Fifth Quarter (12 page)

Shooting him a look that singed rather than smoldered, Karlene indulged in a number of treasonous thoughts about His Imperial Majesty, who'd probably been maneuvered into shouting the suggestion at his youngest son in order to get some peace. "We were discussing what we were going to do next before you came in, Highness," she said at last. "We've spoken to the kigh, but as I mentioned, they're not cooperating."

"Have you spoken to the others?"

"Others?" The two bards repeated the word in unison.

"The other kigh," Otavas offered, a little confused at their reaction. "I mean, I know you both Sing three out of the four quarters because soon you'll have to walk around the Empire with our new bards and His Majesty, King Theron never allows bards who Sing earth to leave Shkoder and… What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Highness." Karlene resisted the urge to beat her head against the window frame. "Gabris and I, however, are idiots."

When Otavas' mother, the Princess Irenka of Shkoder, came to the Havakeen Empire to join with their crown prince, she brought with her an enduring political alliance, a much younger Gabris, and a religion that enclosed all beliefs, all philosophies within the Circle. As the years passed and more people began to appreciate a system that accepted all gods and vastly simplified a complicated calendar of feast days and obligations, the princess had a Center built in the Capital—endearing herself to the taxpayers by paying for it herself.

The round, stone building dominated the upper half of Temple Street, style and material both looking remarkably out of place beside the local architecture.

As Karlene followed Gabris through the eastern doors and into the cool interior of the Center, she breathed a sigh of relief. Summers in the Empire were much hotter than summers back in Shkoder. She allowed a brief moment of pity for the prince's guards, now flanking each of the Center's four doors and undoubtedly baking in their armor, then hurried to catch up to the two men.

They'd been unable to convince Prince Otavas to stay behind.

"
I was standing right beside you last night when the air spirits arrived
," he'd pointed out. "
Nothing happened to me
."

A startled priest emerged from behind the central altar, eyes wide as she recognized the three approaching.

"If it isn't an inconvenience, Your Grace," Gabris began, bowing gracefully in spite of age and bulk. "My companion and I should like to use the Center for a few moments so that we might Sing fire and water in a protected setting."

"An inconvenience?" The priest returned the bow. "You have only to ask, honored Bard." She bowed to Karlene. "Honored Bards." Then she remembered the prince and, slightly flustered, added a deeper bow, the wide, quartered sleeves of her robe sweeping against the stone floor. "Your Highness."

Karlene nodded in turn, her opinion of Prince Otavas rising as he ignored the priest's unfortunate lapse. With only two bards in the Empire—even if there'd been two bards in the Empire off and on for the last twenty-two years—they were still a novelty, and for those who'd accepted the enclosure of the Circle, a bard actually Singing the kigh became a religious experience. "Unfortunately, Your Grace, we must also ask that you leave us." The priest looked so disappointed Karlene nearly relented but, remembering the buffeting she'd taken in the assembly room, stood firm. Bad enough that they'd be responsible for the prince's safety.

With a final, reluctant bow, the priest sketched the sign of the Circle over her heart and left the building.

Gabris indicated that the prince should be seated on one of the curved benches that filled the area between the walls and the altar, settled down beside him, and gestured for Karlene to go ahead.

"Oh, great, encourage him," Karlene muttered under her breath as she stepped out into the open space surrounding the three-tiered altar. She drew in a deep breath of air heavy with the familiar scents of beeswax, water, and earth and found herself unexpectedly homesick. Shkoder and the Bardic Hall suddenly seemed a very long way away.
And suppose we find out what's frightening the kigh. What then? There's only the two of us
.

Wiping damp palms on the front of her robe, she pushed the mood aside with a simple, two-octave scale, then focused on the nearest of the huge candles that crowded the highest tier of the altar and Sang the four notes to call fire.

Almost immediately, kigh danced on a half-dozen wicks, barely defined features flickering and changing, tiny eyes of brilliant white the only constant. Still Singing, Karlene heard an admiring murmur from the prince and the rustle of fabric as Gabris leaned forward. A little surprised at both their size and number, she Sang calming and safety until the dance grew less frantic.

"
If fire and water have been frightened as well
," Gabris had said, "
perhaps calling them into the Center will make them feel secure enough to tell us what's wrong
,"

Although fire was the most self-absorbed of all the kigh, Karlene could feel them reaching out to her. She couldn't sense why. Apprehensions a subtle harmony within the Song, she asked if they were afraid. When it became obvious that they were, she asked if they were afraid of being trapped.

Every candle on the altar burst into flame. A blazing tower of kigh surged toward the vaulted ceiling, individuals swallowed up in the terrifying column of white and red and gold. Gulping great lungfuls of heated air, Karlene fought to Sing over the fire's roar.

She could smell her hair begin to singe.

Hands raised to protect her eyes, she stumbled back a step.

Then another voice joined hers, wrapping a tenor line around her Song, pouring in enough additional power to reach the heart of the holocaust. After a moment, the kigh began to listen. When together the two voices Sang a gratitude, the kigh whirled in one final, flaming vortex over the center of the altar and disappeared.

Karlene coughed and waved away the streams of smoke and the stink of burned beeswax. The candles as big around as her arm had been completely consumed. Puddles of black grease dribbled down over the edge of the altar and into the circular fountain sucked dry by the heat.

"Are you all right?" Gabris panted, dragging her around to face him.

Was she? The skin over her cheeks and forehead felt tight and hot and questing fingers pulled off curled and brittle bits of hair. A quick check found brows and lashes still present. "I got a little scorched," she muttered, licking cracked lips and tasting blood. "But I'm okay."

A gentle touch against her arm turned her toward the prince. A weight she hadn't realized she carried lifted when she saw him, pale and scared but unhurt. "What happened?"

"What happened?" Karlene repeated, glancing down at the blisters rising on the backs of her hands. "I asked the kigh if they were afraid of being trapped."

"What did they say?"

"Yes."

"That's all?" The two bards followed his gaze as he stared up at the arcing vault of the ceiling. Soot streaked the stone ribs in a circle the exact diameter of the altar forty feet below.

Her heart pounding, fully aware of how close she'd come to losing control of the kigh entirely, Karlene could only give thanks that Her Majesty had insisted on both traditional dimensions and materials.

"All they said was
yes
?" The prince's voice threatened to crack.

"Well, they said it pretty loudly." All at once, she was shaking so hard her teeth slammed together like some kind of macabre percussion instrument. She grabbed blindly for support as two pairs of hands settled her gently down on a bench. "I'm okay," she insisted.

"What we need to find out now is what specifically they're afraid of. What is it they think can trap them?" Gabris murmured. Although the skin of his face looked stretched, he'd taken a lot less heat and a lot less damage.

In unison, the prince and the two bards turned to look at the dry fountain.

"If you don't mind," Otavas said with a shaky laugh, "I'm heading for higher ground before you Sing water."

Chapter Five

Vree'd never worn silk and she wasn't certain she cared for it. The soft caress of both long-sleeved tunic and wide-legged trousers against her skin made her feel as though she were wearing the wind and not much else.

"What's wrong with clothes that feel like clothes?"

Bannon lifted her shoulders, just to feel the fabric move. "I like it."

"Can't say as I'm surprised." She curled her toes against the heavy sandals, also provided from Aralt's storeroom, and wished she dared to wear her boots. In a motion half comfort, half preparation, she lightly touched each concealed weapon and the medallion around her neck.

With a last word to Aralt's stablemaster, Gyhard nodded a dismissal and started across the yard toward her. With no daggers to hide, he wore a sleeveless vest, the brown silk embroidered with deep green leaves. The graceful folds of green silk trousers flowed around his legs like water as he walked. While he also wore heavy leather sandals, his were dyed the exact shade of his vest. A thick gold bracelet encircled his left wrist and the tiny gold hoops her brother had always worn in his ears had doubled in size.

"When we get rid of the carrion eater," Bannon preened, "we're keeping the clothes. I look terrific!"

As far as Vree was concerned, he looked rented and all he needed was a little rouge and some scented oil to take his place under Teemo's canopy. She buried the thought. And the one that came after it.

"Trouble?" Gyhard asked through clenched teeth as the sudden contact of their mounts slammed their inside knees together.

Vree glared and fought the urge to yank the gelding's head around. Years of training had emphasized that a quiet touch could accomplish more than brute force—from blades to horses, the lesson remained valid. "I can handle it."

"Good. I'm pleased to see that you're catching on so quickly."

Her lip curled at the gentle sarcasm in his voice.

"Your brother's body has a finely developed sense of balance and superb reflexes." As the horses moved apart, he added, "You'd do better if you'd relax."

"Up here?" She regretted the words the moment they left her mouth.

Gyhard stared at her in exaggerated astonishment. "It can't be the height. I'm sure you could walk naked along a ridgepole in a high wind on a moonless night with a dagger in your teeth and a garrote in each hand if you wanted to." She ignored him so completely, he couldn't help but smile. "So what are you afraid of?"

"A crossbow bolt in the back."

The skin between her shoulder blades crawled. Bannon's reaction or hers? "If I tell him that, he'll kill me—us—and leave the body for the hunt to find. You heard him; he's intrigued by us, but he doesn't really need us, and the last thing he does need is the hunt on his trail."

"Maybe you can convince
him
that Emo won't talk."

"At this rate?" Gyhard reached down to stroke the dapple-gray shoulder of his horse as it rose and fell in a gentle walk. He'd intended to ride a young stallion that he—as Aralt—had purchased specifically for the trip, not one of a pair of well-schooled geldings. "Thirteen days."