a man.

"Done."

Standing in the shadowed recess of an open window, Annice watched the sun as it rose into position directly overhead.

Noon.

The block had been in place before dawn. She knew that because she'd been waiting at this window since sunrise. No one knew she was here. She'd slipped away from Stasya and into the palace using the secret ways she'd discovered on childhood explorations. It hadn't been hard to find an empty room overlooking the small courtyard. It seemed that all the rooms overlooking the small courtyard were empty.

Stasya's probably having fifty fits
. She'd apologize later. It was important she be here even if she'd rather be
anywhere
else.

She checked the sun again. It had to happen soon. She didn't think she could bear to wait much longer. She didn't want to think of how Pjerin had spent his morning. His last morning.

A tall, black shape separated itself from the shadows on the far side of the courtyard. Loose tunic, breeches, and the encompassing hood made it impossible to determine if it was man or woman but the broad-bladed ax it held left no question of its purpose. It walked slowly toward the block and a body length away, paused.

A body length away. Someone has a sick sense of humor
. She found it suddenly difficult to breathe and had to turn away for a moment and face the empty room instead. When she looked back out the window, the courtyard had filled with guards and Pjerin had nearly reached the block.

He was frightened; she could read it in the bravado that made his walk a swagger.

Desperately, she searched for the king. Theron would be there. The law insisted the king witness the carrying out of his Judgments in order that he never make them lightly.

There! Theron stood almost directly across from her. If she called his name and he looked up, he couldn't help but see her. If she called his name…

Annice wet her lips. One word. That was all it would take. One word.

Pjerin was kneeling now, shirt pulled down across his shoulders. Some time during the night, they'd cut his hair. Cut off all his beautiful hair and exposed his neck for the ax.

He frowned, as though he felt the weight of her gaze, and slowly turned his head.

She almost cried out as his eyes met hers.

"Annice!" His voice echoed against the encircling walls.

All heads but one turned to stare up at her.

The figure in black stepped forward.

"Annice!" She had never heard a curse spoken with the venom Pjerin put into her name. "This is all
your
fault."

Then the ax came down.

"Nees! Annice! Wake up!"

Clutching at Stasya's bare shoulders and gasping for breath, Annice fought her way free of the dream. It had been so terribly, horribly real. She could still feel the stone of the windowsill beneath her fingers, the ache in her legs from standing, waiting for so long. Could still see the spray of blood and hear her name called one last time as Pjerin's head rolled across the courtyard.

"Are you okay, Nees?"

"I, I don't know." She leaned into the light as Stasya lit the lamp with flint and steel.

"Nees, you're crying." Brow furrowed with concern, Stasya drew her fingertips over Annice's cheeks. "You were dreaming about him, weren't you?"

She nodded. "There's something wrong, Stas. Something very, very wrong."

Stasya sighed. "I don't feel exactly great about it either, Nees. But there's nothing we can do." She watched, propped on one elbow, as Annice sat up and swung her legs out from under the blanket. "We've hardly been in bed for any time at all, you can't possibly need to go down the hall again."

"I'm not going down the hall." Her mind suddenly made up, Annice reached for her clothes. "I'm going to go talk to Pjerin."

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Annice, you are
out
of your mind."

Annice, on her knees in the potato bin, probed at the floor with a knife borrowed from the kitchen and ignored Stasya.

Fortunately, because of the season, the bin was nearly empty and it had been relatively easy to clear sections of the floor.

"Nees, are you listening to me?" Stasya sighed and rolled her eyes. Stupid question. "Look, you can't just waltz into the palace dungeons and sit down for a heart-to-heart with a man who's going to be executed for treason in a matter of hours."

"So you keep saying." Annice ran the knife along a joining, gouging years of dirt and grunge out of the crack. "Here it is. You'll have to get it up for me." She glanced up at the other woman. "Before he left, Jazep warned me to avoid heavy lifting."

Muttering under her breath, Stasya set the lamp on the edge of the bin and crouched down, allowing Annice to guide her fingers under the hidden lip. "The last thing I should do is help you with this." Slowly, she straightened her legs and a square black hole opened up in the floor. Leaning the trapdoor against the wall, she stared down into the darkness. "What kind of an idiot starts a secret passage in a potato bin?"

"It's a secret, Stas, it's not supposed to be out in the open."

"It's a secret, Stas…" she mocked, then quickly sobered. "Nees, are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"I'm sure." Annice picked up a small horn lantern and lit it from the lamp. "No one knows these passageways like I do.

Sometimes it seemed like I spent half my childhood in them."

"Yeah, okay, so you know the passageways, but are you sure you should be talking to…"

"Yes."

"You can't
do
anything, Nees. He's going to die."

"Yes. I know." Leaning forward, Annice kissed the other woman lightly. "Don't worry. I'll be careful."

Stasya watched as Annice maneuvered her bulk through the hole and climbed carefully down the ladder. When she reached the bottom, she looked up, almost smiled, then disappeared.

Not until the darkness lapped against the edges of the hole and she could no longer convince herself that she could still see a glimmer of light from the lantern, did Stasya gently close the trapdoor. "Don't worry," she snorted, blowing out the lamp and making herself as comfortable as possible. "Yeah. Right."

Shoulders brushing the walls on either side, Annice moved quickly along the narrow passageway. She hadn't been exactly truthful with Stasya. While she had no doubt she could find her way through the secret routes that honeycombed the walls of the palace, she'd followed the tunnel to the Bardic Hall only once and could no longer remember where the other end began. Hopefully, she'd be able to get her bearings when she arrived.

The lantern flickered and she shielded it with her body as she slid past the opening to another tunnel. From the darkness, she heard the scrabbling of small claws on stone.

Although she knew the rats were unlikely to bother her, she quickened her pace, practically squatting to keep her head from scraping against the low arch of the ceiling. In her memory, the ceiling was higher and the distance between Bardic Hall and the palace not so great.

What else have I forgotten? It's been ten years. Maybe Stasya's right and this is a stupid idea.

She passed two other branches, then the tunnel she followed curved hard to the right.

I
don't remember this. Should I have turned
?

Something brushed by her foot. She decided not to look down.

Then, just at the edge of the light, she saw a narrow flight of stairs. Legs aching, more than ready to straighten, she climbed carefully to the top and looked around. A narrow stone passageway, hung with cobwebs and smelling of dust and disuse, stretched off in both directions. Nothing seemed familiar. Not even the darkness.

She probed as far to the left and to the right as she could, arm extended, lantern dangling from her fingertips. Still nothing. There were stories about people who'd gotten lost between the walls, unable to find their way out, wandering hopelessly until hunger and thirst brought a final end to their search. The stories hadn't bothered her as child, she didn't know why she was thinking about them now.

Moistening lips gone dry, she turned right and started walking, her eyes straight ahead, avoiding the shadows. She didn't have the time to indulge her imagination. Pjerin didn't have the time.

Barely ten paces from the tunnel mouth, she came to another t-junction. On the wall, almost hidden under the dust, was chalked a cursive A. Inscribed under it,
kit
and an arrow pointing right.

Murmuring thanks to her younger self, Annice hurried toward the kitchens. From there, she could find any room in the palace.

…
life is forfeit
…

… at noon…

This couldn't be happening. It couldn't be real. It was a long, incredibly involved dream. He'd wake up, just as the ax came down, sweating, panting, and swearing he'd never touch Zofka's mead again.

The short length of chain rattled as Pjerin shifted position, the weight dragging at his wrist. Fist clenched, he jerked his arm forward, the iron links snapping taut between the manacle and the wall. He wouldn't give his word that he'd not try to escape when they'd brought him back to his cell. It had taken three of them to secure him.