Although the gleaming wooden benches in the bards' balcony weren't known for comfort, Annice sagged against the high back with a sigh of relief. She was finding it more and more difficult to negotiate such things as steep, narrow, spiral staircases—around and around and around on tiny wedge-shaped steps, unable to see her feet, the curve of her bulk barely fitting within the curve of the stone.
"What's wrong with stairs in straight lines?" she hissed at Stasya as the other bard sank down beside her.
"Spiral staircases take up less room," Stasya reminded her absently, gaze sweeping the crowds assembling below.
Annice sniffed. "That'd mean a lot more if I was taking up less room." She settled back and looked around. The last time she'd been on this balcony, she'd been one of the fledglings touring the parameters of their new lives. She hadn't been back in the ten years since. It seemed smaller than her memory of it.
Cut into the wall on the narrow end of the Great Assembly Hall, high above and behind the right side of throne, the balcony could hold a dozen bards comfortably and twice that if comfort was disallowed. At the moment, it held only Stasya and Annice.
"I guess no one else cared enough to come," Annice growled, uncertain as to why she was so angry about it. If every bard in Shkoder had crammed onto the balcony, Pjerin would still be condemned to die.
"It's First Quarter," Stasya reminded her. "Every bard who can Sing is out Walking. Stay tucked up against the pillar. It'll block the angle of view from the throne if His Majesty does happen to glance up."
"I can't see as well from behind the pillar."
"And you can't be seen as well either," Stasya pointed out, shoving her so that she slid sideways over the polished wood and into the partially hidden position. "Please stay there."
Because it meant so much to Stasya—but only because it meant so much to Stasya—Annice gritted her teeth and decided to be gracious.
Down below, the thirty-two members of the Governing Council were filing in. Dressed in somber black, they moved quietly to stand before the two rows of wood and leather chairs set up at right angles to the throne. Annice recognized a few of them; they'd been on the Council in her father's day and had been passed down from reign to reign, their hard work and experience remaining in the service of Shkoder.
When all thirty-two had taken their places, a pair of guards in full ceremonial armor threw open the huge double doors at the other end of the Great Assembly Hall and the public surged in. This was an innovation of her brother's. Although the common courts had always been open, Royal Judgments had not as their royal father would have rather passed Judgment in a sheepfold than in front of his subjects. Newly a bard, Annice had listened to the criers call King Theron's first proclamation with amazement.
"Neither Death nor Mercy should come in secret. Any who wish to keep silent witness in the Death Judgment of Hermina i'Jelen to present themselves, weaponless, at the Citadel Gate tomorrow at noon."
Yesterday, the criers had called for those who wished to keep silent witness for Pjerin a'Stasiek, Due of Ohrid.
Well, here I am. She laced her fingers into a protective barrier between her baby and the room below. Here we are. Although it was far from hot, damp patches spread out from under both arms.
A solid wall of bodies pressed up against the low wooden barricade that kept the citizens of Elbasan from spilling over into the actual area of the court. Neither as solemn nor as quiet as the Council, they were anxious to see this Due of Ohrid—who'd intended to have them slaughtered in an unequal war—get the traitor's death he deserved.
Annice could feel the anger rising off of them, could almost see it beating against the molded plaster ceiling like a great black kigh. Heart pounding, she hoped Pjerin would be safe, that the anger wouldn't catch him up and dash him down in pieces. Then she called herself four kinds of fool because he'd be safe only to die.
Suddenly, the Bardic Captain stood before the throne. Instead of her quartered robe, she also wore black, her short hair like a cap of polished steel above it. Slowly, she swept her gaze over the huge room and where it touched, silence fell and spread. At last, she nodded and stepped to one side, her voice falling equally on every ear. "His Majesty, Theron, King of Shkoder, High Captain of the Broken Islands, Lord over the Mountain Principalities of Sibiu, Ohrid, Ajud, Bicaz, and Somes."
Annice started forward, then jerked to a stop even before Stasya's cautioning hand reached her arm. From behind the pillar, she watched the top of her brother's head come through a door in the wall below. Well, at least he still has his hair. Biting down hard on the terrifying urge to giggle, she couldn't believe that after ten years and under the present, potentially deadly circumstances she could have such a stupid reaction.
Chewing her lip, she watched Theron move slowly and deliberately around to the front of the throne. Just for an instant, she caught a glimpse of his face. Ten years under the crown had drawn lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before and something, perhaps the Judgment he was about to make, perhaps the Judgments he'd already made, had drawn the mouth she remembered as full, into a narrow, barely visible crease.
He took his seat and disappeared behind the high, carved back of the throne.
The Bardic Captain bowed to her king, then turned and called, "Pjerin a'Stasiek, Due of Ohrid. Come forward for Judgment."
A small door opened about halfway down the left side of the Great Assembly Hall. Two of the King's Guard marched through, black plumes nodding on the top of ceremonial helmets. The accused followed, dressed in neutral gray, hands tied behind his back. Two more of the King's Guard brought up the rear. The guard's expressions were unreadable. The due's could only be called defiant. All five marched to the center of the room and then the guards peeled off to stand two on each side of the throne, leaving Pjerin alone between the flanking rows of the Council. The muttering crowd at his back, he faced the Bardic Captain and beyond her, the king.
Annice stared down at him, tried to grab a single emotion out of the multitude she was feeling, and found herself clutching disbelief. No longer filthy and in pain, this man looked more like the Pjerin she remembered. Purple and yellow bruising still colored his face, but he stood straight, shoulders squared, ready to meet the enemy head to head. The Pjerin she remembered could not have done what he admitted doing. Her stomach twisted and a quick kick/punch made her catch her breath. Right. And my judgment has been flawless lately… But the disbelief lingered.
Fighting to keep his breathing even, Pjerin glared at a point just over King Theron's shoulder. He supposed that the others who'd stood so exposed had been able to find strength in the inevitability of the Judgment. If they were here, they were guilty—Commanded, Witnessed, condemned. It only remained for the king to pass sentence. It only remained to die. He had no such support. He'd done nothing worthy of death and what was more, he had no idea of what his mouth would say when they put the question to him a second time. Perhaps, this time, he'd be able to speak the truth.
Pjerin dropped his gaze to the bard who faced him and recognized her from his only previous trip to Elba-san. She'd stood in much the same position when the newly crowned King Theron had taken his oaths of allegiance, witnessing his words and no doubt marking him then for the treachery that came to fruition now. The Bardic Captain would see to it that whatever ways Annice had twisted his mind, he would not be able to untwist them here. He allowed his mouth to curl into a sardonic smile and was pleased to see the captain's brows draw in. How many words of denouncement could I speak before she silences me? And would His Majesty listen to any of them?