Two

“Your Majesty, Your Highness, this is Lajos i’Lajosne a’Ulrik, the sailor.”

“Thank you, Ermi.” As the page left her office, Jelena studied the old man straightening laboriously up from a deep bow. Wind and sun had etched a thousand fine lines into skin the color of tanned leather. He wore his thin, gray hair pulled back into a narrow braid with blue beads hanging from the tie and similar beads threaded onto the long ends of his mustache—a style she dimly remembered as popular back when she was very young. His clothes were worn but clean and, judging by the fit of the tunic, he’d probably borrowed someone else’s best for this meeting.

When his head rose high enough that she could meet his eyes, she smiled and said, “Thank you for coming, Lajos.” He returned her smile, his few remaining teeth in surprisingly good condition. “Your wish, Majesty, is my command.” Before he dipped too far forward into another bow, he thought better of it and nodded instead.

“Please, sit down.” Jelena had no difficulty reading a startled, “Sit in front of the queen?” in the way he looked from her, to the chair, to Otavas, and back to her again. She masked her impatience with a smile. “It’s all right; you may be here for some time.”

“I may?” The beads on the ends of his mustache danced out away from his mouth as he exhaled, “Beggin’ your pardon, Majesty, but why?”

“I… that is, we…” Turning slightly, she included Otavas in the request. “… want to hear the story of the dark sailor.”

“The dark sailor? You don’t say? I done gave that story to the bards when it happened.” His forehead creased and he rubbed at the ridges with the side of a bent finger. “They even done a song about it. Not meanin’ no disrespect, but you musta heard it.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the song, and I’ve read the original report.” Jelena’s fingers closed around the edge of a leather-bound journal borrowed from the bardic library. “But you were there, and I want to hear the story from you.”

Lajos snorted and lowered himself down onto the chair. “Well, them bards just mighta put a bit more in the song than was in the story I gave ’em, now I think on it. The dark sailor,” he repeated again as he settled. “We musta picked him up twenty, twenty-one year ago…. Twenty, that’s it, ’cause it were the year Hanicka i’Gitka—she were our second mate—got herself a baby, and little Gitka’s twenty next quarter. She’s sailin’ on the Two Sisters now, but she stops by to see what’s left of her ma’s old crew when she’s in port.” He sighed, caught sight of the queen’s expression and, grinning unselfconsciously, brought himself back on track. “But you wants to know about the old days on the First Ashore, back when we took up the dark sailor.

“Until we was half a day out from the Broken Islands, it were just another voyage. Then we got caught in a storm. I’m tellin’ you, Majesty, I ain’t never been in a storm so wild.” Both hands rose to sketch the storm in the air between them. “The winds come down out of the northeast like demons, like demons howlin’ around the edges of the Circle, tryin’ ta get in. A normal wind don’t come out of the northeast,” he explained solemnly, looking first to the consort and then to the queen, making sure they understood this. “Prevailin’ winds is out of the northwest and that’ll take you to the south current, and if you don’t wanna stop in the Empire, you can ride all the way to the Gates of Hamilkas—he were a pirate what sailed the Fienian Sea and since it were the Fienians what named the gates…” He shrugged and continued.

“This storm blew so bad the captain, she thought of headin’ back to the Islands, but by that time it were too late. We run in front of those winds, sails ripped all to ratshit—beggin’ Your Majesty’s pardon—timbers creakin’ and groanin’ like they was gonna split and send us to the bottom for five full days. I still wakes up in the night, hearin’ them sounds and that sure I’m about to be drowned.” The beads swung from side to side as he shook off the effect of the memories, then the intensity of the queen’s attention locked his gaze back onto her face. “When the sky finally cleared, we was surrounded by more water than I ever seen before or since. No sight of land. No cloud that might tell a body where land was lyin’. And when it got dark, the stars was twisted all outa shape. We knew we was south, ’cause we knew some of the stars and it’d gotten right warm, but we had no idea how far west we’d been driven.” The memory layered the slow, rocking cadence of a ship becalmed onto his voice. “We sat there, a day and another, all of us patchin’ together what we could for a sail ’cause we knew if we didn’t get a sheet to the wind, we’d never see home again. Late on the second day, a breeze come up from the south and, with it, what was left of a ship like I never seen before. It looked like it’d been caught in the bad-tempered twin of the storm what’d done us, and I’m tellin’ you, Majesty, that boat were only half our size to begin with. Why it weren’t bashed to bits I had no idea then nor none now. There was three dead on board—died of thirst we figured. They’d been out there longer than we had, that were for sure, and the storm had busted their water casks to kindlin’—three dead and one alive.”

“The dark sailor.”

Lajos nodded solemnly. “The dark sailor. Dark skin like in the south of the Empire.” Pausing, he glanced toward Otavas. “Lot’s darker than yours, if you don’t mind me sayin’, Highness. Dark as a Fienian’s I’d say, but redder. And though his hair were black as a pirate’s heart, it were straight and a Fienian’s is mostly curly. Fact, it were so black that when the sun hit it, it were almost blue. His eyes was so dark they looked like they was all pupil and he had black designs on his chest—which didn’t have a hair on it even given he were no boy—designs what were written right into his skin.”

“These?” Forcing herself to show a calm she didn’t feel, Jelena opened the journal to a faded sketch and turned it toward Lajos. Caught up in the story, Otavas leaned over for a closer look.

“If them’s what I told the bards they looked like, then I guess they did.” The old sailor shrugged apologetically. “Truth is, I don’t exactly remember now.”

“I thought the designs might be a map.”

“A map?” The lines around his eyes deepened as he squinted at the page. “If you say so, Majesty. But I can’t say that I see a map. Or ever did. But it were a long time ago,” he added hurriedly as Jelena’s face fell.

“Never mind, Lajos. Please, continue.”

“Well, the dark sailor were ravin’ when we found him. We didn’t have no bard, so we couldn’t figure what he was sayin’, but we soon found that unless he were lookin’ to the southwest, he wouldn’t stay where we put him, so we made him a bed on deck. Me, I figured he had one of them fore-warnings that he’d never see his home again. He lay there, gettin’ weaker and weaker spite of everything our old Jon could do—we didn’t have no healer,” he explained, “so old Jon, the cook, he done mosta the healin’—while the captain had us strip every bit of usable sail off the wreck. Next mornin’, the dark sailor died. We put him back onto his ship with his friends, torched it, and pushed away. I seen the captain throw a handful of earth outa her personal altar onto it, givin’ it all four quarters ’cause they was sailors, too, and there but for what the Circle enclosed was us.

“While we was watching the fire burn, a wind come up headin’ east. We rode it all the way back to shores we knew. I always figured it was the dark sailor, thankin’ us for not leavin’ him and his shipmates for crab food.”

* * * *

“I am familiar with the song, Majesty. Slane—the bard who wrote it—and I were fledglings together.” Kovar paused a moment to consider the most diplomatic way to continue, frowning down at a worn spot on the old carpet the queen refused to replace. “I just don’t think you should base such an important decision on such a flimsy melody. Two full quarters passed before Lajos i’Lajosne even told the story to a bard, and that wouldn’t have happened had he and Tadeus not met down in Dockside and ended up… uh…”

“In bed?” Magda offered helpfully. When Kovar shot her a black look, she smiled. “That is where Tadeus has always heard his best stories.”

“And it is not something that should be discussed in front of the queen.”

“I don’t care where Tadeus first heard it,” Jelena interjected, making it quite clear she expected both her advisers to behave. “According to the recalls I read, he offered the story to Slane because he thought it should go to a bard who Sang water, and Slane checked with the other crew in port at the time. They backed up everything Lajos said.”

The Bardic Captain shook his head. “But to conclude that there’s a whole new land to the southwest based on such a tale…”

“And what would you conclude, based on such a tale?” Jelena asked him dryly.

“Majesty, that is not the point.”

“I think that’s exactly the point. Answer the question.”

“Sailors are known to exaggerate, Majesty.” He could see she remained unconvinced. “I have even heard stories of giant kigh that turn the water of the sea into a trap for ships and a graveyard for sailors.” Spreading his hands, he asked. “Surely if these kigh existed, we bards would know of them?”

“Why surely? You didn’t learn of the fifth kigh until recently.”

Once again, if the obvious differences were ignored, it might have been King Theron, sitting behind the desk. Kovar, who’d spent eight years as Bardic Captain under the old king, had to fight an instinctive reaction. Theron, he reminded himself, had been the voice of experience. Jelena was not. “The legends refer to water kigh, Majesty, and that is a quarter we have always known. If these giant kigh existed, surely we would have heard.”

“So you’re saying that the dangers are legendary?”

“I am saying, Majesty, that even though some of the reported dangers may be legendary, it is my opinion that it would be foolhardy to send a ship out into the unknown with such an untenanted hope of success.”

“I thank you for your opinion, Captain.” Sitting back in her chair, Jelena studied the bard for a moment or two. When the weight of her steady regard began to dip his brows toward the bridge of his nose, she turned her attention to Magda. “What do you think?”

The healer took a moment to glance at the man beside her. The Bardic Captain was sulking, uncomfortable with the queen thinking for herself. From the feel of his kigh, Magda suspected that he preferred Jelena unsure in her role and willing to embrace the advice of someone who’d seen more of life. Willing to embrace his advice. Perhaps it was time that he, too, came to terms with the young queen’s sudden ascent to the throne. “I think, Majesty, that songs often provide valid inspiration.”

“That’s a platitude, not an opinion,” Kovar snorted. “Not to mention complete and utter nonsense. There can be no good reason to send a ship out into the unknown.”

Both hands flat on her desk, Jelena stood. Color burned on both cheeks, but her voice remained level as she said quietly, “I disagree. After careful consideration, I have decided to outfit a vessel and call for volunteers to crew her.”

The older man folded his arms over his quartered robe. “I cannot approve such a ridiculous scheme.”

“You forget yourself, Bardic Captain. I am Queen in Shkoder, and I am not asking for your approval.”

* * * *

“Now that’s what I call healing.”

Having strode half a dozen angry paces down the hall outside the queen’s office, Kovar stopped and turned to glare at Magda. “Surely you don’t approve of this?”

“Surely I do. We wanted Jelena to move past her mother’s unfortunate death and accept that she’s queen. I think we’ve succeeded admirably.” Walking past him, fully conscious of him pivoting to keep her locked in the beacon of his displeasure, she frowned thoughtfully. “Let’s see, the Council won’t be meeting again until after First Quarter Festival. I expect Her Majesty will wait and make her announcement then. After that, things should get interesting.”

* * * *

Five days into the new quarter, Benedikt woke to find his hand in a puddle and a pair of tiny water kigh playing tag around his fingers. Cupping his hand so that they swam lazy circles on his palm, he asked them how much rain had fallen in the night.

Too much.

There had been heavy snowfalls in the high country throughout Fourth Quarter, enough to guarantee a certain amount of flooding in the valleys below as the weather warmed. Unfortunately, it had rained every day since First Quarter Festival. If it kept up, the flooding would be severe.

Pushed by a sense of urgency, he quickly packed up his camp and ate a cold breakfast while he traveled. Much of the path was wet enough that kigh rose up around his boots with every step. As much as he appreciated their company, that wasn’t good.

He reached the village of Janinton just before noon, although, with the sun hidden beneath a thick blanket of gray cloud, he had to tell the time by the state of his stomach. He was looking forward to a hot meal when, just as he spotted the first cluster of villagers sitting miserably in the damp circle of their possessions, he heard the Song.

It seemed there was a bard already in Janinton; a bard who Sang water and was, even now, Singing the river away from the village.

Other bards could plan their paths to cover the country most efficiently; he had to show up and discover he was of no more use than a bottomless boat. Then he heard the desperation in the Song. The river’s kigh were not responding.

Stripping off the encumbrance of his pack, Benedikt raced for the river’s edge. Those last few notes, more wailed than Sung, told him he had no time to waste. The villagers called out to him as he pounded past, but he ignored them. Leaping over a wet chicken, too miserable to move out of his way, he rounded the last building and rocked to a stop.

The original settlers of Janinton had built in a bend of the Silverglass River. Most years when the water was high, the Second Quarter melt poured around the upper half of the bend and then spread out over the banks into the marshlands to the north. This year, something had clearly happened upstream and a wave of icy water roared directly toward the village, the only barrier a slender figure Singing to kigh that weren’t listening.

The leading crest would reach the unknown bard in a heartbeat. Rushing forward, Benedikt sucked in a damp lungful of air and threw his Song toward the surging water. Dark with mud and debris churned out of the mountains, the flood smashed into the bend and began to rise behind the twisting, translucent bodies of the kigh. The other bard jerked around, but Benedikt had no time to acknowledge him. Weaving a complicated melody in and around the notes that held the kigh in place, he layered them along the path of the river, in some places three feet above the banks. On the other side of the village, he allowed the water to spill out of its translucent chute and into the marsh.

Toward midafternoon, a hand lightly touched his arm and a quiet voice wove itself into the Song where he’d be certain to hear. “Benedikt, you’ve taken the pressure off. The levees should hold now.”

Should hold? Benedikt waved the interruption away. He would Sing until the flood had passed.

It was dark when that same hand gripped his shoulder and told him it was over, he could stop Singing. Somehow, he managed the four notes of the gratitude, releasing the kigh. When he looked down, he could just barely make out the river lapping against the toes of his boots.

“The village?” he whispered.

“Safe.” The hand on his shoulder turned him around, then folded his fingers about the warm curves of a clay mug. “Drink this, Benedikt. The village herbalist says it’ll ease your throat.”

Using both hands, he got the mug to his mouth and took a tentative sip. “Tastes like goat piss and honey.”

“Doesn’t it always?”

He studied the pale oval that seemed to float in front of him as he drank, trying to put the features together into some sort of recognizable face. “Pjazef? You’re supposed to be in Somes. Singing earth.”

“I’m on my way to Somes, but I had to run an errand for the healers first.”

Pjazef had finished training just as he was beginning. They’d never known each other well—which was amazing in itself considering how well rumor insisted Pjazef knew most of the bards and half the country—but, as far as Benedikt could remember… “Didn’t think you Sang water.”

“After today, I don’t think I do either,” the other bard admitted, taking back the empty mug and slipping an arm around Benedikt’s waist. “Come on, I’ve got a bed all ready for you; we can talk in the morning.”

“I can walk.”

“Good. ’Cause you’re too unenclosed tall. I don’t think I can carry you.”

Beginning to tremble, Benedikt surrendered and sagged against Pjazef’s warmth. Left on his own, he’d have fallen where he stood.

* * * *

Next morning, Benedikt crouched by the water’s edge, peering intently down at the kigh. Everything he’d done yesterday could be destroyed today if the conditions upstream hadn’t changed. In spite of the remarkable healing powers of the herbalist’s tea, he hadn’t voice enough to compel so he had to convince. Time after time, the kigh flung themselves away from his quiet Song, wanting to play. Finally, he got enough of an answer, straightened and turned.

“There’s still plenty of runoff coming,” he announced, wishing that, like the bard beside him, he could use the air kigh for volume instead of his abraded throat. “But it shouldn’t be any more than the river and the wetlands can handle.”

Gathered between the two bards and the first of the half-timbered houses, the half circle of villagers cheered. Pjazef grinned up at Benedikt, pitching his voice over the sound. “I said it last night and I’ll say it again now. You were absolutely amazing. If I hadn’t seen you do it, I wouldn’t have believed it could be done.”

Two spots of color high on his cheeks, Benedikt grinned. “I did do a pretty good job, didn’t I?”

“Pretty good? Center it, man, you did what no one else could have. I had to try because I was here, but I fully expected to be swept away. My only hope was that I could Sing a strong enough water to keep from drowning.”

Having heard a little of Pjazef’s Song, Benedikt had his doubts.

“I’m just glad I was here to Witness for you ’cause the way you were Singing, your recall’s going to be full of kigh and not much else. This is Urmi i’Margit,” he added on his next breath as a middle-aged woman stepped forward, “the village headwoman.”

Too quickly for him to avoid, Urmi dragged Benedikt into a vigorous hug. “You saved our homes,” she told him, cheeks wet. “Probably our very lives, there’s no way we can thank you sufficiently for what you’ve done.”

The men and women behind her murmured in agreement. Releasing him, she swiped at her face with the palms of her hands. “If there’s ever anything you need that the people of Janinton can give you, anything at all…”

Benedikt watched, astounded, as her eyes slowly slid together in the center of her face. A heartbeat later, Pjazef caught him and heaved him back more or less vertical. “I’m all right,” he insisted as the shorter bard slipped a shoulder under his left arm. “I can walk.”

“I know.” There was a definite wink implicit in the tone. “I just like hanging on to you. Why don’t we head back to the herbalist’s, and you can spend a little more time recovering from saving the world.”

“I didn’t save the world.”

“Then you can recover from saving this part of it. Unless, you’re up to a bit of gratitude.” Eyes crinkling at the corners, he glanced up through a fringe of russet hair. “The head-woman might think there’s no way to thank you, but a couple of the younger villagers have come up with some pretty inventive ideas.”

His tone made the general, if not the specifics, of those ideas quite clear.

The last thing Benedikt wanted to do at the moment was Sing, but sex came a close second. “I think I’ll just go with you.”

“Wise choice.”

The herbalist’s small house was dry and warm, and that alone would’ve recommended it, but it also smelled wonderful—a mix of summer meadows and woodland clearings. The two bards had spent the night in the downstairs room she kept for the sick, and Benedikt assumed he’d be returning there. Pjazef, however, guided him to the couch beside the stove. “This way you won’t be so cut off from what’s happening.”

It would’ve taken too much effort to insist that he didn’t mind, so he lay back and closed his eyes.

He had no idea how long he’d been asleep when the voices woke him.

“Don’t fuss so, Pjazef, it’s no wonder he’s exhausted. The body is full of water, you know; he was Singing a different Song to bits of himself even while he was Singing the river. Let him sleep.”

Benedikt forced his eyes open. “I’m awake.”

The herbalist, a spare woman in her mid-forties, shot him one keen look and reached for a covered pot on the stove. Benedikt would’ve liked to have asked her what she’d seen, but he didn’t get a chance as Pjazef suddenly filled his line of sight.

“I was beginning to worry.” He dropped down on the side of the couch and laid one hand lightly on Benedikt’s chest. “How are you feeling?”

Benedikt blinked at him, trying to focus. “How do you make that sound like an invitation?”

Looking a little startled, the other bard brushed a bit of hair back off his face, and smiled. “Practice,” he suggested.

Her opinion of his practices plain on her face, the herbalist reached past Pjazef’s shoulder and handed Benedikt a familiar mug. “This lot should taste like goat piss and raspberries,” she told him. “You get that down you, and you should feel more like yourself. And you…”

Pjazef recoiled dramatically from her smack on the shoulder.

“… you let him rest.”

“I was only going to tell him the news from the Bardic Hall.”

“That’s what you say,” she sniffed as she gathered up a wooden bucket of scraps and headed out the back door. “And I’m sure you’re sincere while you say it.”

“How long have you been here?” Benedikt wondered as the door closed.

“Just a little longer than you. Why?”

“Your reputation seems to have preceded you.”

Unrepentant, Pjazef grinned. “I’m kind of memorable, being the only redheaded bard.”

“What about Sergai?”

“You call that red?” He ran both hands back through shoulder-length hair the color of frost-touched leaves. “He’s a strawberry blond at best.”

They were alone in the kitchen. Very conscious of the warm thigh pressed up against him, Benedikt reminded himself that for Pjazef flirting came as naturally as breathing. He didn’t mean anything by it. When the silence stretched, empty and echoing, he swallowed the last truly vile mouthful of herbal tea and said, “You have news from the Hall?”

“The Hall?”

“The Bardic Hall?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Mixed messages, Pjazef thought, forcing his attention up off the full curve of Benedikt’s lower lip. That’s what’s wrong with the world. He masked his disappointment behind a superficial, almost arch tone. “I Sang the Hall a report about the flood, or rather the lack of a flood, this morning before you woke up and… What’s the matter?”

Benedikt’s own report would have to wait until he returned personally to the Bardic Hall and gave his recall. “Nothing.”

“Then you shouldn’t frown like that. You’ll make lines.” He took his thumb and smoothed out the skin between Benedikt’s eyes—and got the same lack of response he had before. Oh, well, can’t blame a guy for trying. “You’ll be happy to know that I finally got an explanation for all the lost ship stuff we’ve been getting from the kigh.”

“We’ve been getting?” Benedikt snorted, staring into the bottom of the empty mug. The warmth of Pjazef’s thumb clung to his forehead. He fought against responding and embarrassing himself.

“Oops. Sorry. You wouldn’t, would you, ’cause none of the water you’ve been Singing has come from Elbasan, so the water kigh wouldn’t know. It seems that the queen has decided to send a ship southwest from the Broken Islands to find the land the dark sailor came from. She’s calling for volunteers. And she wants a bard to go along, but Kovar’s against it.”

That pulled an incredulous gaze up onto Benedikt’s face. “He’s not allowing it?”

“You’re frowning again. He can’t not allow it, now can he? This is the queen we’re talking about, not some fledgling who wants to make a quick pile of coin at the Ax and Anchor—which, I’d like to point out, is not half as bad a place as rumor makes it. Anyway, I heard from Evicka that he’s really singing low notes and minor keys about it. Nothing but doom and gloom. And Imrich says that you can’t really expect anything else when the kigh are referring to it as the lost ship already. But Tadeus said he thinks everyone’s overreacting and that if we paid attention, we’d realize that the kigh name any ship lost if it sails out of sight of land, so they’re obviously not foretelling the queen’s voyage. He also says that asking the kigh their opinion about something is a waste of time since we have no frame of reference for what they believe.”

“You heard all this, this morning?”

“Plus that Evicka got her hair cut and it looks a lot better than those long braids, that the bolt of dark blue wool I ordered at the beginning of last quarter finally arrived, and that everyone thinks what you did with the river was amazing. So what do you think?”

Benedikt had no idea that bards who Sang air spent so much time gossiping. Although he had to admit that in Pjazef’s case he wasn’t really surprised. “What do I think about what?”

“About this trip Her Majesty’s planning. Calling for volunteers to sail off into the unknown. I mean, it’s one thing to leave Shkoder to so to Petroika or to the Havakeen Empire, but this is another thing entirely. Doesn’t Her Majesty realize that we’re all part of the pattern that keeps the country strong?”

“And removing, say, you from the pattern would result in what? Complete collapse of the whole?”

Although he laughed at the conceit, Pjazef held to his opinion. “What would happen to Shkoder if we all went off walking on water?”

Walking on water was a bardic term used to describe those rare occasions when one of them took ship for foreign lands. It wasn’t what Benedikt had meant when he’d silently declared himself willing to walk on water for the queen—at least it wasn’t what he’d meant at the time. “I think I’m going to volunteer.”

Pjazef’s reaction was everything he could have hoped for.

* * * *

“Because you’re too old, Tadeus.”

The blue silk scarf tied around his eyes did nothing to hide the pique on the blind bard’s face. “Too old?”

“You’re fifty. Don’t deny it, your age is a matter of record.” Kovar leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his temples with the heels of both hands. “And more importantly, you don’t Sing water, a talent Her Majesty has decided is necessary for this idiot adventure. In case they run into those giant water kigh, I assume. And yes…” As Tadeus opened his mouth, he raised a hand, aware as he moved that the gesture was superfluous… the queen knows my opinion. It merely makes no difference to her.”

Brows, still sleek and black, rose up above the scarf, personal indignation pushed aside. “My, my, someone’s not happy about the fledgling leaving the nest.”

“Her Majesty is perfectly capable of making up her own mind.”

“Without your help?”

Lips pressed into a thin line, Kovar glared across his desk at the other bard. After a moment, he trusted his voice enough to say, “Was there anything else, Tadeus?”

“I was wondering if any other bards have expressed an interest.”

“No.”

“No?” Tadeus traced the brilliant embroidery on his sleeve with the tip of one finger. “I wonder why.”

As he wasn’t asking, Kovar saw no reason to answer.

“I can see why those who Sing earth might not be interested. They have a strong attachment to this piece of land, and I suppose many of the older bards have families they’d be loath to leave or physical frailties they’d be loath to risk, but I can’t understand why the younger bards aren’t leaping at this chance to discover songs that no one in Shkoder has heard.” He lifted his head, and Kovar had the uncanny feeling that behind the scarf the blind eyes were staring directly into his.

“What good are new songs if no one ever hears them sung?” the Bardic Captain demanded. “We have no proof that there is land to the south and west, and we bards are too important to Shkoder to throw our lives away.”

“Are we?” Again the black brows rose above the blue silk.

“Stop being irritating just because you can be, Tadeus. You know full well that we bards are the strength of a small country.”

“So I’ve heard you tell the fledglings. We’re all part of the pattern that keeps the country strong.”

“Exactly.”

“Part of the pattern, Kovar.”

Outside the office window, a small brass bell rang an imperious summons.

Grateful for the interruption—arguing with Tadeus often resembled arguing with one of the kigh—the Bardic Captain stood and flipped up the latch that held the multipaned window closed during inclement weather. As he pulled open the left panel, he kept a tight hold on the frame lest the kigh decide to slam it back against the wall just for the joy of hearing things break. The wind-sketched outline of an elongated body separated from the bell, dove into the office, looped once around him, and delivered its message.

Kovar Sang his answer as it raced up and out of sight, then stepped back and closed the window.

“He’s needed where he is?” Tadeus repeated behind him.

“You’re all needed where you are,” Kovar said wearily, turning to find the other bard standing barely an arm’s length away. “Over the last four quarters we’ve had five losses to age and one to accident. Six dead and only two fledglings found. We haven’t bards enough to lose one on this fool’s quest.”

“Shouldn’t that be an individual choice?” Tadeus asked seriously, all affectations gone.

“No. Our duty is to Shkoder.”

Recognizing a dismissal, Tadeus shook his head and walked unerringly to the door. With one hand on the latch, he paused and faced the Bardic Captain again. “I remember my oaths, Kovar.”

And the blind bard’s voice was so exquisitely controlled, Kovar had no idea where his emphasis lay.

* * * *

The small assembly room had not been changed in living memory. From the carved rosewood throne, to the stained glass in the narrow windows casting multihued reflections on the polished stone floor, to the seal of Shkoder carved into the great roundel in the center of the ceiling, the room had been designed to quietly impress. Those standing before the throne at the edge of the low dais were left in no doubt of the power they faced. While much of the actual business of the realm was conducted in Council Chambers and in the monarch’s private office, the small assembly room was used for the exchange of information, for the meeting of ambassadors…

… and to make a point.

“It has come to my attention, Bardic Captain, that you are denying your permission to those bards who wish to volunteer for the voyage.” No need to define what voyage. Jelena’s fingers were white around the arms of the throne, “Would you care to explain yourself?”

“I have not had to deny my permission, Majesty,” Kovar told her matter-of-factly. “The only bard who has shown an interest does not Sing water.”

The young queen leaned slightly forward without releasing her grip on the carved wood. Her knuckles were white and her voice suggested she barely kept her temper in check. “What of Benedikt? Or were you not planning on telling me he had requested a position on my ship?”

How had she known? Kovar wondered, trying to think past the sound of blood roaring in his ears. The kigh had brought the news directly to him and then left with his answer. He’d been alone at the window and Tadeus… Tadeus, that had to be the answer. He’d forgotten how far into a building the kigh were willing to go for the blind bard.

“I remember my oaths, Kovar.”

No doubt where the emphasis lay now.

“Captain?”

He started, pulling himself back into the assembly room. “If you have had an opportunity to read Pjazef’s report of flood at Janinton, Majesty, I think the situation amply illustrates my belief that all the bards are needed where they are.”

“Let me reassure you, Captain, that I read both the day’s reports and any new recalls nightly—” Her lips curled up into a tight, warning smile. “—as did my mother and my grandfather before her, and I value the work the bards do in maintaining Shkoder. The Starfarer will not leave Elbasan until the third moon of this quarter so, you see, I don’t pull Benedikt abruptly from your pattern but give you a chance to reweave it.”

“Majesty, you may not realize that Benedikt Sings only water.”

“Then removing him will disrupt your pattern even less.” Jelena sat back as though it were settled. Looking up at her set expression, Kovar realized that it was. “I would appreciate it if you tell him to return to Elbasan, Bardic Captain.”

* * * *

Bardic Captains conducted, they did not control. Kovar had nothing to say to Tadeus.

Or rather, he had a great deal to say but as it all came down to “How dare you go to the queen behind my back?” and he already knew what Tadeus would reply he saw no reason to waste his time.

“I remember my oaths, Kovar.”

Bardic Oaths were sworn to the greater good, which unfortunately left room for differences of opinions.

No, Tadeus had done all the damage he could, and if Kovar wanted to stop this blatant disregard of what was best for Shkoder, he needed to put his energy elsewhere.

* * * *

“Magda, you must speak with her. She won’t listen to me.”

Setting her fluted glass pen carefully back in the inkwell, Magda sighed and looked up from her notes. “What do you want me to say to her, Kovar?” The healer laced her fingers together as he began an impassioned tirade against the exploration. Some time later, when he’d started to wind down and no longer seemed in imminent danger of exploding, she said, “Her Majesty listens to you, Kovar, she just doesn’t agree with you.”

He took a deep breath and slowly released the bunched handful of robe he’d been gripping. “And you?”

“Do I agree that she’s sending a shipload of fools to their deaths? No. Do I agree that we have too few bards to waste one on this nonsense? No. Do I agree that you’re doing the right thing in discouraging the bards from volunteering…” Before she could add one final no, Kovar interrupted.

“I am not,” he growled, drawing himself up to his full height and glaring down at her, “discouraging the bards from volunteering. They have brains enough of their own to see this exploration for the death trap it is.”

“And yet, if you hadn’t been making it quite so clear that you see it as a death trap, I can’t help but think that some of the younger bards might be a little more willing to take the risk.”

“Some of the younger bards?” he repeated with a harsh laugh, as nonmusical a sound as Magda, who’d spent her entire life among bards, had ever heard. “Tell that to Tadeus. The old fool is the only bard who thinks himself immortal enough to try.”

“And Benedikt?”

“He doesn’t think enough of himself to see the danger.”

* That, Magda had to admit, was a distinct possibility, but Tadeus was no fool. He was nearly of an age with Kovar, and so it was only to be expected that the Bardic Captain would have less influence on him than on the younger bards. Was this indicative, she wondered, of a split in ideology by age? “Perhaps I should speak to Tadeus.”

“You might as well,” Kovar told her tightly. “Since it seems you’ve nothing of value to say to the queen.” Quartered robes whipping around his ankles, he strode for the door and paused, one foot over the threshold. Pivoting around, he pointed an inkstained finger at the healer. “This voyage is nothing but a personal indulgence by a monarch who doesn’t seem to realize we have everything we need right here.”

Magda sat where she was, forehead creased, until the staccato beat of his angry footsteps faded, then she slowly pushed back her chair, stepped out into the wide hall, and flagged down the first apprentice she saw.

“Find Tadeus, tell him I need to speak with him as soon as possible.”

“Here, Healer?”

“Here.”

She’d start with Tadeus.

And she’d call in a few favors to make certain that when Benedikt arrived back at the Citadel, he’d come to her before he spoke with the Bardic Captain.

* * * *

The applause when he finished playing flung Benedikt up onto his feet and spun him around, heart beating so hard against his ribs he thought it might break free. “Pjazef! How long have you been standing there?”

“Just for the last song.” A little taken aback at the reaction, he pushed his way through the last bit of dog willow. “Are you okay?”

Benedikt shook his head and then protested he was fine when he saw the concern on the older bard’s face. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!”

“I didn’t want to interrupt. It’s a great piece, Benedikt. Did you just write it?”

He bent and carefully laid his quintara in the instrument case. “Why?”

“Because it sounds like a brook dancing down the mountainside, and there isn’t anyone else who can interpret water like you do.”

“Oh.” Pleased, he straightened and nodded. “I finished it last night.”

“Could you teach it to me?”

It hadn’t been his for very long, but there wasn’t a graceful way to refuse such a normal bardic request. “Sure.” He bent back toward the instrument case.

Pjazef stopped him with a touch on his arm. “Not now. I have news.” Brushing a bit of forest flotsam from the sleeve of his jacket, he grinned at Benedikt’s expression and continued. “I have a message from the queen. Well, actually, it’s from Evicka since she Sang it, but…”

“Pjazef!” Benedikt was not in the mood for a lengthy monologue of bardic gossip. He had a message from the queen. The queen.

“Right. You’re to cut your Walk short by swinging around this side of Ohrid’s border and cutting back through Vidor to arrive in Elbasan no later than the dark of the second moon.”

“First Quarter?”

“First Quarter.”

That was, indeed, cutting his Walk short. “Why?”

Pjazef spread his hands. “It seems you’re going on a voyage.”

“Me?” The queen wanted him. Benedikt felt a rush of joy so great that he couldn’t contain it. Giving a great shout of laughter, he grabbed Pjazef around the waist and hoisted him up into the air.

The older bard laughed as well. “So you’re happy about this?”

“Happy? Are you kidding? Out of all the bards in Shkoder, the queen has chosen me!”

As Pjazef’s feet hit the forest floor, russet brows dipped down momentarily. That hadn’t quite been the gist of Evicka’s message.