He would draw his strength from the knowledge that he had done nothing worthy of death and they could take the rest of it and shove it right out of the Circle. Swallowing, he lifted his chin and clasped his fingers together hard lest they tremble and the crowd behind him think him afraid.
Annice saw the smile and wondered. Then she saw the swallow and wished she hadn't come. All the rest was bravado. He knew he was going to die.
Her face expressionless once again, the Bardic Captain took a deep breath and began to speak, her voice filling the huge room so exactly that there was no longer room for the muttering of the crowd.
"The oaths of allegiance that bind His Majesty and the lords who swear them are so sacred that the breach of them is the only offense irredeemable by law. From the acceptance of the sanctity of this plighted faith comes the belief of sanctity in all plighted faith. That whomsoever gives their word, be they ever so base, it shall hold.
"Pjerin a'Stasiek, Due of Ohrid, step forward."
The step was ceremonial. It meant nothing as he already stood apart. He had no choice but to take it anyway.
"Pjerin a'Stasiek, Due of Ohrid, you will speak only the truth."
Because there was nothing in the Command to stop him, he laughed.
Behind him, he heard the crowd growl; a single sound torn from a hundred throats. He could hear their impatience in it. Knew that if given a chance, they'd pronounce his sentence themselves, and he laughed again.
"Stop it."
Eyes still held by the Bardic Captain, he dipped head and shoulders as far as he was able in a mocking bow.
Cocky bugger. Long years of practice kept the thought from showing on Theron's face. Just the type to think he could get away with something like this and then refuse to believe it when it turned out he couldn't. What a waste.
What a stupid, pitiful waste. He shifted on the throne, that small movement silencing the crowds and drawing their attention as he knew it would. In a voice as neutral as he could make it, he asked, "Pjerin a'Stasiek, Due of Ohrid, are you forsworn?"
NO!
"Yes."
And it began again. But this tune, rage not terror fueled Pjerin's battle against the distance that separated the man he was from the man who spoke. Chest heaving, he strained against invisible bonds while words he couldn't control continued spilling from his mouth.
Feeling sick, Annice watched his struggle, hearing neither questions nor answers, barely conscious of Stasya's hand gripping hers. Why are you so angry? Because you were discovered? Because you're about to die? Either answer could easily be believed. Neither answer felt right. Why, Pjerin, why?
As though echoing her thoughts, Theron leaned slightly forward. "Why did you do it?"
For a heartbeat, the Great Assembly Hall fell perfectly quiet as everyone—Council, crowd, king—waited for the answer. This question was the king's alone and had not been asked before. Even Pjerin stilled, wondering what his reply would be.
"Power, wealth, attention; what have my oaths got me from Shkoder? Empty promises. Cemandia offered me a chance to be a part of something more than sheepshit and a drafty stone keep perched on a mountaintop." Listening to the reasons he gave for the treachery he hadn't committed, Pjerin couldn't help but agree with them, at least in part. The promises made three generations ago when the mountain principalities became a part of Shkoder had not been kept. Scowling, he tossed his head back as far as he was able and discovered that with the inner and outer man in agreement, the distance between them had been bridged for that instant. "Shkoder promised roads, Majesty; roads, healers, an end to isolation. Only your tax collectors have come." His voice grew harsher. "And your bards." But when he tried to continue, to accuse the bards of twisting his mind to speak the truth they desired, he found he'd lost control again.
Annice flinched back from the raw hatred. He hadn't felt that way. He'd been glad to see her, glad of the news she'd carried. He'd enjoyed her music. He'd left her alone with the son he'd clearly adored. The passion they'd shared had been, if nothing else, real passion. I shouldn't have come. Why did I come?
"Nees?"
She shook her head at Stasya's worried whisper. She shouldn't have come, but since she was here, she'd stay until the end.
A muscle jumped in Theron's jaw and his fingers were white on the arms of the throne. Roads took time to build. There weren't so many healers he could order a dozen here, a dozen there. How dare this arrogant young pup suggest his treason was Shkoder's fault. Slowly, he stood.
"Pjerin a'Stasiek, Due of Ohrid, you stand accused of high treason against the crown and the people of Shkoder, your oaths forsworn. You have been condemned by your own mouth. Have you anything more to say?"
Pjerin knew what was expected. I wouldn't beg for my life if I was guilty, I'll be unenclosed if I beg when I'm not. He shook his head.
"Then I, Theron, King of Shkoder, High Captain of the Broken Islands, Lord over the Mountain Principalities of Sibiu, Ohrid, Ajud, Bicaz, and Somes, do on this day declare you guilty of high treason. As of this moment, your titles, lands, and responsibilities pass unencumbered to your son, Gerek a'Pjerin, now Due of Ohrid. Tomorrow, noon, your life is forfeit. Witness."
The Bardic Captain, who had been standing, eyes locked on the eyes of the accused, the eyes of the condemned, took a step back. "Witnessed," she said.
Pjerin, free of all constraints save the bindings around his wrists, turned his head the fraction necessary to meet the King's eyes for the first time since the questioning began, a wild hope rising unbidden. Surely, he'll see. Surely, he'll know. But there would be no sudden realization by the king, no power inherent in his position to see past the surface to the heart. In spite of oaths and loyalties and a golden crown, Pjerin saw the king was just a man.
"Done."
Standing in the shadowed recess of an open window, Annice watched the sun as it rose into position directly overhead. Noon.
The block had been in place before dawn. She knew that because she'd been waiting at this window since sunrise. No one knew she was here. She'd slipped away from Stasya and into the palace using the secret ways she'd discovered on childhood explorations. It hadn't been hard to find an empty room overlooking the small courtyard. It seemed that all the rooms overlooking the small courtyard were empty.
Stasya's probably having fifty fits. She'd apologize later. It was important she be here even if she'd rather be anywhere else.
She checked the sun again. It had to happen soon. She didn't think she could bear to wait much longer. She didn't want to think of how Pjerin had spent his morning. His last morning.
A tall, black shape separated itself from the shadows on the far side of the courtyard. Loose tunic, breeches, and the encompassing hood made it impossible to determine if it was man or woman but the broad-bladed ax it held left no question of its purpose. It walked slowly toward the block and a body length away, paused.
A body length away. Someone has a sick sense of humor. She found it suddenly difficult to breathe and had to turn away for a moment and face the empty room instead. When she looked back out the window, the courtyard had filled with guards and Pjerin had nearly reached the block.