"I'm not saying that he isn't guilty, Stas; I mean, no one can lie under Command. I just can't believe I was so wrong about him. I just didn't think Pjerin was the kind of man who'd break a sworn oath."
Stasya's memory ran through a kaleidoscopic review of Pjerin a'Stasiek, Due of Ohrid, from the moment she'd first seen him scowling down at Captain Otik, through the countless attempts to escape on the trip to the capital, to the final image of him struggling to rise after being cut free of the horse by the palace stables and dumped like so much garbage to the ground. While he managed to remain both arrogant and abrasive even during the increasingly rough handling he'd received, she would've sworn that his pride came from a strong sense of self-worth based solidly in the real world and that he fought for more than just a chance to avoid death.
She looked up and met Annice's gaze. "If I didn't know better," she said heavily, "I wouldn't believe it of him myself."
"Your Grace?"
Pjerin shifted on the bench, enough so he could bring the doorway into the field of his good eye.
"My name is Damek i'Kamila." The middle-aged man stepped into the room and the heavy, reinforced door slammed shut behind him. "I'm a healer."
"You'll forgive me if I don't rise."
"Actually, I'm here to do something about that." He set the small leather bag he carried on the floor and frowned up at the gray light spilling through the one tiny window. "Well, it's not much, but as they wouldn't allow me to bring in a lantern it will have to do. I don't suppose you can slide down to the other end of the bench?"
In answer, Pjerin reached down beside him with his right hand and lifted his left onto his lap. Around the left wrist, he wore an iron manacle, attached by a short length of chain to an iron ring set into the stone wall.
Damek shook his head disapprovingly. "Yes, I see. Then I suppose this will suffice. Can you not move that arm on its own?"
"I can. But I'd rather not."
"Ribs broken?"
"You're the healer," Pjerin grunted, closing his eye.
"You tell me."
"Yes. All right, then. Just give me a moment to prepare myself."
Pjerin listened to the other man's breathing fall into a slow, steady rhythm, each lungful very purposefully drawn in, each lungful very purposefully expelled and in spite of himself he began to relax. Although he flinched at the initial touch, he welcomed the warmth spreading out from under gentle fingers and, because he knew it was coming, he managed to bite down on the scream when a sudden burst of heat seared his side. It lasted only an instant and when it faded, most of the pain faded with it.
"Still broken," the healer told him as he opened his eye. "But all the pieces are aligned again and held and it should heal leaving no lasting disability. You know…" squatting, Damek opened his case and pulled out a small vial. "… there are those who believe that there's a type of kigh within the body and healers manipulate it much as bards manipulate the kigh of the elements. Let me tell you, young man, if that's true, you've got a powerful kigh tucked away in there. It practically grabbed hold of me and drained me dry." He thumbed the wax stopped off the vial and drank the contents in one long swallow. "Much better," he pronounced, standing. "Now then, let's have a look at that eye."
Pjerin allowed his head to be pushed gently around to the right. "How long?" he asked.
"How long what?" Damek muttered, peeling up the swollen lid and peering beneath it. "How long will it take to heal?"
"What? Your ribs? Oh, a week. Maybe two. Nothing we do is entirely instantaneous no matter what people think. Now then…" He pulled back enough so that Pjerin could see a reassuring smile. "… this may hurt a bit as well, but it should take the swelling down enough for you to use the eye. Fortunately, there doesn't appear to be any internal damage. Try not to jerk your head away."
The warning came a second too late, but the healer's grip was surprisingly strong. Pjerin felt as though his face were held in a warm vise while someone skewered left brow and cheek with a red-hot needle. Then it was gone. Breathing heavily, he blinked and found he was using both eyes.
Damek patted his shoulder apologetically. "Sorry. I guess you can see why most people with minor injuries tend to have us clean them up and then they let them heal on their own."
"And I'm not most people?"
"Not really. No." To cover his embarrassment, Damek ducked his head and closed up his bag.
"They're healing me to send me to the block."
"Yes. Well." The healer shrugged. "No reason to die in pain."
Pjerin sighed. "No," he said bitterly, "I suppose not."
"Do you want a priest sent in? To talk to?"
"No. Thank you."
Damek sighed, picked up his bag, and called for the guard. Then he paused in the open doorway. "If they offer you a chance to bathe before Judgment, I suggest you take it. It's amazing how being clean will help."
"With dying?" Pjerin laughed, a short harsh bark that held no humor. He turned and glowered at both healer and guard. "I broke no oaths. I am not a traitor."
The guard spat into the cell. Damek shook his head sadly and walked out of sight. The door swung closed, the iron bolt that held it hissing against iron brackets as it slid home.
"You're going where?"
"To the Judgment."
"Are you out of your mind?" Stasya leaped up from her chair, and ran around Annice to block the door, harp dangling from one outstretched hand. "What if His Majesty sees you?"
Annice frowned. "His Majesty will have enough on his mind without trying to figure out who's up on the bards' balcony."
"But suppose he does look up? What then?"
She shrugged. "He'll see a bard."
"Annice, you're his sister. I don't care how long it's been since he's treated you like one, you're not exactly an unfamiliar face!"
"Every bard in Elbasan will be there, Stas. He won't notice me."
Stasya sat her harp down and crossed her arms. "Great plan. Except that there's bugger all bards in Elbasan right now. They're all out Walking."
"All right." Annice sighed and shoved a fistful of her robe for inspection. "What color is this?"
Stasya's eyes narrowed but, uncertain of where Annice was leading the argument, she answered. "Brown."
"And why is it brown?"
"Because you're Singing earth now."
"And what color is my robe usually?"
"You mean the nonfestival robe you never wear? It's quartered. So what?"
"So if His Majesty does look up, he'll see a bard in a brown robe. I'm sure he knows I wear a quartered robe. He'll therefore have no reason to take a closer look. Will he?"
"This is really stupid."
"Stas, I'm going to go. Whether you like it or not."
And she was, too. Stasya recognized her expression and, short of physical restraints, could see no way to stop her. "Fine. Hang on till I get dressed. I'm going with you."
"I hate this sort of thing," Theron muttered, tugging at the high, embroidered collar wrapped about his throat. Although she knew he referred to the upcoming Judgment and not his clothing, Lilyana reached up and adjusted the clasps. His Majesty's valet could deal with her later.
He caught her hand. She returned the pressure of his fingers, then pulled free.
"Majesty?" The page bowed in the open doorway. "They're ready now."
Theron nodded and squared his shoulders under the folds of heavy black velvet. The king was responsible for every sentence of death passed in Shkoder. There'd been a hundred and twenty since he'd taken the crown ten years before; four other attempts at treason, but most of them men and women who'd committed crimes so terrible that removing them became a necessary surgery for the greater good. Carrying them all, Theron walked slowly out to pick up the weight of the hundred and twenty-first.