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"There's definitely something going on—with this much smoke there has to be a fire somewhere—but we haven't yet found the person—or people—directly involved."

"No mention of Ohrid?"

"Only as concerns the business of the pass."

"And the due?"

"He objects to being Shkoder's gatekeeper." The king started and Liene hastened to explain. "According to the traders, it's collecting the tolls he objects to, Majesty, not holding the pass."

His expression thoughtful, Theron nodded and slowly sat back. "I remember reading something about that in the recall. Also that he cares for his people a great deal and thinks we should be moving a little faster toward ending the isolation of the principalities."

"Our numbers are limited, Majesty, and Ohrid is a long walk…"

"I'm not accusing you of anything, Captain. I am aware of both your numbers and how much country your people have to cover. But I think I'd like to talk to that bard, the one who was lately in Ohrid."

Although he read the recalls, King Theron never spoke to the bards and not the best control in the world could keep that thought from showing, for an instant, on Liene's face. Well, isn't that a bit of unenclosed luck. First time in ten years I've had a chance to throw those two togetherand on the king's command yetand the fates conspire against us all. "She left on a Walk three days ago, sire, heading north up the coast. Shall I have the kigh tell her to return?"

Theron stared up at the Bardic Captain, weighing her momentary lapse against the expression she now wore. Just for a moment, Liene thought she saw him reaching for the opportunity, then his eyes narrowed, and he said, "No. It's important that contact be maintained up the coast, especially in Fourth Quarter when isolation can so quickly set in. After all, the whole point of recall is that it includes a complete observation."

No name had been spoken, but the identity of the bard filled the space between them.

Annice paused for a moment on the edge of the cliff and looked down at the village tucked between sea and rock. From this angle, all she could see were the snow-dusted tops of cottages staggered up the hillside and the outside crescent of beach being rhythmically pounded by waves. Although she spotted a number of fishing boats pulled up on the gravel out of the sea's possessive reach, to her surprise a single vessel bobbed around in a small circle almost at the mouth of the bay. It seemed a little crazy to her, considering that puddles of ice reflected the sun all along the shore, but then small boats on summer seas seemed a little crazy to her, too, so she supposed she was unqualified to judge.

The sudden appearance of a pair of kigh very nearly flung her a disastrous step forward. Heart racing, she staggered and fought for balance, the weight of her pack dragging at her shoulders finally pulling her back onto solid ground. While the long, pale fingers of the two agitated kigh continued to tug at her clothing, she drew a deep breath to whistle them away. Far away.

Then the message got through.

She dropped her pack so hard it bounced, snatched up her flute, and threw herself down the path to the village, Singing as she ran. Twice she stumbled and the kigh caught her. Once, the earth rearranged itself under her feet. By the time she reached the first cottage, a group of astonished people were running out to meet her, calling out questions she had no time to answer, the village dogs barking hysterically around their feet. She pushed her way through the crowd, still Singing. If the kigh were right, she had almost no time at all.

Finally she reached the water's edge. Throwing the case to one side, she shoved the halves of her flute together and raised the mouthpiece to her lips. The first note was so sharp it hurt, but, forcing herself to breathe normally, she found the second and, eyes locked on the boat, threw everything she had left into the Call.

Behind her, she heard the villagers exclaim as the fishing boat lifted on a column of water and began to rush toward the shore. Soon a stooped figure could be seen bending over something in the stern. As the boat came closer, the figure turned, became a woman, a sun-bleached fringe of blonde hair framing an expression part worry, part relief. Her mouth moved, but her voice was lost under the sound of the waves and the Song of the flute.

The cluster of kigh beneath the boat continued up onto the shore. The villagers cried out and scattered. With the bow almost upon her, Annice turned the Song to a gratitude and the kigh flowed out from underneath it, returning to the sea. The bottom of the boat dropped onto the gravel, exactly at the high water mark.

Annice let the flute drop away from her mouth and staggered back against a solid chest.

"I've got you, child." Arms wrapped around her, holding her on her feet, and she gratefully sagged against their strength, her vision swimming.

In the babble of voices that followed, Annice heard the woman cry out a name, then saw blurry figures rush forward and lift a small body out over the low stern.

Someone yelled, "Get him to old Emils!"

Then the world tilted and went away.

Annice woke staring up at the low, beamed ceiling of a fisher cottage. She struggled to sit, but a large hand pushed her back against the mattress.

"Emils says you're fine, your baby's fine, and you're an idiot."

Considering the way she felt, Annice decided not to argue with that last statement. Squinting to see in the dim light that came through the small, leather-covered window, she watched a heavyset, middle-aged woman with close-cropped gray hair cross the room to a pitcher, fill a clay mug with water, and return.

"Taska, isn't it?"

The woman smiled, pleating her face into a map of her life, and held the mug to Annice's mouth. "Imagine you remembering that. It must be three years since you Walked this way. Drink slowly, Annice. I don't want you choking to death after carrying you up those unenclosed stairs."

"That was you? The one who caught me?"

"None other." She hooked a stubby-legged, driftwood chair with her foot and dragged it across the uneven floor to the bed. "Now then." The chair groaned as she sat. "Tell me what brought you flying down the cliff just in time to rescue young Jurgis."

Jurgis. So that was the child's name. "How is he?"

"He's a tough kiddie and Emils hates to lose a patient. Takes it personal. He'll be all right after a while."

"The woman?" She tried to keep her tone neutral and didn't quite manage.

Taska's brows dipped slightly. "Nadina i'Gituska. His mother. She's outside making a nuisance of herself, along with most of the village. Refuses to leave until she's sure her kiddie's okay."

"Who's his father?"

"Who knows."

"Are you still Head?"

The brows dipped slightly lower. It wasn't a full frown, but it was close. "Wouldn't be here if I wasn't."

"The kigh came for me. They said she was killing the boy."

To her surprise, Taska only nodded slowly. "Thought there was more to it than her story of him slipping on a bit of gut and going over." At the bard's questioning look, she added, "Water in the bay felt wrong."

Annice nodded slowly in turn. With training, Taska could have Sung water, but she'd had no interest in be coming a bard. According to the recall of the bard who'd found her some forty years before, nothing—not appealing to her sense of adventure, nor her sense of duty, nor just plain pleading—had shaken her from her polite reply. "No, thank you. I'd rather fish."

One hand wrapped protectively around her belly, Annice threw back the rough wool blanket and carefully sat up. "Let's get this over with."

"Are you crazy, Bard? Me hurt Jurgis?" Nadina looked as though she'd just been hit. Her left hand even rose to cup her cheek. "He's all I live for."