Sing the Four Quarters (33 page)

"Annice." Pjerin's fingers closed around her wrist like a vise. "I'll handle it."

"But…"

He shoved the lead rope into her hand. "I said," he snarled, "I'll handle it."

He moved back up the track, hands carefully out from the long dagger hanging sheathed at his side. An opportunity to actually
do
something, to hit back at the unenclosed chaos his life had become, was an opportunity not to be missed.

The three looked smaller in comparison, Annice realized; smaller, younger, less dangerous. But there were three of them. And one of them had a blade ready.

"Should've kept her quiet," the leader said genially, flashing broken teeth. "Now, we'll have to cut you."

Pjerin returned his smile. "You've got to the count of three to run."

They looked at each other and laughed.

They were still laughing at three.

They weren't laughing at four; had anyone still been counting.

Breathing heavily and pressing the edges of a shallow slice across his forearm together, Pjerin returned to where Annice waited.

Watching as two of their attackers limped into the night, dragging their moaning leader back toward the village, Annice had to admit she was impressed. To herself. She had no intention of admitting it aloud.

"Feel better?" she asked as Pjerin took hold of the rope and began to lead the mule off the road.

He flashed a grin back over his shoulder. "Much better. Thank you."

"I'll have a look at that arm when we get settled."

"It's nothing."

"Your nose is bleeding."

"It'll stop."

Shaking her head she stepped over a muddy ditch as they left the track, heading for the flax shed.
Please
, she begged the life nestled under her heart,
be a girl
.

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?"