"Ignorance breeds intolerance," Pjerin murmured, a little stunned. "Intolerance breeds war."
This time, Theron allowed the smile to blossom. "Well said, Your Grace." He sat back in the chair and fingered his collar button. "It will, of necessity, be a minimal Hall, with one bard who Sings all four quarters and one other, strong in air, to Walk."
"Majesty?" Stasya stepped forward, suddenly understanding why all four Bards had been commanded to attend the king and why Jazep and Tadeus both had been told to recall. "If you're saying that Annice and I are going to form a new Bardic Hall here at the keep, would you please just say it."
"You and Annice are going to form a new Bardic Hall here at the keep," Theron said. He grew serious. "It won't be an easy task, half of Ohrid still believe the kigh to be outside the Circle. You'll have to work against that, against their fears. Convince them otherwise. Convince them that their future lies with Shkoder, not Cemandia."
"We can do that, Majesty."
Bards, Theron mused, have found more than their share of self-confidence in the Circle.
Pjerin glanced from the king to Annice, who was serenely contemplating the swaddled bundle in her arms, and back again. "Maggi will be raised here? As a bard?"
"By a bard," Theron corrected. "And by you. the child will discover for herself what the Circle holds for her."
"Begging Your Majesty's pardon." Stasya hated to bring this up, but someone had to. "But what about the captain?"
"What about her?"
"What if she doesn't agree?"
Theron stood. "I," he said, "am king in Shkoder."
Annice looked up and smiled. "Witnessed."
"Olina i'Katica, step forward."
A murmur ran around the court as the people of Ohrid, packed shoulder to shoulder on the ground and on the battlements tried to get a better view. Theron had intended the Judgment to be held in the Great Hall, but Pjerin had insisted that all the people of Ohrid had the right to attend.
Prince Rajmund had agreed to all the terms of the treaty.
Back straight, expression disdainful, Olina stepped away from her escort and stood alone in the only empty space in the court. Her cold gaze swept over Theron—seated in her favorite chair, she noted with bitter irony—past the bard standing beside him, and over the three bards off to one side. She stared for a moment at Annice, at the tiny bundle in her arms. No one had told her exactly how things had gone so impossibly wrong, but with the sister of the king bearing her nephew's child, it wasn't difficult to find the probable cause. If she hated anyone, she hated Annice.
"I heard," she said, turning at last to Pjerin, "that congratulations are in order. A daughter?"
Teeth clenched, Pjerin nodded.
Theron sat forward. "Olina i'Katica, do you know why you are here?"
She inclined her head graciously. "So that your bards can use the kigh to put words in my mouth and a foreign king can take my life."
The crowd stirred. The sound that followed the motion was tinted with doubt. Words had been put in the mouth of their due. Who knew what was true anymore? Here and there, fingers flicked out in the sign against the kigh.
"You have been given no command save that of stepping forward," Theron told her evenly. "And I am king in Ohrid as in Shkoder by virtue of oaths sworn by your great-grandfather to mine."
Olina spread her hands. "I swore no oaths. You cannot accuse me of treason."
"I am not accusing you of treason. The Death Judgment is called for another crime. Do you deny that you arranged, with the help of Cemandia, to have your nephew killed?"
"I deny nothing. I admit nothing. To do either, would acknowledge your right to judge me, which I do not."
Pjerin stepped forward. "Do you deny that I am Due of Ohrid?" he asked quietly.
The crowd stilled to hear him.
"Does your master allow you to speak, then?"
"Answer me, Olina. Do you deny that I am due?"
"You are the due," she answered. She knew where he was going with this and planned to meet him there. Over the last few days when Cemandian guards made it clear that Prince Rajmund would not protect her, she'd had little to do but plan.
With a hiss of steel, Pjerin pulled the Ducal sword free of the scabbard and held it out, point aimed at her heart. "The day I gave my blood to Ohrid with this sword, you swore to have me as your lord."
"Agreed." Her smile held no humor. "But if you wish to be a part of Shkoder, then you should know that only the king can sit in a Death Judgment. You have surrendered your right to judge me to someone who has no right." She turned and addressed the people. "The kigh rule the bards, the bards rule the king, the king rules your due. Do you want the kigh to rule in Ohrid?"
"NO!"
The cry still echoed off the mountain when Vencel pushed his way into the open.
"The kigh," he declared, "are not the issue."
"Vencel…" Pjerin began, but Theron cut him off.
"Let him speak. If Lady Olina wishes the people to decide whether I am to judge her, I will abide by their judgment."
Sweat darkened the pale sides of Vencel's tunic but he wet his lips and went on. "How anyone feels about the kigh doesn't change the fact that you arranged to have His Grace killed."
Ebony brows rose. "Who says I did?"
"Well, His Grace!"
"Who you also heard say that he broke his oaths and sold Ohrid out to Cemandia. Which time was he telling the truth?"
"You ran to Cemandia when he returned!"
"Have you seen my nephew in a rage?" Her voice was silken reason. "I had no wish to meet him until he calmed. You know what happened to Lukas."
The crowd fell silent, and she felt her chance slip free. She'd heard that Lukas had gone off the inner tower, that Pjerin had been up there with him. She knew his rages. How could he not have taken advantage of that opportunity?
Urmi slipped between two of her stablehands to stand at Vencel's side. "Lukas threatened to drop Gerek off the tower. Whatever was between you and His Grace, or Lukas and His Grace, Gerek wasn't a part of that. We," her gesture took in everyone in the court, "all heard you insist that Gerek had been taken away by a bard you knew was half-conscious in a pit…"
"Lukas," Olina began.
Gerek twisted out of his nurse's grasp and ran across the court to stare up at his aunt. Except for the sword, his stance was a copy of Pjerin's. "I saw you!" he told her. "I saw you put Stasya in the pit, and if you say you didn't, you're telling lies."
"You were willing to let a young child die!" Urmi spat. "And for what?"
"So all of Ohrid would have a chance to be more than it was," Olina snarled.
"Less!" Vencel shouted. "You can't be more if the cost is an innocent life!"
When the shouting died down, Theron stood. "People of Ohrid. Am I to judge?"
The response was deafening. It was one thing for ambition to remove a grown man and quite another for that same ambition to demand the life of a child. In all the confusion, that, at least, was certain.
Pjerin stared into Olina's eyes, the Ducal sword still pointed at her heart. "I promised that I'd nail you to the door of the keep with this," he growled.
Her smile was ice. "I wonder if you've found everything we put in your head," she purred. "You'll never know, will you?"
"It's over, Olina."
"Yes. It's over. But I said in the beginning that no one would take my head." Her face twisted and a trickle of blood ran down her chin as she bit through her lip.
Pjerin stared down at her grip on his wrist, too astounded to react.
She yanked herself a little closer and another hand-breadth of the blade slid in under her breastbone.
Someone screamed as the point ripped out through her back.
Pjerin could still feel the heat of her fingers on his skin as they slid off to stiffen, once, twice, in the air. She stumbled. Fell to her knees, the blade pulling free with a rush of crimson. Eyes wide, her mouth worked as she tried one last time to speak. She tumbled forward.