"It occurs to me," she said after a while, "that talking might make this go a bit faster."
"Talking about what?"
"I don't know." She scratched through the shift at the tight curve of skin just over her hip. "But we managed to find common ground at least once before."
Pjerin glanced down at her, caught her meaning, and half smiled. "I don't remember that we talked much."
"Well, I remember you making a number of pretty strange sounds."
"Me? I wasn't the one howling."
"You could consider that a compliment."
Pjerin's smile blossomed suddenly and Annice couldn't help but appreciate the view. Let's hope he passes those great teeth on, baby.
"You know," he said, "I had no idea that you were who you are. Or were. That is, while you were at the keep, I had no idea that you were the ex-princess."
"It isn't an idea I want people to have."
"Yeah, but even after I knew, well, sometimes I still find it hard to believe."
"Why?" Annice demanded. "I don't act like you imagine an ex-princess should act?"
He laughed. "Actually, it's more that you don't look like a princess. You've got that little bump on your nose and your hair's kind of—well, no easily identifiable color, and your eyes crinkle up at the corners when you laugh, and…"
"And if you stick me in expensive clothes and drape me in jewels and surround me with courtiers, I can look pretty unenclosed princesslike, thank you very much." She snorted and pushed a strand of blowing hair back out of her eyes. Stasya said it was like poured honey. What did he know?
Pjerin sighed. He should've known better. "I was trying to pay you a compliment, Annice. You were one of the most real people I'd ever met, that's all I was trying to say. And…" His tone picked up an edge. "I'd have to say you act exactly like a princess; high-handed, always wanting your own way, always assuming you're right and everyone else is wrong."
"I don't always assume I'm right," Annice protested, deciding at the last minute not to let the branch she'd pushed out of her path spring back and smack him in the face. "It just usually turns out that I am and, oh, center it, I knew it was going to rain." She draped the lead rope over a bush and turned to rummage the oilskins out of the pack.
Thunder cracked directly overhead, the clouds opened, and within seconds they were both drenched to the skin. So early in the season, so high in the mountains, it wasn't a pleasant sensation. To her horror, Annice found herself bursting into tears as she wrapped her long cloak around her soaked shift.
"Annice?" Clumsily tying off the mare's reins with one hand, Pjerin came around the mule. "Are you crying?"
"No. Shut up. Who asked you anyway?"
"What's wrong?" He tried not to sound annoyed, but she wasn't making it easy.
"I'm wet. And I'm tired." Annice had no idea where this was coming from, but she couldn't seem to stop it. "And I'm fat."
Pjerin rolled his eyes. "You're not fat. It's a baby, remember?"
"It's a baby, but I'm still fat." A kigh rose out of the ground at her feet and lightly touched her knee. "Go away!" she sobbed. It left, but slowly. "I can't Sing any thing but dirt anymore." Rain ran down her hair and dripped off the end of her nose. "And Stasya's probably dead because of me."
Shaking his head, Pjerin gathered her up against the uninjured side of his body. The fact that she allowed the embrace gave him a pretty good idea of how upset she was. He didn't understand it, but at the moment that wasn't really important as he dropped his head, murmured words of comfort into her hair, and gave her a shoulder to cry on.
Gradually, Annice found her lost control and, cheeks flaming, pushed away. Unable to meet his eyes, she muttered her thanks into his chest.
"Hey, I'd do the same for any friend."
His voice was so gentle that she had to look up.
He smiled. "Ready to move on?"
Still uncertain of her voice, she nodded and reached for Milena's lead rope. He's really a very nice person, baby. Sometimes. And I know he's a good father. I suppose that if Stasya is dead and I need some help raising you, I could do worse.
"We'll stop as soon as we find shelter. Make sure the kigh warn us if we enter any run-off gullies. Keep the mule on a tight lead."
On the other hand, he can be a bit of an authoritarian asshole and I'd probably kill him before you were walking.
From the top of the inner tower, Gerek glared down at the lone rider disappearing between the high cliffs of the pass. It wasn't his fault if nobody listened to him. He rubbed his nose on his sleeve, the upper half of his small body wedged into one of the crenellations. He'd told everybody that the new man Aunty Olina liked was the same as the old man and they hadn't listened.
"Think I meant he was a Cemandian," he sniffed. "Think I'm a baby, don't know anything." People should listen to him now he was the due.
His lower lip trembled. He didn't want to be the due. His mama had come and asked him if he wanted to go live with her, but he didn't want that either. He wanted his papa back.
Gerek hunched his shoulders as Nurse Jany called for him down in the courtyard. Even if she figured out where he was, he knew she was too fat to climb the tower stairs.
"I'm going to stay up here for the rest of my life."
The rider was long out of sight when he heard the footsteps behind him and sullenly turned. He never got to do anything he wanted.
"You can really see a long way from up here." Stasya smiled at him and held out her fist. "You must be Gerek." She'd decided to use only his name as his title might remind him of where he'd seen her before.
Unfortunately, he didn't need a reminder. "You're the bard who took my papa!" With a shriek of fury, he launched himself at her legs.
Unwilling to hurt him, Stasya found herself at a distinct disadvantage as Gerek had every intention of hurting her. Although she managed to grab hold of his flailing arms and twist the lower part of her body back out of his way, he got in a couple of painful kicks to each shin.
"Gerek!"
The voice cut through his hysteria and left him hanging stiffly from the bard's grip. Stasya turned them both so she could see who'd spoken although she really had very little doubt.
Olina stood at the top of the stairs, head set at an imperious angle above the slender column of throat, pale blue eyes narrowed and full lips set in a thin disapproving line. "That is not the way that a Due of Ohrid behaves to a guest in his keep."
"She made my papa say bad things!"
"She made your father admit to the truth."
Cautiously, ready for a rematch, Stasya released him. When his lower lip started to tremble and his violet eyes filled with tears, she almost told him what the truth actually was.
"My papa promised he'd come back!"
Stasya felt her mouth open of its own volition and snapped it shut.
"Your father is dead, Gerek." Olina's voice had gentled. "And now the king is coming to Ohrid to fix the damage your father did."
"He's not coming here!" One booted foot stamped hard on the dressed rock. "He's not. I hate him!" Sobbing wildly, Gerek pushed past his aunt and pounded down the stairs, screaming "Hate him! Hate him! Hate him!" until his voice was muffled by distance and the comforting bulk of his nurse.
Olina turned from staring down the stairwell and met Stasya's gaze evenly. "The sooner he knows that King Theron is coming," she explained, "the sooner he can get used to the idea. I apologize, though, for the way he treated you."
"Please, don't worry about it, Lady Olina." Stasya bent and rubbed her shin, as much to break the heat of the other woman's gaze as to acknowledge the bruising. "He obviously loves his father very much, and anyway, bards develop thick skins about rejection."