Sing the Four Quarters (42 page)

"I never knew this was here."

"Why should you?" She jerked her head toward the pack. "Get that down there and then her."

"Down there?" Lukas backed a step away from the hole.

Olina's eyes narrowed as signs of incipient panic began to appear in the steward's manner. She didn't have time for this.

"Try to remember that killing or attempting to kill a bard means a Death Judgment and that
you
struck the blow. I am only trying to help you stay alive." Icy blue eyes fixed unblinkingly on his face.

After a moment, Lukas picked up the pack with visibly trembling hands and shoved it through the hole. He threw down the instrument case, listened to it land and bounce, and turned to stare at the feebly moving body of the bard.

"Lady…"

"Do it!" Olina snapped, seeing the rest of her well worked plans come unraveled in his hesitation. "Or shall we just drag her back outside and give the kigh a good look at what you've done?"

He had to swallow before he could speak. "No, Lady."

Stasya moaned. Voices slammed about within her skull with such force that she couldn't make out the actual words.

She tried to push against the scratchy fabric confining her, but her arms refused to respond.

She moaned again as something dragged her over a surface both hard and cold and poured her into emptiness.

Her thoughts cleared just long enough for her to realize that she was falling, then a brilliant flash of white light exploded against the inside of her head and darkness claimed her again.

His small body pressed into the recessed doorway, hid den in shadows barely touched by the pale sunlight slanting through high, narrow windows, Gerek watched as his Aunty Olina and Lukas came up from the cellars.
What did they
do with the bard
? he wondered. Were they mad at her, too, because of what she did to his papa? He watched the torch ground out against the threshold and left lying on the stone, then he watched them walk away.

Brow furrowed, he padded over to the doorway and squatted to look at the torch. Remembering something he'd seen Rezka do once at the kitchen hearth, he leaned forward and blew on the blackened end. Nothing happened. Eyes narrowed, he leaned closer and blew again.

A thin wisp of smoke climbed up to be lost in shadows of the ceiling.

Pleased with himself, he picked up the torch carefully in both hands and kept blowing until, suddenly, it was alight.

His papa didn't like him playing with fire.

But if he wasn't even allowed to yell at the bard, how come Aunty Olina was allowed to leave her in the cellar? He was the due. He should at least get to yell.

"I'm blind."

The words bounced back and forth through the darkness, making it clear, even through the pounding pain, that she was in a very enclosed space. There was no panic behind the words; not yet, she figured she'd save that for when she had the energy to make it worthwhile.

Moving slowly, Stasya forced herself up into a sitting position and fought the urge to vomit. With both hands pressed hard against her mouth and her throat working convulsively against the bile, she sat motionless until the need became less than all she was.

Sucking damp, musty air through her teeth, she reached behind her and gingerly searched the back of her head where the pain seemed the most intense. Her fingers came away sticky and she swallowed her most recent meal for a second time as, involuntarily, she jerked away from her own touch.

Obviously, she hadn't been alone looking down at the palisade and someone had done a thorough job of stopping her from passing on what she'd seen.

Feeling as though her head were an egg, cracked and ready to fry, she groped around her, trying to identify the objects she'd half landed on. Her pack was easy, the bent cedar frame had dug a painful bruise into her shoulder—a bruise she accepted with gratitude as its padded bulk had kept her head from connecting with the stone of the floor. Untangling her legs from a blanket that smelled strongly of the stable, she bent too far forward, the world tilted, and she cracked her nose against her knee.

Her eyes welled with tears and she let them fall, fighting for control only when she felt hysteria rising.

A flailing arm brushed a familiar curve of padded leather.

"My harp!" Anger became a useful distraction, blocking everything else until she held her harp on her lap and could run her fingers over its strings; the harp case had exceeded its maker's guarantee and the soft whisper of sound calmed her enough to wonder,
what next
.

She'd get no response if she Sang the kigh. Not even for Tadeus would they come so far into a building.

Tadeus.

Blind.

Eyes opened or closed, the darkness pressed against her with identical intensity. All at once, she couldn't breathe. Her heartbeat grew louder, louder, louder. Blood roared in her ears. Her fingers tightened convulsively. The dying note of a snapped harp string brought her back to herself.

"Careful." Her voice shook, but for the most part she had it under control. "You won't find any replacement strings down here."

Down here.

At the moment, being blind was the least of her problems.

Stretching out an arm, she found a wall and had to stop herself from trying to drive her fingers into the damp rock.

With the mountain supporting her, for her prison had clearly been dug not built, she managed to stand.

"Bard? Hey, Bard? Are you down there?"

"Gerek?" Shoulder braced against the wall, Stasya looked up. Relief hit her so hard, she almost fell. Through the outline of a narrow grate she could see a flicker of flame. She wasn't blind. Blinking away tears, she reached for the light, but as near as she could tell the opening was an arm's length again above her fingers. "Gerek! Go tell your Aunt Olina where I am!"

"She knows." Gerek leaned forward, resting the end of the torch in one of the holes in the metal, squinting until he thought he could see the bard's face in the darkness. "Her and Lukas put you there. That'll teach you for taking away my papa."

Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. Shit
. Stasya sagged but the wall caught her.
Found your traitor, Majesty. Now what
? "Hey, Bard?

Can you get out?"
Let's not waste this one chance
. She pulled herself erect, as close to the grate as she could get. "No, Gerek, I can't."

"So what'll happen?"

"I'll die." Die. Die. Die. The word lingered. Stasya tried to ignore it.

Gerek chewed his lip while he thought about it. "Good," he declared after a moment. "I want you to be dead. Just like my papa."

Stasya's heart contracted at the pain in his voice and she came to a sudden decision. "Gerek, I need to tell you a secret." She couldn't Command because she couldn't see his eyes and, under the circumstances, she doubted Charm would be very effective. All she could do was work her voice so that he had to believe her. "It's a very important secret and you mustn't tell anyone."

He liked secrets and the anticipation of hearing one made him forget his plans to yell at the bard. "What?"

"Promise you won't tell."

"I promise."

"Your papa isn't dead. It was a mistake, like he said, and the king is coming to make it better."

"My papa isn't dead?"

She put everything she had into the repetition. "Your papa isn't dead."

Kneeling by the grate, both hands holding tightly to the smoking torch, Gerek turned over the words in his mind, examining each one. The world, pressing so tightly around him, suddenly loosened. His papa wasn't dead. He knew it.

He'd known it all along. His papa had said it was a mistake. Just wait till he told his Aunty Olina.

Halfway to his feet, he frowned and knelt again. The bard had made him promise not to tell.

"Why can't I tell?" he demanded.

"Because we don't want the bad people who
really
did what they said your papa did to find out he's alive."

"Oh. Is he going to catch them?"

"Yes. And he's coming here. Really, really soon." Down in the pit, Stasya hoped it'd be soon enough. "He's coming with Annice, the bard who was here in Third Quarter. Do you remember her?"

Gerek sat back on his heels. "Of course I remember."

He sounded so indignant, Stasya couldn't help but smile. "I was supposed to watch for them, because they'll be sneaking up to the keep, but I can't do that now…"

"'Cause you're in a hole."

"That's right, so I need you to do something for me. I need you to go visit Bohdan."

"Papa's steward. I like him better than Lukas even if he told me to do things more."

"That's good, because when you're alone with him, I need you to tell him what I told you about your papa." Bohdan, for all he was a sick old man, was the only person remaining in Ohrid who might possibly have enough authority to stand up against Lukas and Olina. Based on what she'd seen back in Fourth Quarter, he was also the only person in Ohrid she'd trust with the truth.

"But I promised not to tell anyone."

Grinding her teeth sent knives of pain through her head. "Anyone but Bohdan," Stasya amended. "Do you remember what to tell him?"

"That Papa isn't dead and it was a mistake and he's coming with Nees."

"What a good memory you've got."

Gerek snorted. "I'm five."

"Of course you are. And I need you to tell him where I am and who put me here."

"Okay."

"But don't tell your Aunt Olina!"

"'Course not, I promised. Papa says you never break a promise." He stood. "Besides, Aunty Olina knows where you are. I gotta go 'cause my fire is going out."

"Gerek?" No, she couldn't ask him to leave the torch. She had no idea how far he'd have to travel in the dark without it.

"Never mind."

"Okay." He was almost to the next room when he remembered something and returned to the grate. "Bard? I don't want you to be dead no more."

Her back against the wall, Stasya lifted her head one last time toward the light. "I'm glad, Gerek."

"In case you're curious, we're in Ohrid."

Pjerin pushed the mare to one side of the path and turned to stare in confusion at Annice. "How do you know?"

"By the way the kigh react to your presence."

Her tone hinted that any idiot should know that, but, remembering the morning's tears, Pjerin gave her the benefit of the doubt and kept his own voice neutral. "Excuse me?"

"The kigh recognize you as the person responsible for this area of land." Annice pushed an overhanging branch out of her way, waiting until the shower of water droplets ceased before she continued walking. There was no point in taking shelter from the storm and then being drenched by its aftermath. "Surely you've heard the idea that the lord and the land are one?"

"Well, yes, but…"

"When you took the title, didn't you make a cut with the family sword and bleed on the earth? At First Quarter Festival, don't you make the first cut for the plow? And at Second Quarter Festival, don't you spend the night in the fields, spilling your seed?"

"Annice!"

She grinned at him. "Well, don't you? It's your right; you're not too old, or too young, I imagine you have plenty of choices, and I
know
all the parts work."

"Annice!" When she looked as if she was going to continue, he raised his free hand and cut her off. "All right. I do.

Now drop it."

"I was only about to point out that all these things—and others—tie you to the land." She nodded toward the earth at his feet. "The kigh know that you've come home."

The door to the armory, which was heavy and had a tendency to stick, would have defeated him had one of the stablehands not chanced by to open it for him. Gerek thanked her, explained he could close it by himself, and waited until she'd rounded the corner before he went inside.

While Nurse Jany had fussed and scrubbed him and helped him dress, Gerek had made up his mind. Bohdan was old and sick and couldn't help the bard anyway.

Taking bow and quiver from their pegs, he checked them as he'd been taught, slung the quiver over his shoulder, and wrapped the bowstring tightly for traveling. He had a cooked sausage in his belt-pouch and he had a plan.

Gerek stared up at his papa's sword. It was the due's special sword his Aunty Olina had said when she'd handed it to him at First Quarter Festival. His papa was the due. He was going to take his papa his sword.

Hung high above his reach, he had to stand on a bench and use the end of his bow to knock it off the wall. The blade bounced partway out of the scabbard when it landed, hilt ringing loudly against the stone floor of the armory, but Gerek shoved the pieces back together and wrapped it awkwardly in his best cloak. He wasn't allowed to play with the sword, so he figured he should hide it until he was out of the keep.

No one saw him as he made his way to the gate, struggling a little with his heavy load. Relishing his role as a secret messenger, he stayed in the shadows close to the walls. Once outside the walls, he slipped off onto a narrow path too steep for anything but goats or children, screened from above by the lip of the track. He had to let the sword slide down alone, but it didn't seem to have hurt it when he retrieved it at the bottom.

With one wistful glance toward the shrieks of laughter coming from the fields on the other side of the village, he darted into the tangle of growth bordering the creek that ran from the base of the keep to the forest. He wasn't a baby.

He knew that if he kept to the track, they'd find him and bring him back.

He also knew, although he couldn't put the idea into words, that there could be no going back. His Aunty Olina wasn't the type to forgive such treachery.

"Stop crying, Jany!" Olina snapped. "I can't understand a word you're saying. Gerek spent the afternoon in the fields when I expressly forbade it and he's going to be punished." Although the boy's disobedience had actually been convenient as she'd had enough to take care of without supervising his lessons, that didn't negate the fact he'd disobeyed.

Gerek's nurse choked back a sob and lifted her face from a damp, crumpled square of linen. "He didn't spend the afternoon in the fields, Lady. I washed him and I dressed him and I sent him down to you."