Academ's Fury
Chapter 56~58
Chapter 56
Amara stood beside Bernard as the legionares who had survived the battle fell into neat ranks facing the mound they'd raised over the battlefield.
The mercenaries and their commander had departed as soon as their healers had done their work. Before the day was out, two hundred Knights had arrived at the direct command of the First Lord, and a relief force on a swift march from Riva's Second Legion arrived the next morning, to ensure the security of Garrison and the valley. They had brought with them word of a minor miracle. Healer Harger had kept his head in the face of the vord's surprise attack on the wounded at Aricholt, and though wounded had managed to lead the children who had survived the first attack from the doomed steadholt. It was a small ray of light in the gloom of death and loss, but Amara was grateful for it.
Bernard had never given any such order, but those men who had survived did not mention the presence of the Windwolves or their outlaw commander. They owed their lives to the mercenaries, and they knew it.
There were far more dead to bury than living capable of digging graves, and so they had decided to use the cave as a resting place for the fallen. Legionares and taken holders alike were carried into the cave and composed with as much dignity as possible, which generally meant little. Those fallen on the battlefield seldom met death in positions like those of gentle sleep, but whatever could be done for them was done.
Once the bodies had been taken into the cave, the survivors of the battle gathered to say their farewells to fallen acquaintances, sword-brethren, and friends. After a silent vigil of an hour's passing, Bernard walked to the front of the formation and addressed the men.
"We are here," he said, "to lay to rest those who have fallen in defense of this valley and this Realm. Not only those legionares who fought beside us, but also those holders and soldiers alike who fell to our enemy and whose bodies were used as weapons against us." He was silent for a long moment. "They all of them deserved better than this. But they gave their lives to stop this threat from spreading and growing into a plague that could have ravaged all the Realm, and it is only by the whims of chance that we stand over their graves rather than them standing over ours."
Another long silence fell.
"Thank you," Bernard said quietly. "All of you. You fought with courage and honor, even when wounded, and when the fight seemed hopeless. You are the heart and soul of Aleran legionares, and I am proud, honored, and privileged to have commanded you." He turned to the empty mouth of the cave. "To you," he said, "I can offer only my apologies, that I could not protect you from this fate, and my promise that your deaths will make me more vigilant and dedicated in the future. And I ask that whatever power governs the world after this one to look upon our fallen with compassion, mercy, and gentleness that was not given them by their slayers."
Then Bernard, Sir Frederic, and half a dozen Knights Terra who had arrived with the relief force knelt upon the ground, calling to their furies. Some kind of rippling wave ran through the earth, toward the cave, and with a low rumble, the shape of the hillside the cave was in began to change. It was a slow, even gentle motion, but the sheer scale of it made the ground tremble under Amara's feet. The mouth of the cave sank and began to close, the motion slow, ponderous, inevitable, until the opening in the rock was gone, and only the hillside remained.
Silence settled over the valley, and the earthcrafters rose to their feet together. Bernard turned to face the fifty-odd surviving veterans of Giraldi's century. "Legionares, fall out. Pack up your gear and make ready to march back to Garrison."
Giraldi gave a few subdued orders, and the weary men began the walk back to Aricholt. Bernard stood watching them go. Amara remained beside him until they were out of sight.
Walker came pacing slowly out of the sheltering trees, Doroga padding along beside him, his cudgel over one shoulder. They walked over to Bernard and Amara, and Doroga nodded to them. "You fight well, Calderon. The men who serve you are no cowards."
Bernard smiled a bit, and said, "Thank you for your help, Doroga. Again." Then he faced Walker, and said, "And thank you as well, Walker."
Doroga's broad, ugly face spread into an honest grin. "Maybe your people can learn something," he said. Walker let out a rumbling snort. Doroga laughed.
"What did he say?" Bernard asked.
"Not say, so much as... mmph. It is something like, spoiled fruits all taste the same. He means your people and mine shared a common enemy. He allows that you are passably good substitutes for the Sabot-ha, my clan, if there is fighting to be done."
"He's the reason we survived that rush in the cave," Bernard said. "I won't forget it."
The big Marat rolled his massive shoulders in a shrug, smiling. "Send him some apples. Maybe not spoiled."
"My word on it." He offered Doroga his hand. Doroga traded grips with him without hesitation.
"And you, Windrider," he said, turning to Amara. "You will not make a good Aleran wife, I think."
She smiled at him. "No?"
He shook his head, gravely. "I will wager that you will not clean much. Or cook much. Or make blankets and things. I suspect you will find yourself in trouble, all the time."
"It's possible," she agreed, smiling.
"Good in bed, though, from the sound of it."
Amara's face heated until she thought steam must surely rise from it. "Doroga!"
"Woman of trouble," Doroga said. "But good to hold. My mate was one such. We were happy." He struck his fist lightly to his heart, Aleran style, and bowed his head to them. "May you be. And may your fallen people be at peace."
"Thank you," Amara stammered.
Bernard inclined his head as well. Without further words, Doroga and Walker departed, walking slowly and steadily without looking back.
Amara watched him, standing close beside Bernard. She didn't remember when she'd twined her fingers with his, but it felt natural and right. Bernard sighed. She could feel the pain in him, even without looking at him, without speaking to him.
"You did all that you could," she said quietly.
"I know," he answered.
"You should not blame yourself for their deaths."
"I know that, too," he said.
"Any decent commander would feel what you do now," Amara said. "They'd be just as wrong as you are to feel it. But all the best ones do."
"I lost the folk of an entire steadholt under my protection," he said quietly, "and almost three quarters of my legionares. I'm hardly one of the best."
"Give it time," she said quietly. "It will hurt less."
His fingers squeezed back, very gently, and he made no other answer. He stood looking at the hillside where the cave had been for a time, then turned and walked away. Amara kept pace with him. They were halfway back to Aricholt before she said, "We need to talk."
He exhaled through his nose and nodded. "Go on."
"Bernard," she said. She sought for the right words. None that she found seemed equal to the task of conveying what she felt. "I love you," she said finally.
"And I, you," he rumbled.
"But... my oath to the Crown, and yours... they both have prior claim on us. Our vows..."
"You wish to pretend that they did not happen?" he asked quietly.
"No," she said at once. "No, not that. But... have we not foresworn ourselves?"
"Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps not. If you could bear children-"
"I can't," she said, and she hadn't meant it to fly out from her mouth so harshly, so bitterly.
"How do you know?" Bernard asked quietly.
Her face flushed. "Because... you and I have... bloody crows, Bernard. If I could have I'm sure I would have by now, with you."
"Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps not. We see each other perhaps one night or two in every moon. At the most. It isn't the best way to assure children."
"But I was blighted," she said quietly. "Even if you can hardly see the scars."
"Yes," Bernard said. "But there are women who have contracted the blight and yet borne children. Not many, perhaps, but it has happened."
She let out an exasperated breath. "But I am not one of them."
"How do you know?" Bernard asked. "How do you know for certain?"
She looked at him for a moment and shook her head. "What are you driving at?"
"That it is at least possible that you might yet be able to bear children. And that until we know that it is not so, there is no reason for us not to be together."
She looked at him uncertainly. "You know what the laws say. You have an obligation to the Realm, Bernard, to produce heirs of your blood and to pass on the strength of your furycraft."
"And I intend to fulfill that obligation," he said. "With you."
They walked in silence for a while, before she said, "Do you really think it might be possible?"
He nodded. "I think it is possible. I want it to happen. The only way for it to happen is to make the effort and see."
Amara was quiet for a time, then said, "Very well." She swallowed. "But... I do not want Gaius to know of it. Not unless-" She cut herself off and began the sentence again. "Not until we bring forth a child. Before that, he could command us to part. But if there is a child, he will have no legal or ethical grounds to object."
Bernard studied her for several steps. Then he stopped, lifted her chin with one broad hand, and kissed her, very slowly and very gently, on the mouth.
"Agreed," he murmured, after that. "For now. But the day may come when we can no longer hide our marriage vows from others. On that day, I want to know that you will stand beside me. That if it comes to that, we will defy the will of the First Lord and the law together."
"Together," she said, the word a promise, and kissed him again.
He half smiled. "What's the worst that could happen? To be dismissed from service. To have our Citizenships revoked. At which point, well, we'd not have to worry about the legal obligations of the Citizenry, would we."
"We'd be ruined, but together," Amara said, a dry smile on her lips. "Is that it?"
"So long as I had you, I wouldn't be ruined," he said.
Amara wrapped her arms around her husband's neck and held on very tightly. She felt his arms around her, strong and caring.
Perhaps Bernard was correct. Perhaps everything would be all right.
Chapter 57
Fidelias finished brushing out the leather of his boots and sat them beside the bed. His pack, already filled and buckled shut, sat beside them. He looked around the room for a moment, musing. The servant's quarters he occupied in the basement of the Aquitaine manor were, he realized, almost precisely the same dimensions as those he had formerly occupied in the Citadel. The bed was softer, perhaps, the sheets and blankets finer, the lamps of slightly better quality. But otherwise, almost the same.
He shook his head and stretched out on the bed, for the moment too tired to take the effort to get undressed and under the blankets. He stared up at the ceiling instead, listening to the dim sounds of movement and conversation in adjacent rooms and in the halls above.
The door opened without a knock, and Fidelias did not need to look to see who was there.
Lady Aquitaine was quiet for a moment, before she said, "Already packed, I see."
"Yes," he said. "I'll leave before first light."
"Not staying for the presentation ceremony?"
"You don't need me for that," Fidelias said. "I saw the gown you bought the Steadholder. I'm sure it will make the impression you wanted. I have other business to occupy my attention."
"Oh?" she asked. "I have not even given you your next assignment."
"You'll be sending me to Kalare," Fidelias said. "To get into touch with my contacts there. You'll want to know what links Kalare has to the southern High Lords and get an idea of how to disrupt or sever them."
She let out a low laugh. "Should I feel this smug about going to the effort to recruit you, my spy?"
"Don't bother," he said. "I chose you and your husband. It wasn't the other way around."
"How cynical," she murmured. "A gentleman would have danced around the point."
"You didn't hire me to dance," Fidelias said quietly.
"No. I didn't." She was quiet for a moment, before she said, "You'll take water from the font here?"
"Yes. As long as I don't get too thirsty. Southern summers are hot."
"Have a care, Fidelias," Lady Aquitaine said. "You are a valuable asset. But my tolerance for your occasional insubordination will only last so long."
"If I were you, Your Grace," Fidelias said, "I would give a thought to conserving your intelligence resources."
"Meaning you?" she asked.
"Meaning me."
"And why is that?" There was a dangerous edge to her voice.
Fidelias lowered his eyes from the ceiling for the first time. She stood in his doorway, tall and elegant and lovely, covered in a voluminous grey cape, light slippers on her feet. Her dark hair was pinned up with a number of ivory combs. He regarded her beauty for a moment, and felt a stir of both desire and anger. No man could see a woman of such beauty and feel nothing, of course. But his anger was a mystery to him. He kept it carefully contained, hidden from her.
Instead of answering her, he nodded to the dresser beside the door.
She frowned and looked. She tilted her head for a moment and reached out to take a worn traveling cloak from the top of the dresser. "It is a cloak," she said, slightly exaggerated patience in her tone. "And what possible threat does this represent?"
"It isn't a cloak," Fidelias said quietly. "It's a seacloak. They're made in Kalare, Forcia, and Parcia. The hides are taken from a breed of large lizard that feeds on bulbs and roots in the swamps and rivers. Get them a little wet and they swell, become waterproof. Anyone traveling there needs one of these cloaks, either for wear on board ships or for protection during the rainy season. Without a seacloak, it's very easy to be taken sick."
Lady Aquitaine nodded patiently. "I still do not perceive how it might be a danger to us, dear spy."
"This cloak is my cloak," Fidelias said.
She regarded him, expression remote.
"I left it in my quarters in the Citadel, the day I left for the south with Amara, for her graduation exercise. The day I abandoned Gaius." He shook his head. "I found it here this evening."
A line appeared between her brows. "But... that would mean..."
"It would mean that Gaius himself was here, in your own manor, and you never had an inkling of it. It means that he knows where I am. It means he knows whom I serve. It means that he is perfectly aware that you are sending me to the south to stir up trouble for Kalare-and that I have his blessing to do so." He crossed his arms behind his head and went back to staring at the ceiling. "Beware, my lady. The lion you hunt may be old-but he is neither dotard nor weak. Miss a step, and the huntress may become the prey."
Lady Aquitaine stared at him in silence for a moment, then left without a word, shutting the door behind her. Her steps as she walked away were a very little bit quicker than usual. She was frightened.
For some reason, that pleased Fidelias, just as it had pleased him to shout a warning to Aleran guardsmen when the vord had been stealing up upon them. There were thoughts tied up in it, dangerous thoughts, dangerous feelings he did not wish to examine too closely lest they cripple him. So he accepted the feelings for what was upon their surface alone.
It had pleased him.
As feelings went, it was not an intense one-but it was far, far better than nothing.
That night, he fell asleep easily for the first time in nearly three years.
Chapter 58
Isana folded her hands in her lap and tried not to let them shake too much. She was alone in the carriage, but it would not do to allow herself to be seen in such a state when she arrived at the palace.
Even if, at least in spirit, she was now a traitor to the Crown.
She closed her eyes and breathed slowly in and out. It was only a dinner, and doubtless the First Lord would not linger after the meal. And she would get to see Tavi again, whole and well. She had thought she might have strained her chest to sickness, so hard had she wept when she came to the infirmary and found him there, wounded, exhausted, unconscious, but whole. She had brushed away the Citadel's healers in irritation and healed his wounds herself, the hard way, through wet cloths and slow, grueling effort.
She had stayed beside Tavi until she began to drift off to sleep herself, then Gaius had arrived. The First Lord moved very slowly and very carefully, like a weary old man-though he did not look older than a man in his late prime, but for his hair, which had gone entirely grey and white since the last time she had seen him. He had offered her a room, but she had declined, telling him of Lady Aquitaine's offer of hospitality.
He had stared at her then, his eyes steady, piercing, and she knew that he had understood far more than the simple statements she had made. He made no objection to her leaving-and in fact, had gone out of his way to invite her to the palace for a meal with himself and her nephew.
He'd known she would come, of course, if it was to see Tavi. Lady Aquitaine was not to be trusted, but there was some truth in her accusation that Gaius was holding Tavi as a prisoner to her good behavior. In this instance, at least, he was using the boy to make sure she would come to the palace.
But at least she had gotten what she wanted. Word had come back from Aquitaine's mercenaries that her brother was whole, though the people of an entire steadholt had been slain along with many of her brother's soldiers. They had destroyed the vord nest.
The coach drew to a halt, and the footman folded down the stepladder and opened the door. Isana closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing herself into at least a semblance of calm. Then she descended from the coach, under the watchful eyes of the hard-faced armsmen of Aquitaine, and was escorted by a centurion of the Royal Guard-very young, for his rank, she thought-into the palace and to what was, by the standards of the highborn of Alera, a cozy, intimate dining room.
It was larger than the great hall back at Isanaholt, and may have been almost the size of the steadholt's stone barn. An enormous table had been laid out, with places evenly spaced every bowshot or so along it, but someone had evidently decided that the arrangement wouldn't do. The chairs had all been dragged down to an uneven clump at one end of the table, the plate settings similarly rearranged, and several voices were raised in laughter.
Isana paused for a moment at the door, studying the scene. The large young man in the midst of a tale had to be Antillar Maximus, about whom Tavi had written much in his letters home. He had the kind of rugged good looks that made him look something of the rogue now, but which would, in time, weather into something stronger, more solemn, if no less appealing, and he was telling a story of some kind with the panache of a practiced raconteur. Beside him sat a slight young man with intelligent eyes and a wide smile, though there was something of a mouselike quality to the way he sat, and listened, as if he expected to be overlooked and liked it that way. Ehren, by Tavi's letters. A girl, plain but pleasant-looking, sat across from Max and Ehren, beside Tavi, her cheeks pink with laughter.
On Tavi's other side sat an exotic beauty, and it took Isana a moment to recognize her as Kitai, the daughter of the Marat chieftain. She was dressed in a fine silken shirt and closely fitting pants, and her pale feet were bare. Her long, white hair had been plaited into a braid that fell straight down her spine, and silver gleamed on her throat and her wrists. There was mischief in her eyes-eyes precisely the shade of Tavi's, Isana noted.
And Tavi sat listening to Max. He had grown, she saw at once, and in more than just height. There was a quality to his quiet that had nothing to do with insecurity. He sat listening to Max with a silent smile that rested partly upon his mouth but mostly in his eyes, and he held himself with an easy confidence she had not seen before. He interjected some comment when Max paused to take a breath, and the table exploded in laughter again.
Isana felt a sudden presence beside her, and Gaius Sextus murmured, "It's a good sound. Laughter like that, from the young. It's been far too long since it has been heard in these halls."
Isana felt her back stiffen as she turned to face the First Lord. "Your Majesty," she said, making the little curtsey Serai had taught her. On the day she died, Isana thought.
"Steadholder," he said. He looked down her and back up and said, in a neutral, pleasant tone, "That's a lovely gown."
The dress Lady Aquitaine had provided her was of the same exotic and expensive silk she'd shown off at the garden party, though in a much more modest cut. The deep scarlet of the silk darkened by degrees to black at the ends of the sleeves and the hem of the skirt. Scarlet and sable, the colors of Aquitaine.
Gaius's own tunic was of red and blue, of course-the colors of the royal house of the First Lord.
"Thank you," she replied, keeping her voice steady. "It was provided me by my host. It would have been impolite not to wear it."
"I can see how that would be," Gaius said. There was both reserve and compassion in his tone. Again, she was struck with the impression that he understood much more than she said-and that she, in turn, understood much more than the overt meaning of his words. "You may be interested to know that I had Maximus pardoned and cleared of the charges against him. I offered Kalare an in-depth investigation of the happenings that night, and he shied away from it quite swiftly. So, in the absence of a willing accuser, I had the charges dismissed."
"Does this matter to me?" Isana asked.
"Perhaps not to you," Gaius said. "Perhaps someone you know would find it interesting."
By which he meant the Aquitaines, of course. "Shall we join them?" she asked.
Gaius looked up at the group of young people, still laughing. He watched them, his face unreadable, and though her own skill at watercrafting was insufficient to sense truly what he felt, Isana was struck with the sudden impression that his life, as the First Lord, had to have been, more than anything else, a horribly lonely one. "Let's wait a moment more," he said. "Their laughter would never survive our arrival."
She regarded him for a moment, then nodded. The unspoken tension between them did not vanish, but it dwindled for a time.
When they finally did enter the hall, she spent a very long time holding Tavi to her. He had grown unbelievably, and when before she had been a half hand taller than he, he was now at least half a foot taller than she was. His shoulders had widened by a similarly preposterous measure, and his voice was no longer the warbling tenor he'd had when he left home, but a steady baritone.
But for all of that, Amara had been right. He was still Tavi. She could feel it in his warmth and smile, in the love for her as he hugged her in turn. The sparkle in his eyes, his sense of humor, his smile-though more serious, more thoughtful, it was all still his own. His time at the Academy had not taken anything from him. It had, perhaps, made him even more of what he had been: a young man with a swift mind, occasionally questionable judgment, and a good heart.
The meal was excellent, and the conversation pleasant until the First Lord asked Tavi to share his story of the events of the past few days. Isana suddenly understood why the gathering had been as small as it was. Not even servants were allowed in the hall, as Tavi spoke.
She could hardly believe what she heard, and yet it was all true. She could feel that much from him. Isana sat stunned that Tavi should have held so very, very much power in his hands. He had been only a young student, but the fate of the Realm itself had hung upon the choices he had made. Not solely upon him, to be sure, but by the great furies, he had once more acted as a hero.
She sat bemused by the tale, hardly surprised that Tavi had been training as a Cursor. It was very much in line with what she had supposed would happen when he came to the capital. She listened to Tavi, but spent much of the time judging the expressions and emotions of the others at the table. She suspected, as well, that Tavi was leaving things out, here and there, though she was not sure why he would conceal portions of Max's masquerade as the First Lord or the death of the Maestro, Killian.
The hour was very late when the First Lord suggested that the evening had gone on long enough. Isana loitered until everyone had departed but Tavi and the First Lord.
"I had hoped," she said quietly to Gaius, "to speak to Tavi alone for a while."
Gaius arched an eyebrow and regarded her gown for a time. Isana had to have Rill's help to keep her face from flushing, but met Gaius's gaze without moving.
"Steadholder," he said gently, "this is my house. I would hear what you have to say to one of the Cursors."
Isana pressed her lips together, but inclined her head. She had no wish to speak of this in front of Gaius-but that was part of the price she would now have to pay to have secured the aid of the Aquitaines. So be it.
"Tavi," she said quietly, "I have concerns about your friend. Gaelle, I believe. I can't pinpoint it, but there is something... not right, about her."
Tavi glanced at Gaius, to Isana's annoyance. The First Lord nodded to him. "I know, Aunt Isana," he said, his voice quiet and very serious. "She isn't Gaelle. Or at least she isn't the real Gaelle."
Isana frowned. "How do you know?"
"Because the men who took me and Kitai in the tunnels were Kalare's," he said, "and they were waiting for us. Maestro Killian told me, as he died, that Kalare's chief assassin was still close, and that he had paid a terrible price to establish the assassin within the Citadel. He was playing the traitor to Kalare, hoping to learn more about the enemy through his contact with the chief assassin-a woman named Rook. Whoever Rook was, it had to be a woman, someone often in contact with the Maestro to avoid arousing suspicion, and someone who had seen me enter the tunnels that night, and who knew where I would have to start marking the walls to find my way. In short, it almost had to have been one of the trainees."
"That was the price Killian mentioned," Gaius murmured. "The actual girl selected for the training was replaced by Rook, by means of watercrafting herself into a double. She was probably killed a few days after her selection as a trainee."
Isana shook her head. "That's... Your Majesty, you know as well as I that anyone with that much watercraft would have a strong contact with the emotions of those around them."
"It would be an enormous advantage in convincing those around you that you are merely a harmless girl," Gaius murmured.
"Yes. And if one killed often enough, it would almost certainly drive one mad."
"More than likely," Gaius said, nodding.
"You allowed that poor girl to be killed," Isana said, "so that you could gain some kind of advantage?"
"Killian never spoke to me of it," Gaius said. "He did it on his own."
Isana shook her head, disgusted. "All the same. It's monstrous."
"Yes," Gaius said, without a trace of shame. "It is. But Killian felt it necessary."
Isana shook her head. "This killer. Rook. When will you arrest her?"
"We won't," Tavi said quietly. "Not at once, in any case. Right now, Rook does not know we are aware of her identity. We can use that against her, and against Kalare."
"She's an assassin," Isana said quietly. "Quite likely a madwoman. And you would have her roaming loose?"
"If the First Lord removes her," Tavi said, "has her arrested or exiled, Kalare will only recruit someone else and try it again-and this time we might not be lucky enough to discover them. There is less danger in leaving her than not. At least for the moment."
"Monstrous," Isana said. She felt tears in her eyes and did not bother to hide them.
Tavi saw her expression and flushed, looking down. Then he looked up, and said, "I hope you are not too much disappointed in me, Aunt Isana."
She smiled slightly. "I hope you are not too much disappointed in me, Tavi."
"Never," he said quietly. "I understand why you..." He waved a vague hand. "You did what was necessary to protect the people you loved."
"Yes," Isana said quietly. "I suppose I should not be the first to cast stones." She stepped up close to him, cupped his face in her hands, kissed his forehead, and said, "Promise me that you will be careful."
"I promise," he said quietly.
She held him again, and he hugged her back. Gaius made an unobtrusive exit, while Tavi escorted her down to the entrance, where the Aquitaines' coach was waiting once more. She walked with her hand on Tavi's politely extended arm, and he provided a supporting hand when she stepped up to the carriage.
"Tavi," she said, before the door closed.
"Yes, Aunt Isana?"
"I love you very much."
He smiled. "I love you, too."
She nodded. "And I am proud of you. Never think that I am not. I worry for you. That's all. But you're growing up so tall."
He grinned. "Cost the First Lord a fortune keeping me in pants," he said.
Isana laughed, and he leaned up to kiss her cheek again. She ruffled his hair and said, "Write often. Regardless of where we find ourselves, it will never change what you mean to me."
"I feel that, too," he assured her. He stepped back and nodded with a quite natural authority to the coachmen, who began closing it up. "Write me as often as you can. Be safe."
She nodded and smiled at him, then the coachmen had closed things up, and the carriage was rolling away from the palace. She leaned slowly back in her seat, her eyes closed. She felt very, very alone in the Aquitaines' carriage.
She was alone there.
"Be safe," she whispered, her eyes closing, holding the image of his smile in her mind. Her hand drifted to the shape of the ring, still on its chain around her neck, still hidden. "Oh, be safe, my son."
Amara stood beside Bernard as the legionares who had survived the battle fell into neat ranks facing the mound they'd raised over the battlefield.
The mercenaries and their commander had departed as soon as their healers had done their work. Before the day was out, two hundred Knights had arrived at the direct command of the First Lord, and a relief force on a swift march from Riva's Second Legion arrived the next morning, to ensure the security of Garrison and the valley. They had brought with them word of a minor miracle. Healer Harger had kept his head in the face of the vord's surprise attack on the wounded at Aricholt, and though wounded had managed to lead the children who had survived the first attack from the doomed steadholt. It was a small ray of light in the gloom of death and loss, but Amara was grateful for it.
Bernard had never given any such order, but those men who had survived did not mention the presence of the Windwolves or their outlaw commander. They owed their lives to the mercenaries, and they knew it.
There were far more dead to bury than living capable of digging graves, and so they had decided to use the cave as a resting place for the fallen. Legionares and taken holders alike were carried into the cave and composed with as much dignity as possible, which generally meant little. Those fallen on the battlefield seldom met death in positions like those of gentle sleep, but whatever could be done for them was done.
Once the bodies had been taken into the cave, the survivors of the battle gathered to say their farewells to fallen acquaintances, sword-brethren, and friends. After a silent vigil of an hour's passing, Bernard walked to the front of the formation and addressed the men.
"We are here," he said, "to lay to rest those who have fallen in defense of this valley and this Realm. Not only those legionares who fought beside us, but also those holders and soldiers alike who fell to our enemy and whose bodies were used as weapons against us." He was silent for a long moment. "They all of them deserved better than this. But they gave their lives to stop this threat from spreading and growing into a plague that could have ravaged all the Realm, and it is only by the whims of chance that we stand over their graves rather than them standing over ours."
Another long silence fell.
"Thank you," Bernard said quietly. "All of you. You fought with courage and honor, even when wounded, and when the fight seemed hopeless. You are the heart and soul of Aleran legionares, and I am proud, honored, and privileged to have commanded you." He turned to the empty mouth of the cave. "To you," he said, "I can offer only my apologies, that I could not protect you from this fate, and my promise that your deaths will make me more vigilant and dedicated in the future. And I ask that whatever power governs the world after this one to look upon our fallen with compassion, mercy, and gentleness that was not given them by their slayers."
Then Bernard, Sir Frederic, and half a dozen Knights Terra who had arrived with the relief force knelt upon the ground, calling to their furies. Some kind of rippling wave ran through the earth, toward the cave, and with a low rumble, the shape of the hillside the cave was in began to change. It was a slow, even gentle motion, but the sheer scale of it made the ground tremble under Amara's feet. The mouth of the cave sank and began to close, the motion slow, ponderous, inevitable, until the opening in the rock was gone, and only the hillside remained.
Silence settled over the valley, and the earthcrafters rose to their feet together. Bernard turned to face the fifty-odd surviving veterans of Giraldi's century. "Legionares, fall out. Pack up your gear and make ready to march back to Garrison."
Giraldi gave a few subdued orders, and the weary men began the walk back to Aricholt. Bernard stood watching them go. Amara remained beside him until they were out of sight.
Walker came pacing slowly out of the sheltering trees, Doroga padding along beside him, his cudgel over one shoulder. They walked over to Bernard and Amara, and Doroga nodded to them. "You fight well, Calderon. The men who serve you are no cowards."
Bernard smiled a bit, and said, "Thank you for your help, Doroga. Again." Then he faced Walker, and said, "And thank you as well, Walker."
Doroga's broad, ugly face spread into an honest grin. "Maybe your people can learn something," he said. Walker let out a rumbling snort. Doroga laughed.
"What did he say?" Bernard asked.
"Not say, so much as... mmph. It is something like, spoiled fruits all taste the same. He means your people and mine shared a common enemy. He allows that you are passably good substitutes for the Sabot-ha, my clan, if there is fighting to be done."
"He's the reason we survived that rush in the cave," Bernard said. "I won't forget it."
The big Marat rolled his massive shoulders in a shrug, smiling. "Send him some apples. Maybe not spoiled."
"My word on it." He offered Doroga his hand. Doroga traded grips with him without hesitation.
"And you, Windrider," he said, turning to Amara. "You will not make a good Aleran wife, I think."
She smiled at him. "No?"
He shook his head, gravely. "I will wager that you will not clean much. Or cook much. Or make blankets and things. I suspect you will find yourself in trouble, all the time."
"It's possible," she agreed, smiling.
"Good in bed, though, from the sound of it."
Amara's face heated until she thought steam must surely rise from it. "Doroga!"
"Woman of trouble," Doroga said. "But good to hold. My mate was one such. We were happy." He struck his fist lightly to his heart, Aleran style, and bowed his head to them. "May you be. And may your fallen people be at peace."
"Thank you," Amara stammered.
Bernard inclined his head as well. Without further words, Doroga and Walker departed, walking slowly and steadily without looking back.
Amara watched him, standing close beside Bernard. She didn't remember when she'd twined her fingers with his, but it felt natural and right. Bernard sighed. She could feel the pain in him, even without looking at him, without speaking to him.
"You did all that you could," she said quietly.
"I know," he answered.
"You should not blame yourself for their deaths."
"I know that, too," he said.
"Any decent commander would feel what you do now," Amara said. "They'd be just as wrong as you are to feel it. But all the best ones do."
"I lost the folk of an entire steadholt under my protection," he said quietly, "and almost three quarters of my legionares. I'm hardly one of the best."
"Give it time," she said quietly. "It will hurt less."
His fingers squeezed back, very gently, and he made no other answer. He stood looking at the hillside where the cave had been for a time, then turned and walked away. Amara kept pace with him. They were halfway back to Aricholt before she said, "We need to talk."
He exhaled through his nose and nodded. "Go on."
"Bernard," she said. She sought for the right words. None that she found seemed equal to the task of conveying what she felt. "I love you," she said finally.
"And I, you," he rumbled.
"But... my oath to the Crown, and yours... they both have prior claim on us. Our vows..."
"You wish to pretend that they did not happen?" he asked quietly.
"No," she said at once. "No, not that. But... have we not foresworn ourselves?"
"Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps not. If you could bear children-"
"I can't," she said, and she hadn't meant it to fly out from her mouth so harshly, so bitterly.
"How do you know?" Bernard asked quietly.
Her face flushed. "Because... you and I have... bloody crows, Bernard. If I could have I'm sure I would have by now, with you."
"Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps not. We see each other perhaps one night or two in every moon. At the most. It isn't the best way to assure children."
"But I was blighted," she said quietly. "Even if you can hardly see the scars."
"Yes," Bernard said. "But there are women who have contracted the blight and yet borne children. Not many, perhaps, but it has happened."
She let out an exasperated breath. "But I am not one of them."
"How do you know?" Bernard asked. "How do you know for certain?"
She looked at him for a moment and shook her head. "What are you driving at?"
"That it is at least possible that you might yet be able to bear children. And that until we know that it is not so, there is no reason for us not to be together."
She looked at him uncertainly. "You know what the laws say. You have an obligation to the Realm, Bernard, to produce heirs of your blood and to pass on the strength of your furycraft."
"And I intend to fulfill that obligation," he said. "With you."
They walked in silence for a while, before she said, "Do you really think it might be possible?"
He nodded. "I think it is possible. I want it to happen. The only way for it to happen is to make the effort and see."
Amara was quiet for a time, then said, "Very well." She swallowed. "But... I do not want Gaius to know of it. Not unless-" She cut herself off and began the sentence again. "Not until we bring forth a child. Before that, he could command us to part. But if there is a child, he will have no legal or ethical grounds to object."
Bernard studied her for several steps. Then he stopped, lifted her chin with one broad hand, and kissed her, very slowly and very gently, on the mouth.
"Agreed," he murmured, after that. "For now. But the day may come when we can no longer hide our marriage vows from others. On that day, I want to know that you will stand beside me. That if it comes to that, we will defy the will of the First Lord and the law together."
"Together," she said, the word a promise, and kissed him again.
He half smiled. "What's the worst that could happen? To be dismissed from service. To have our Citizenships revoked. At which point, well, we'd not have to worry about the legal obligations of the Citizenry, would we."
"We'd be ruined, but together," Amara said, a dry smile on her lips. "Is that it?"
"So long as I had you, I wouldn't be ruined," he said.
Amara wrapped her arms around her husband's neck and held on very tightly. She felt his arms around her, strong and caring.
Perhaps Bernard was correct. Perhaps everything would be all right.
Chapter 57
Fidelias finished brushing out the leather of his boots and sat them beside the bed. His pack, already filled and buckled shut, sat beside them. He looked around the room for a moment, musing. The servant's quarters he occupied in the basement of the Aquitaine manor were, he realized, almost precisely the same dimensions as those he had formerly occupied in the Citadel. The bed was softer, perhaps, the sheets and blankets finer, the lamps of slightly better quality. But otherwise, almost the same.
He shook his head and stretched out on the bed, for the moment too tired to take the effort to get undressed and under the blankets. He stared up at the ceiling instead, listening to the dim sounds of movement and conversation in adjacent rooms and in the halls above.
The door opened without a knock, and Fidelias did not need to look to see who was there.
Lady Aquitaine was quiet for a moment, before she said, "Already packed, I see."
"Yes," he said. "I'll leave before first light."
"Not staying for the presentation ceremony?"
"You don't need me for that," Fidelias said. "I saw the gown you bought the Steadholder. I'm sure it will make the impression you wanted. I have other business to occupy my attention."
"Oh?" she asked. "I have not even given you your next assignment."
"You'll be sending me to Kalare," Fidelias said. "To get into touch with my contacts there. You'll want to know what links Kalare has to the southern High Lords and get an idea of how to disrupt or sever them."
She let out a low laugh. "Should I feel this smug about going to the effort to recruit you, my spy?"
"Don't bother," he said. "I chose you and your husband. It wasn't the other way around."
"How cynical," she murmured. "A gentleman would have danced around the point."
"You didn't hire me to dance," Fidelias said quietly.
"No. I didn't." She was quiet for a moment, before she said, "You'll take water from the font here?"
"Yes. As long as I don't get too thirsty. Southern summers are hot."
"Have a care, Fidelias," Lady Aquitaine said. "You are a valuable asset. But my tolerance for your occasional insubordination will only last so long."
"If I were you, Your Grace," Fidelias said, "I would give a thought to conserving your intelligence resources."
"Meaning you?" she asked.
"Meaning me."
"And why is that?" There was a dangerous edge to her voice.
Fidelias lowered his eyes from the ceiling for the first time. She stood in his doorway, tall and elegant and lovely, covered in a voluminous grey cape, light slippers on her feet. Her dark hair was pinned up with a number of ivory combs. He regarded her beauty for a moment, and felt a stir of both desire and anger. No man could see a woman of such beauty and feel nothing, of course. But his anger was a mystery to him. He kept it carefully contained, hidden from her.
Instead of answering her, he nodded to the dresser beside the door.
She frowned and looked. She tilted her head for a moment and reached out to take a worn traveling cloak from the top of the dresser. "It is a cloak," she said, slightly exaggerated patience in her tone. "And what possible threat does this represent?"
"It isn't a cloak," Fidelias said quietly. "It's a seacloak. They're made in Kalare, Forcia, and Parcia. The hides are taken from a breed of large lizard that feeds on bulbs and roots in the swamps and rivers. Get them a little wet and they swell, become waterproof. Anyone traveling there needs one of these cloaks, either for wear on board ships or for protection during the rainy season. Without a seacloak, it's very easy to be taken sick."
Lady Aquitaine nodded patiently. "I still do not perceive how it might be a danger to us, dear spy."
"This cloak is my cloak," Fidelias said.
She regarded him, expression remote.
"I left it in my quarters in the Citadel, the day I left for the south with Amara, for her graduation exercise. The day I abandoned Gaius." He shook his head. "I found it here this evening."
A line appeared between her brows. "But... that would mean..."
"It would mean that Gaius himself was here, in your own manor, and you never had an inkling of it. It means that he knows where I am. It means he knows whom I serve. It means that he is perfectly aware that you are sending me to the south to stir up trouble for Kalare-and that I have his blessing to do so." He crossed his arms behind his head and went back to staring at the ceiling. "Beware, my lady. The lion you hunt may be old-but he is neither dotard nor weak. Miss a step, and the huntress may become the prey."
Lady Aquitaine stared at him in silence for a moment, then left without a word, shutting the door behind her. Her steps as she walked away were a very little bit quicker than usual. She was frightened.
For some reason, that pleased Fidelias, just as it had pleased him to shout a warning to Aleran guardsmen when the vord had been stealing up upon them. There were thoughts tied up in it, dangerous thoughts, dangerous feelings he did not wish to examine too closely lest they cripple him. So he accepted the feelings for what was upon their surface alone.
It had pleased him.
As feelings went, it was not an intense one-but it was far, far better than nothing.
That night, he fell asleep easily for the first time in nearly three years.
Chapter 58
Isana folded her hands in her lap and tried not to let them shake too much. She was alone in the carriage, but it would not do to allow herself to be seen in such a state when she arrived at the palace.
Even if, at least in spirit, she was now a traitor to the Crown.
She closed her eyes and breathed slowly in and out. It was only a dinner, and doubtless the First Lord would not linger after the meal. And she would get to see Tavi again, whole and well. She had thought she might have strained her chest to sickness, so hard had she wept when she came to the infirmary and found him there, wounded, exhausted, unconscious, but whole. She had brushed away the Citadel's healers in irritation and healed his wounds herself, the hard way, through wet cloths and slow, grueling effort.
She had stayed beside Tavi until she began to drift off to sleep herself, then Gaius had arrived. The First Lord moved very slowly and very carefully, like a weary old man-though he did not look older than a man in his late prime, but for his hair, which had gone entirely grey and white since the last time she had seen him. He had offered her a room, but she had declined, telling him of Lady Aquitaine's offer of hospitality.
He had stared at her then, his eyes steady, piercing, and she knew that he had understood far more than the simple statements she had made. He made no objection to her leaving-and in fact, had gone out of his way to invite her to the palace for a meal with himself and her nephew.
He'd known she would come, of course, if it was to see Tavi. Lady Aquitaine was not to be trusted, but there was some truth in her accusation that Gaius was holding Tavi as a prisoner to her good behavior. In this instance, at least, he was using the boy to make sure she would come to the palace.
But at least she had gotten what she wanted. Word had come back from Aquitaine's mercenaries that her brother was whole, though the people of an entire steadholt had been slain along with many of her brother's soldiers. They had destroyed the vord nest.
The coach drew to a halt, and the footman folded down the stepladder and opened the door. Isana closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing herself into at least a semblance of calm. Then she descended from the coach, under the watchful eyes of the hard-faced armsmen of Aquitaine, and was escorted by a centurion of the Royal Guard-very young, for his rank, she thought-into the palace and to what was, by the standards of the highborn of Alera, a cozy, intimate dining room.
It was larger than the great hall back at Isanaholt, and may have been almost the size of the steadholt's stone barn. An enormous table had been laid out, with places evenly spaced every bowshot or so along it, but someone had evidently decided that the arrangement wouldn't do. The chairs had all been dragged down to an uneven clump at one end of the table, the plate settings similarly rearranged, and several voices were raised in laughter.
Isana paused for a moment at the door, studying the scene. The large young man in the midst of a tale had to be Antillar Maximus, about whom Tavi had written much in his letters home. He had the kind of rugged good looks that made him look something of the rogue now, but which would, in time, weather into something stronger, more solemn, if no less appealing, and he was telling a story of some kind with the panache of a practiced raconteur. Beside him sat a slight young man with intelligent eyes and a wide smile, though there was something of a mouselike quality to the way he sat, and listened, as if he expected to be overlooked and liked it that way. Ehren, by Tavi's letters. A girl, plain but pleasant-looking, sat across from Max and Ehren, beside Tavi, her cheeks pink with laughter.
On Tavi's other side sat an exotic beauty, and it took Isana a moment to recognize her as Kitai, the daughter of the Marat chieftain. She was dressed in a fine silken shirt and closely fitting pants, and her pale feet were bare. Her long, white hair had been plaited into a braid that fell straight down her spine, and silver gleamed on her throat and her wrists. There was mischief in her eyes-eyes precisely the shade of Tavi's, Isana noted.
And Tavi sat listening to Max. He had grown, she saw at once, and in more than just height. There was a quality to his quiet that had nothing to do with insecurity. He sat listening to Max with a silent smile that rested partly upon his mouth but mostly in his eyes, and he held himself with an easy confidence she had not seen before. He interjected some comment when Max paused to take a breath, and the table exploded in laughter again.
Isana felt a sudden presence beside her, and Gaius Sextus murmured, "It's a good sound. Laughter like that, from the young. It's been far too long since it has been heard in these halls."
Isana felt her back stiffen as she turned to face the First Lord. "Your Majesty," she said, making the little curtsey Serai had taught her. On the day she died, Isana thought.
"Steadholder," he said. He looked down her and back up and said, in a neutral, pleasant tone, "That's a lovely gown."
The dress Lady Aquitaine had provided her was of the same exotic and expensive silk she'd shown off at the garden party, though in a much more modest cut. The deep scarlet of the silk darkened by degrees to black at the ends of the sleeves and the hem of the skirt. Scarlet and sable, the colors of Aquitaine.
Gaius's own tunic was of red and blue, of course-the colors of the royal house of the First Lord.
"Thank you," she replied, keeping her voice steady. "It was provided me by my host. It would have been impolite not to wear it."
"I can see how that would be," Gaius said. There was both reserve and compassion in his tone. Again, she was struck with the impression that he understood much more than she said-and that she, in turn, understood much more than the overt meaning of his words. "You may be interested to know that I had Maximus pardoned and cleared of the charges against him. I offered Kalare an in-depth investigation of the happenings that night, and he shied away from it quite swiftly. So, in the absence of a willing accuser, I had the charges dismissed."
"Does this matter to me?" Isana asked.
"Perhaps not to you," Gaius said. "Perhaps someone you know would find it interesting."
By which he meant the Aquitaines, of course. "Shall we join them?" she asked.
Gaius looked up at the group of young people, still laughing. He watched them, his face unreadable, and though her own skill at watercrafting was insufficient to sense truly what he felt, Isana was struck with the sudden impression that his life, as the First Lord, had to have been, more than anything else, a horribly lonely one. "Let's wait a moment more," he said. "Their laughter would never survive our arrival."
She regarded him for a moment, then nodded. The unspoken tension between them did not vanish, but it dwindled for a time.
When they finally did enter the hall, she spent a very long time holding Tavi to her. He had grown unbelievably, and when before she had been a half hand taller than he, he was now at least half a foot taller than she was. His shoulders had widened by a similarly preposterous measure, and his voice was no longer the warbling tenor he'd had when he left home, but a steady baritone.
But for all of that, Amara had been right. He was still Tavi. She could feel it in his warmth and smile, in the love for her as he hugged her in turn. The sparkle in his eyes, his sense of humor, his smile-though more serious, more thoughtful, it was all still his own. His time at the Academy had not taken anything from him. It had, perhaps, made him even more of what he had been: a young man with a swift mind, occasionally questionable judgment, and a good heart.
The meal was excellent, and the conversation pleasant until the First Lord asked Tavi to share his story of the events of the past few days. Isana suddenly understood why the gathering had been as small as it was. Not even servants were allowed in the hall, as Tavi spoke.
She could hardly believe what she heard, and yet it was all true. She could feel that much from him. Isana sat stunned that Tavi should have held so very, very much power in his hands. He had been only a young student, but the fate of the Realm itself had hung upon the choices he had made. Not solely upon him, to be sure, but by the great furies, he had once more acted as a hero.
She sat bemused by the tale, hardly surprised that Tavi had been training as a Cursor. It was very much in line with what she had supposed would happen when he came to the capital. She listened to Tavi, but spent much of the time judging the expressions and emotions of the others at the table. She suspected, as well, that Tavi was leaving things out, here and there, though she was not sure why he would conceal portions of Max's masquerade as the First Lord or the death of the Maestro, Killian.
The hour was very late when the First Lord suggested that the evening had gone on long enough. Isana loitered until everyone had departed but Tavi and the First Lord.
"I had hoped," she said quietly to Gaius, "to speak to Tavi alone for a while."
Gaius arched an eyebrow and regarded her gown for a time. Isana had to have Rill's help to keep her face from flushing, but met Gaius's gaze without moving.
"Steadholder," he said gently, "this is my house. I would hear what you have to say to one of the Cursors."
Isana pressed her lips together, but inclined her head. She had no wish to speak of this in front of Gaius-but that was part of the price she would now have to pay to have secured the aid of the Aquitaines. So be it.
"Tavi," she said quietly, "I have concerns about your friend. Gaelle, I believe. I can't pinpoint it, but there is something... not right, about her."
Tavi glanced at Gaius, to Isana's annoyance. The First Lord nodded to him. "I know, Aunt Isana," he said, his voice quiet and very serious. "She isn't Gaelle. Or at least she isn't the real Gaelle."
Isana frowned. "How do you know?"
"Because the men who took me and Kitai in the tunnels were Kalare's," he said, "and they were waiting for us. Maestro Killian told me, as he died, that Kalare's chief assassin was still close, and that he had paid a terrible price to establish the assassin within the Citadel. He was playing the traitor to Kalare, hoping to learn more about the enemy through his contact with the chief assassin-a woman named Rook. Whoever Rook was, it had to be a woman, someone often in contact with the Maestro to avoid arousing suspicion, and someone who had seen me enter the tunnels that night, and who knew where I would have to start marking the walls to find my way. In short, it almost had to have been one of the trainees."
"That was the price Killian mentioned," Gaius murmured. "The actual girl selected for the training was replaced by Rook, by means of watercrafting herself into a double. She was probably killed a few days after her selection as a trainee."
Isana shook her head. "That's... Your Majesty, you know as well as I that anyone with that much watercraft would have a strong contact with the emotions of those around them."
"It would be an enormous advantage in convincing those around you that you are merely a harmless girl," Gaius murmured.
"Yes. And if one killed often enough, it would almost certainly drive one mad."
"More than likely," Gaius said, nodding.
"You allowed that poor girl to be killed," Isana said, "so that you could gain some kind of advantage?"
"Killian never spoke to me of it," Gaius said. "He did it on his own."
Isana shook her head, disgusted. "All the same. It's monstrous."
"Yes," Gaius said, without a trace of shame. "It is. But Killian felt it necessary."
Isana shook her head. "This killer. Rook. When will you arrest her?"
"We won't," Tavi said quietly. "Not at once, in any case. Right now, Rook does not know we are aware of her identity. We can use that against her, and against Kalare."
"She's an assassin," Isana said quietly. "Quite likely a madwoman. And you would have her roaming loose?"
"If the First Lord removes her," Tavi said, "has her arrested or exiled, Kalare will only recruit someone else and try it again-and this time we might not be lucky enough to discover them. There is less danger in leaving her than not. At least for the moment."
"Monstrous," Isana said. She felt tears in her eyes and did not bother to hide them.
Tavi saw her expression and flushed, looking down. Then he looked up, and said, "I hope you are not too much disappointed in me, Aunt Isana."
She smiled slightly. "I hope you are not too much disappointed in me, Tavi."
"Never," he said quietly. "I understand why you..." He waved a vague hand. "You did what was necessary to protect the people you loved."
"Yes," Isana said quietly. "I suppose I should not be the first to cast stones." She stepped up close to him, cupped his face in her hands, kissed his forehead, and said, "Promise me that you will be careful."
"I promise," he said quietly.
She held him again, and he hugged her back. Gaius made an unobtrusive exit, while Tavi escorted her down to the entrance, where the Aquitaines' coach was waiting once more. She walked with her hand on Tavi's politely extended arm, and he provided a supporting hand when she stepped up to the carriage.
"Tavi," she said, before the door closed.
"Yes, Aunt Isana?"
"I love you very much."
He smiled. "I love you, too."
She nodded. "And I am proud of you. Never think that I am not. I worry for you. That's all. But you're growing up so tall."
He grinned. "Cost the First Lord a fortune keeping me in pants," he said.
Isana laughed, and he leaned up to kiss her cheek again. She ruffled his hair and said, "Write often. Regardless of where we find ourselves, it will never change what you mean to me."
"I feel that, too," he assured her. He stepped back and nodded with a quite natural authority to the coachmen, who began closing it up. "Write me as often as you can. Be safe."
She nodded and smiled at him, then the coachmen had closed things up, and the carriage was rolling away from the palace. She leaned slowly back in her seat, her eyes closed. She felt very, very alone in the Aquitaines' carriage.
She was alone there.
"Be safe," she whispered, her eyes closing, holding the image of his smile in her mind. Her hand drifted to the shape of the ring, still on its chain around her neck, still hidden. "Oh, be safe, my son."
