Read Online Sing the Four Quarters by Tanya Huff - Free Book Online Page A

answer.
    "Yes."
    "Really? Truly?"
    Pjerin hid a smile at the tone. Last year, Gerek's candle had very nearly set the keep on fire when he'd fallen asleep and it had dropped to the floor but not gone out. Fortunately, the burning tapestry had smelled so bad that he and Olina had been able to put it out with only a handbreadth of damage done. This year, they'd be more alert. "Really. Truly."
    With a satisfied sigh, the boy leaned his head against Pjerin's chest. "Nees sang me a song about the sun coming back,"
    he said.
    "Is Nees another goat?"
    "No! Nees the bard!"
    "Nees?" Pjerin frowned. He couldn't remember a bard named Nees and, with Ohrid right on the border, they didn't get many walking out so far.
    "You know, Papa, the one who was here when it rained so much and she sang me stories and she kept making Aunty Olina mad by smiling at her."
    Then he remembered. Olina had been in a mood; at her most challenging and ready to remove the evening from the Circle altogether. The bard had said quietly, I wouldn't. You'll lose . To his surprise, Olina had studied the younger woman for a long moment, nodded, and blunted the edge of her tongue. He'd been the only one close enough to hear the exchange but—if even Gerek had picked up on it-—the results had obviously been noticed by the rest of the keep.
    That wasn't likely to make Olina happy if she found out. "You mean, Annice, Ger."
    "Yeah. Nees."
    Frankly, the bard hadn't looked like the sort who could give Olina a run for her money. Although she'd worn the same annoying air of cocky independence that marked every bard he'd ever seen, the expression in her eyes had been contemplative rather than combative. Hazel eyes, the kind that turned almost green when… He shook himself free of the memory. It had ended up an interesting night all around. "So the bard sang you new stories, did she?"
    "Uh-huh."
    "Well, maybe you should tell me a story tonight."
    "No." Gerek snuggled into Pjerin's side, fingers playing with a damp spot caused by a spout of bathwater accidentally rising to meet a shirt. " You tell me about the dragon who wanted to be a boy."
    "But you've heard that one a thousand times, Ger."
    "So?"
    Pjerin smiled, inhaled the clean scent of his child, and began. "Once upon a time, there was a dragon who wanted to be a boy…"

    The knock on the heavy oak door of the tiny room he used for a study was so faint, Pjerin thought at first he'd imagined it. When it sounded again, he threw his hair back over his shoulder and turned to face it, calling, "Come." He hated ciphering and anything would be a relief from the columns of figures Bohdan had insisted he go over tonight.
    Almost anything , he amended a moment later. "What do you want?"
    Albek stepped apologetically into the room, a pottery carafe in one hand, two heavy mugs in the other. "I saw you were still up. I thought we might…"
    "Have a drink together? Don't be an ass." He dragged the chair around to face the other man and scowled. "What my aunt does is her own business, but I don't drink with Cemandians. Get out!"
    "I was hoping, that is, I hoped that until Olina went to sleep…"
    Pjerin's scowl deepened. "I thought you got along with Olina?"
    "I do." Albek's smile had picked up a slight twist of desperation. "But I can't… get along with her… again. Not so soon."
    "You're limping."
    "Nothing permanent. I assure you I can still leave in the morning."
    "Good." Pjerin exhaled noisily and shook his head. It wasn't pity, exactly. It was just that Albek wore an expression he'd seen in his mirror more than once before he'd finally found the strength to tell her no and make it stick. "She'll go exactly as far as you let her, you know."
    "I know." The Cemandian trader's tone was distinctly tart.
    In spite of himself, Pjerin almost smiled. "She won't look for you in here."
    Albek shifted his weight and winced slightly. "My thought as well."
    "What's in the jug?"
    "Mulled wine. Your cook has a very fine touch with it."
    "I