by Jim Butcher
Spots of color appeared on Amara’s cheeks, but she inclined her head a shade more deeply in respect. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Dress!” Bernard blurted, looking at Amara.
She tilted her head slightly, then said, “Oh. Those things cost a bloody fortune.”
“But not our bloody fortune,” Bernard said in a reasonable tone of voice.
“Oh,” Amara said. “Yes, then, I like that.”
Aria looked back and forth between the two of them, and said, to Isana, “Have you any idea what they’re talking about?”
“They’re saying that they chose well when they married,” Isana said, smiling faintly at Bernard. “I take it you need to keep the details to yourself?”
“I’m afraid so,” Bernard said. “And-”
Isana held up a hand. “I can guess. Time is an issue.”
Ehren, who had been standing aside respectfully, silently, cleared his throat. “Well said, milady.”
Isana leaned up and kissed her brother on the cheek, then held his face in her hands. “Be careful.”
Bernard traced his thumb gently over her chin. “I’ve got too much work waiting for me back home to let anything happen now.”
“Good,” she said, and hugged him. He hugged her back, and they parted, without looking at one another again. She had felt him start to tear up as he’d held her, and she knew he wouldn’t want her to see the tears in his eyes. He’d know that she knew, of course-but after a lifetime near one another, certain fictions were simply understood. She smiled at Amara as they passed one another, and clasped both hands briefly. Isana didn’t think the two of them would ever really be close-but the former Cursor had made her brother happy. That was no small thing.
She heard Araris and Bernard trade a few quiet words, then Ehren was leading her into Gaius’s study, the one that was supposed to impress everyone with how restrained, erudite, and learned he was.
Oh, certainly, Gaius Sextus was likely one of the more erudite and learned Citizens in the Realm, but all the same. Isana had never understood men who made it a point to put trophies of their hunts on the walls, either. Gaius’s study, its walls lined with the carcasses of books he had torn open and devoured, reminded her of nothing so much as old Aldo’s hunting lodge, back in the Calderon Valley, and she thought it only marginally less boastful.
Isana considered all the books thoughtfully, as Araris and Lady Placida entered behind her, along with Sir Ehren. She’d read a tiny fraction of the books there-even in winter, there had generally been more work than quiet, free time on the steadholt. Books were expensive, as well. But she’d read enough of them to know that they were only as valuable as the contents of their writers’ minds-and to her it seemed that a great many writers, had they been merchants, would have precious little inventory.
Still, she supposed it said something in the First Lord’s favor that he considered intellectual achievement something to be boasted over at all. Not all men thought as he did upon the subject.
“Isana,” Gaius said, rising from his seat and smiling.
“Sextus,” she responded, nodding to him. So. They were not standing on formality it seemed.
“Your Grace,” Gaius continued. He put his hand to his chest and bowed slightly toward Lady Placida.
“Sire,” Aria replied, managing an elegant curtsey.
“Ladies, please.” He gestured toward a pair of seats before his desk, and Isana and Aria settled into them. He poured himself half a cup of what smelled like spicewine from a bottle on a sideboard and sat down behind the desk.
“How much trouble are we in, Gaius?” Aria asked bluntly.
He lifted an eyebrow at her, and took a sip of wine. “A very great deal,” he said quietly. “The Vord have already overwhelmed multiple legions in the field, so thoroughly as to leave no survivors.”
“But… surely now, with the rest of the Legions taking the field…” Isana said.
Gaius shrugged a shoulder. “Perhaps. The reputation of the Legions is thousands of years old, Isana, with the strength of centuries of tradition-and with the shortcomings of centuries of rigid thought. We are used to thinking of our Legions as invincible bulwarks. Yet they were bloodied and beaten by the Canim during Kalare’s rebellion last year, just as they were overwhelmed by the Marat a generation ago.”
The First Lord’s face flickered with some harsh, bitter emotion, and Isana felt the faintest flicker of it through her link with Rill, more than she usually ever felt from Gaius. She could hardly blame him. It was one of the few points upon which they shared similar emotions. The Marat incursion, more than twenty years gone, had wiped out the Crown Legion and killed the Princeps, Septimus, her husband and Tavi’s father.
“Earlier in Alera’s history,” Gaius continued, gesturing at the walls of books, “our Legions fought practically every year against a veritable host of enemies-enemies who are no more.” He shook his head. “For several centuries, Alera has been the entire continent. We have held the Marat at the Calderon Valley, the Canim at the shore. Our Legions have fought comparatively rarely and only in certain places.”
Aria lifted her chin. “You’re saying that they aren’t up to the task.”
“I’m saying that most of our legionares have never lifted a blade in anger,” Gaius replied. “Particularly in the southern cities, which are those now threatened by the Vord. The only Legions who had any recent experience at combat were Kalarus’s forces and the Senatorial Guard-both of which were destroyed. The Crown Legion and the First Ceresian are the only other two veteran Legions in the area. The rest are… frankly, to all purposes, well trained but untested.”
“The First Placidan should probably be considered very nearly a veteran Legion as well, sire,” Aria said, her spine stiff. “My lord husband recruits heavily from veterans of the Antillan Legions, and you know that our officers all rotate through terms of service on the Shieldwall.”
“Quite,” the First Lord agreed. “Antillus and Phrygia represent the only two cities to maintain anything like true traditional Aleran Legions. Every legionare there has seen action. Every man of those cities has served his term in the Legions, seen real combat, so that even their militias are arguably better prepared for actual battle than the first-rank Legions of Attica, Forcia, Parcia, and Ceres-and, frankly Your Grace, your own Second and Third.”
Isana lifted a hand. “Gaius, please. I am not a Tribune or a legionare. What does this have to do with me?”
“If I am to defend Alera, I need the Legions of the Shieldwall,” Gaius said, gazing steadily at Isana. “Legions, militia, every Knight, every sword and spear of the north.”
“Antillus Raucus will never leave his people to the Icemen,” Lady Placida said. “Neither will Phrygius Guntus. And both of them have seen heavier fighting than ever, the past two years.”
Isana met the First Lord’s gaze and abruptly understood. “But if the war with the Icemen can be ended, those Legions will be freed to fight.”
Lady Placida’s coppery brows rose nearly to her hairline. “Ended? Peace talks with the Icemen have never been successful.”
“Neither have they ever had a moderator,” Gaius said. “A neutral third party with respect among the Icemen, willing to mediate a negotiation.”
Isana drew in a sharp breath. “Doroga.” She glanced at Aria, and said, “The foremost chieftain of the Marat. A friend.”
Gaius inclined his head. “I’ve been in regular correspondence with him ever since his daughter took up residence here. The Marat learned to write in less than six months. He’s surprisingly astute, really. He is already on the way to the site of the meeting.”
“And you’re sending me?” Isana said. “Why?”
“Because I need to be here,” Gaius replied. “Because by sending you, the most highly positioned woman of the House of Gaius, I am making a statement of trust. Because Doroga trusts you, and he most definitely does not trust me.”
“You did say he was astute,” Isana sai
d wryly.
Lady Placida’s eyes widened slightly, and she glanced at Isana, but Gaius only lifted one corner of his mouth in a small smile and took a sip of his spicewine. “Aria,” he said, “I want someone with her who can protect her and Doroga in the event that things go awry-but who doesn’t appear to be overtly threatening.”
“Sire,” Lady Placida protested, “if the Vord take Ceres, Placida is next. My place is at home, protecting my people.”
The First Lord nodded calmly. “It’s up to you, of course, Aria, to decide if your people will be better protected by yourself or by Antillus Raucus, all of his Citizenry, and sixty thousand Antillan veterans.” He took another sip of wine. “To say nothing of the Phrygians.”
Lady Placida frowned and folded her hands in her lap, staring down at them.
“Isana,” Gaius said quietly. “Alera needs those Legions. I am issuing you full authority to make a binding treaty with the Icemen.”
Isana drew in a sharp breath. “Great furies.”
Gaius waved a hand in a deprecating gesture. “You’ll get used to it. It isn’t as enormous as it seems.”
Isana felt a small, hard smile stretch her lips. “And if Octavian’s mother arrives unlooked for from the north with a critical force at her back, loyal to the Crown, in an hour of dire need, it just might steal quite a bit of the glory Lord Aquitaine is going to gain for himself in the field-winning support for Octavian by proxy, even if the Princeps himself can’t be here.”
“I confess,” Gaius murmured, “that had occurred to me in passing.”
Isana shook her head. “I can’t stand these games.”
“I know,” Gaius said.
“But you ask me to save lives by helping to end a war that has gone on for centuries. I can’t refuse, either.”
“I know that, too.”
Isana stared at Gaius for a moment. Then she said, “How can you live with yourself?”
The First Lord stared at her for a moment, his eyes cold. Then he spoke in a very quiet, precise, measured voice. “I look out my window each day. I look out my window at people who live and breathe. At people who have not been devoured by civil war. At people who have not been ravaged by disease. At people who have not starved to death, who have not been hacked apart by enemies of humanity, at people who are free to lie and steal and plot and complain and accuse and behave in all manner of repugnant ways because the Realm stands. Because law and order stands. Because something other than simple violence shapes the course of their lives. And I look, wife of my son, mother of my heir, at a very few decent people who have had the luxury of living their lives without being called upon to make hideous decisions I would not wish upon my worst enemies, and who consequently find such matters morally appalling when they consider them-because they have not had to be the ones who dealt with them.” He took a short, hard swallow of wine. “Feh. Aquitaine thinks me his enemy. The fool. If I truly hated him, I’d give him the Crown.”
A shocked silence followed the First Lord’s words-because though Gaius’s speech had been quiet and calm, the sheer rage and raw… passion… behind the words had shone through like a fire through glass. Isana realized that in his anger he had allowed her to see a portion of his true self-some part of him that was dedicated far beyond himself, very nearly beyond reason, to the preservation of the Realm, to its ongoing survival, and beyond that, to the welfare of its people, freeman and Citizen alike.
Behind the bitterness, the cynicism, the weary suspicion, she had felt that passion before-in Septimus. And in Tavi.
There had been something else, too. Isana glanced at Aria, but though Lady Placida seemed a little startled by the slip in Gaius’s usual mask, there was nothing of the shock that she should have been feeling if she’d sensed what Isana had.
Lady Placida met her eyes and misinterpreted what she saw there. She nodded at Isana, then turned to Gaius. “I will go, sire.”
“Thank you, Aria,” Isana said quietly, and rose. “Everyone. If we could have a moment alone, please, I would appreciate it.”
“Of course,” Lady Placida said, rising. She curtseyed to the First Lord again and withdrew. Sir Ehren, silent the whole while, also retreated, as did Araris, after frowning at Isana in concern. He shut the door behind him.
Isana sat facing the First Lord, alone in the room.
Gaius arched an eyebrow and, for a fleeting second, she sensed uncertainty in him. “Yes?” he asked her.
“We’re private here?” she asked.
He nodded.
“You’re dying.”
He stared at her for a long moment.
“There’s… an awareness. When the mind and body know the time is near. I don’t think many would know it. Or see you at such an… unguarded moment.”
He set the cup of wine down and bowed his head.
Isana rose. She walked calmly around the desk and laid her hand on his shoulder. She felt the First Lord’s frame tremble once. Then his hand rose and covered hers briefly. He squeezed once before withdrawing it again.
“It’s rather important,” he said, after a moment, “that you not speak of it.”
“I understand,” she said quietly. “How long?”
“Months, perhaps,” he said. He coughed again, and she saw him fighting to suppress it, his hands clenching into fists. She reached for the cup of spicewine and passed it to him.
He swallowed a sparing measure and nodded his thanks to her.
“Lungs,” he said after a moment, recovering. “Went swimming in the late autumn when I was young. Took a fever. They always were weak. Then that business in Kalare…”
“Sire,” she said, “would you like me to take a look at them. Perhaps…”
He shook his head. “Furycrafting can only go so far, Isana. I’m old. The damage is long done.” He took a careful, steadying breath, and nodded. “I’ll hang on until Octavian returns. I can do that much.”
“Do you know when he’ll return?”
Gaius shook his head. “He’s beyond my sight,” he replied. “Crows, but I wish I hadn’t let him go. The First Aleran is probably the most seasoned Legion in Alera. I could use them in Ceres right now. To say nothing of him. Hate to say it, but growing up the way he did, no furies at all-it’s given him a crowbegotten tricky mind. He sees things I wouldn’t.”
“Yes,” Isana agreed in a neutral tone.
“How’d you do it?” Gaius asked. “Stifle his furycraft, I mean.”
“His bathwater. It was an accident, really. I was trying to slow his growth. So no one would think him old enough to be Septimus’s son.”
Gaius shook his head. “He should be back by spring.” He closed his eyes. “One more winter.”
Isana could think of nothing further to do or say. She moved quietly to the door.
“Isana,” Gaius said quietly.
She paused.
He looked up at her with weary, sunken eyes. “Get me those Legions. Or by the time he comes home, there might not be much of Alera left.”
CHAPTER 9
After the first six days of the storm, Tavi more or less gave up trying to keep track of time. In the brief periods when he was not too sick to think coherently, he practiced his Canim-mostly the curse words. He’d learned to manage himself well enough to keep from constantly retching, at least, but it was still a miserable way to live, and Tavi did not bother hiding his jealousy at those around him who did not seem subject to the brutal pitching of the Slive under storm.
The winter gale was violent and relentless. The Slive did not simply rock. It positively wallowed, rolling wildly as it pitched back and forth. At times, only the lines fastened across his bunk kept Tavi from being tumbled completely out of it. Between the clouds and the long winter nights, it was dark the vast majority of the time, and lights were only permitted where absolutely necessary and where they could be constantly monitored. A fire on the ship, during such a storm, while unlikely to destroy the vessel on its own, would almost certainly cripple it an
d leave it easy prey for wind and wave.
Meanwhile, out on the deck, in the howling wind and driving rain and sleet, the sailors of the Slive shouted and labored continuously, constantly lashed by the bellowing voices of Demos and the ship’s officers. Tavi would have joined them if he could, but Demos had flatly refused, on the grounds that serpents and worms had better sea legs, and that he wasn’t going to explain to Gaius Sextus how the heir to the Realm had managed to trip over something while trying to tie a knot he didn’t know very well and fallen to his death in the sea.
So Tavi was left to sit there in the dark, most of the time, feeling vaguely guilty that he stayed in his bunk while others labored to bring the ship through the storm, and bored out of his skull-in addition to being sicker than anyone really ought to be.
The entire business was enough to make him somewhat surly.
Kitai was there with him the whole while, her presence steady, calming, reassuring, always passing him bland food that he could keep down, or urging him to drink water or gentle broth-at least until the seventh day, at which point she said, “Aleran, even I have limits,” and left the cabin with her fists clenched, muttering under her breath in Canim.
That part, at least, he spoke better than she did. But then, he’d been practicing.
An interminable time later, Tavi awoke to an odd sensation. It took him several moments to realize that the ship was riding smoothly and that he did not feel horribly ill. He unfastened the line across his chest and sat up at once, hardly daring to believe it, but it was true-the Slive rode steady in the waves, no longer tossed and shaken by the storm. The insides of his nostrils were painfully dry, and when he sat up out of his bunk, he felt the cold at once. Grey sunlight trickled drearily through cabin windows rimed with frost.
He got up and dressed in his warmest clothes, and found Kitai sleeping hard in the bunk beside his. Maximus was in the bunk across the room, the first time Tavi had seen him in days, in a similar state of exhaustion. Tavi added his blanket atop Kitai’s. She murmured sleepily and curled a bit more closely beneath the additional warmth. Tavi kissed her hair, and went out onto the deck of the ship.
