by Jim Butcher
Tavi heard a scream, and the leaves and bushes thrashed wildly. A moment later a boy about Tavi’s age emerged from the bushes, one hand clenched upon the seat of his breeches. He had a broad, strong build and a face that would be handsome if it had been less petulant. Bittan, of Kordholt, Kord’s youngest son. “Bloody crows!” the boy howled. “Are you insane?”
“Bittan?” called Bernard in obviously feigned surprise. “Oh dear. I had no idea that was you back there.”
From further down the trail, a second young man rose out of hiding—Kord’s eldest son, Aric. He was leaner than his brother, taller, and several years older. He wore his hair pulled back into a tail, and pensive frown lines had already established themselves between his eyebrows. He watched Bernard warily and called, “Bittan? You all right?”
The boy screamed, furious, “No I’m not all right! I’m shot!”
Tavi peered at the other boy and muttered to his uncle, “You shot him?”
“Just grazed him.”
Tavi grinned. “Maybe you hit him in the brain.”
Bernard smiled a wolfish smile and said nothing.
From still further back in the brush, leaves crackled and dead wood snapped. A moment later, Steadholder Kord emerged from the bracken. He wasn’t terribly tall, but his shoulders seemed too large for him, and his brawny arms looked unnaturally long. Kord wore a patched and faded grey tunic, badly in need of a thorough washing, and heavy gargant-hide leggings. He wore his symbol of office, the heavy chain of a Steadholder around his neck. The chain was smudged and looked greasy, but Tavi supposed that it made a better match for his unkempt greying hair and patchy beard.
Kord moved with an aggressive tension, and his eyes were cold with anger. “What the crows do you think you’re doing, Bernard?”
Bernard waved a friendly hand at Kord, but Tavi noted that he held an arrow along with the bow in his other. “Little accident,” he said. “I mistook your boy there for some kind of robber lurking by the road to attack travelers.”
Kord’s eyes narrowed. “Are you accusing me of something?”
“Of course not,” Bernard drawled, his smile not touching his eyes. “This is just a misunderstanding. Thank the great furies no one got hurt.” He paused for a moment, his smile vanishing before he said, quietly, “I’d hate to have someone get hurt on my land.”
Kord snarled, a sound more bestial than human, and rolled forward a furious step. The ground under his feet rumbled and quivered, restless little hummocks rising and falling as though some kind of serpent slithered about just beneath the surface.
Bernard faced Kord without looking away, stirring, or changing his expression.
Kord growled again, and with a visible effort choked back his anger. “One of these days I’m going to get upset with you, Bernard.”
“Don’t say things like that, Kord,” Tavi’s uncle replied. “You’ll frighten the boy.”
Kord’s eyes flicked to Tavi, and the boy felt suddenly uneasy under that intense and angry regard.
“He come into any furies yet, or are you finally going to admit what a useless little freak he is?”
The simple comment pierced Tavi like a thorn, and he opened his mouth to make a furious response.
Bernard settled his hand on Tavi’s shoulder and said, “Don’t worry about my nephew.” He glanced at Bittan. “After all, you’ve got other concerns. Why don’t you head on down to the steadholt? I’m sure Isana is getting something ready for you.”
“Think we’ll stay here a while,” Kord said. “Maybe eat a little breakfast.”
“Suit yourself,” Bernard said, and stared on down the lane. Tavi followed close behind them. Bernard ignored Kord until they had crossed the footbridge. “Oh,” Bernard said, looking over his shoulder. “I forgot to mention that Warner already came in last night, Kord. His sons are on leave from the Legions so that they could visit their father.”
“Bring them on,” Bittan snapped. “We’ll tear them apa—”
Kord delivered an openhanded blow to Bittan’s face that knocked the boy to the ground. “Shut your mouth.”
Bittan shook his head, dazed and scowling. He didn’t answer Kord or look at his father as he stood up.
“Go on down,” Bernard said. “I’m sure we can get everything worked out.”
Kord didn’t reply. He beckoned his sons with a curt gesture and started down the lane. They followed him, and Bittan cast a harsh, hateful glare at Tavi as he walked. “Freak.”
Tavi clenched his hands into fists, but let the comment pass. Bernard nodded his approval, and they waited as Kord and his sons headed down the lane to Bernardholt.
As they watched, Tavi said, “They were there to attack Warner, weren’t they, uncle?”
“It’s possible,” Bernard said. “That’s why your aunt asked Warner to come in last night. Kord is desperate.”
“Why? It’s Bittan that’s been accused, not him.”
“Rape is a realm offense,” Bernard answered. “Kord is the family head, and he shares responsibility for offenses against the realm. If the truthfind shows that there needs to be a trial, and Bittan is judged guilty, Count Gram could remove Kord’s claim to Kordholt.”
“You think he’d kill to protect it?” Tavi asked.
“I think men who lust for power are capable of almost anything.” He shook his head. “Kord sees power as something to satisfy his desires, instead of a tool to protect and serve the people beholden to him. It’s a stupid attitude, and it will eventually get him killed—but until then it makes him dangerous.”
“He scares me,” Tavi said.
“He scares anyone with good sense, boy.” Bernard passed his bow to Tavi and opened a pouch on his belt. He withdrew a small glass button from it and dropped it over the side of the footbridge and into the brook. “Rill,” he said firmly. “I need to speak to Isana, please.”
They waited there on the bridge for several moments before the sounds of the brook began to change. A column of water rose straight up out of the brook, taking on human form as it did so, until it had formed into a liquid sculpture of Tavi’s aunt, Isana, a woman with the youthful form and features of a strong watercrafter, but the bearing and voice of a mature adult.
The sculpture peered around, eventually focusing on Bernard and Tavi. “Good morning, Bernard, Tavi.” Her voice sounded tinny, as if it had come down to them through a long tube.
“Aunt Isana,” Tavi said, bowing his head politely.
“Sis,” Bernard drawled. “We just ran into Kord and his sons. They were waiting around in the brush near the north bridge.”
Isana shook her head. “The fool can’t be serious.”
“I think he was,” Bernard said. “I think he knows that with what Bittan did, Gram will get him this time.”
Isana’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I doubt having a woman appointed the truthfinder for this crime has pleased him, either.”
Bernard nodded. “You might want to make sure someone is close, just in case. They’re coming down the lane to you now.”
Isana’s image in the water frowned. “When will you return?”
“Before noon, with luck. Before dinner, otherwise.”
“Try to hurry. I’ll keep things civil for as long as I can, but I’m not sure anyone but you can make Kord back down without shedding blood.”
“I will. Be careful.”
Isana nodded. “And you. Old Bitte says that Garados and his wife are brewing up a storm for us, by nightfall at the latest.”
Tavi shot an uneasy glance to the northeast, where the towering mountain of Garados sat glowering down at the inhabitantsof the Calderon Valley. Its upper slopes were already growing white with ice, and clouds obscured the topmost peaks, where the hostile fury of the towering mountain conspired with Lilvia, the fury of the cold gales blowing over the great Sea of Ice to the north. They would gather in clouds like herds of cattle, feed them to anger on the day’s light, and drive them down over the inhabitants of
the valley in a furystorm as the sun set.
“We’ll be back long before then,” Bernard assured her.
“Good. Oh, Tavi?”
“Yes, Aunt Isana?”
“Do you have any idea where Beritte would have acquired a fresh garland of hollybells?”
Tavi shot his uncle a guilty glance and blushed. “I guess she must have found them somewhere.”
“I see. She isn’t yet of marrying age, she’s too irresponsible to care for a child, and she certainly is too young to wear hollybells. Do you think she’ll be finding any more?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Excellent,” Isana said rather crisply. “We’ll discuss the matter when you return.”
Tavi winced.
Bernard held on to his chuckle until the water sculpture had lowered itself back into the brook, the contact with Isana ending as it did. “No girl, eh? I thought Fred was the one walking out with Beritte.”
“He is.” Tavi sighed. “She’s probably wearing them for him. But she asked me to get them for her and . . . well it seemed a lot more important at the time.”
Bernard nodded. “There’s no shame in making a mistake, Tavi—provided you learn from it. I think you’d be smart to think of this as a lesson in priorities. So?”
Tavi frowned. “So what?”
Bernard kept smiling. “What have you learned this morning?”
Tavi glowered at the ground. “That women are trouble, sir.”
Bernard’s mouth opened in a sudden, merry roar of laughter. Tavi looked up at his uncle, and cast him a hopeful grin. Bernard’s eyes shone with merriment. “Oh, lad. That’s about half of the truth.”
“What’s the other half?”
“You want them, anyway,” Bernard said. He shook his head, the smile lingering in his eyes, his mouth. “I did one or two stupid things to impress a girl in my day.”
“Was it worth it?”
Bernard’s smile faded, without giving the impression that he had become any less amused. It simply turned inward, as though what he was smiling at existed only within. Bernard never spoke of his dead wife, or their children, also gone. “Yes. Every bruise and every scrape.”
Tavi sobered. “Do you think Bittan’s guilty?”
“Likely,” Bernard said. “But I could be wrong. Until we’ve had the chance to hear everyone speak, we have to keep an open mind. He won’t be able to lie to your aunt.”
“I can.”
Bernard laughed. “You’re quite a bit smarter than Bittan. And you’ve had a lifetime of practice.”
Tavi smiled at his uncle. Then he said, “Sir, I really can find the flock. I can do it.”
Bernard regarded Tavi for a moment. Then he nodded toward the causeway. “Prove it then, lad. Show me.”
CHAPTER 4
Isana looked up from her scrying bowl with a faintly irritated frown. “That boy is going to get himself into more trouble than he can explain his way out of, one day.” Wan autumn sunlight streamed through the windows of Bernardholt’s main kitchen. The smell of bread baking in the wide ovens filled the room, along with the tang of the sauce sizzling on the roast turning over the coals. Isana’s back hurt from a morning’s work that had begun well before the sun rose, and there wasn’t going to be a chance to rest any time in the immediate future.
Whenever she had a moment to spare from her preparations, she spent it focused on her scrying bowl, using Rill to keep a cautious eye upon the Kordholters and Warner’s folk. Warner and his sons had added their efforts to that of Elder Frederic, master of the steadholt’s gargants, as he and his brawny son, Younger Frederic, cleaned out the half-buried stables of the vast beasts of labor.
Kord and his youngest son lazed in the courtyard. The elder boy, Aric, had taken up an axe and had been splitting logs for the duration of the morning, burning off nervous energy with physical effort. The tension in the air throughout the morning was cloying, even to those without an ounce of watercraft in their bodies.
The hold women had fled the kitchen’s heat to take their midday meal, a quick round of vegetable soup and yesterday’s bread, together with a selection of cheeses they had thrown together then taken out into the steadholt’s courtyard to eat. The weary autumn sun shone pleasantly down on the courtyard, the warmth of its flagstones sheltered from the cold north wind by Bernardholt’s high stone walls. Isana did not join them. The tension building in the courtyard would have sickened her, and she wanted to save back her strength and self-discipline for as long as she could, in the event that she had to intervene.
So Isana ignored the rumble in her own belly and focused on her work, a portion of her thought reserved for her fury’s perceptions.
“Aren’t you going to eat, mistress Isana?” Beritte looked up from where she was carelessly slicing the skins from a mound of tubers, dropping the peeled roots into a basin of water. The girl’s pretty face had been lightly touched with rouge, and her already alluring eyes with kohl. Isana had warned her mother that Beritte was entirely too young for such nonsense, but there she was, hollybells in her hair and her bodice laced with deliberate wickedness beneath her breasts — more eager to admire herself in every shiny surface she could find than to help prepare the evening’s banquet. Isana had gone out of her way to find chores to occupy the girl’s day. Beritte often enjoyed seeing young men compete with one another for her attention, and between her bodice and the sweet scent of the hollybells in her hair, she’d have them killing one another—and Isana had far too much on her mind to be bothered with any more mischief.
Isana glanced at the girl, eyeing her up and down, before she reached for the poker and thrust it back into the oven, into the coals where one of two tiny fire furies that regulated the oven wasn’t doing its job. She raked the poker through them, stirring them, and saw the flames dance and quiver a bit more as the sleepy fury within stirred to greater life. “As soon as I have a moment to spare,” she told the girl.
“Oh,” Beritte said, somewhat wistfully. “I’m sure we’ll be finished soon.”
“Just peel, Beritte.” Isana turned back to the counter and her bowl. The water within stirred and then quivered upward, resolving itself into a face—her own, but much younger. Isana smiled warmly down at the fury. Rill always remembered what Isana had looked like, the day they’d found one another, and always appeared in the same way as when Isana, then a gawky girl not quite Beritte’s age, had gazed down into a quiet, lovely pool.
“Rill,” Isana said, and touched the surface of the water. The liquid in the bowl curled over her finger and then swirled around quietly in response to her. “Rill,” Isana said again. “Find Bernard.” She pressed an image from her mind, down to the fury through the contact of her finger: her brother’s sure, silent steps, his rumbling, quiet voice, and his broad hands. “Find Bernard,” she said again.
The fury quivered and swirled the water about — then departed the bowl, passing through the air in a quiet wave Isana felt prickling along her skin, and then vanished, down through the earth.
Isana lifted her head and focused on Beritte more sharply. “Now then,” she said. “What’s going on, Beritte?”
“I’m sorry?” the girl asked. She flushed bright red and turned back to her peeling, knife flashing over the tuber, stripping dark skin from pale flesh. “I don’t know what you mean, mistress.”
Isana placed her hands on her hips. “I think you do,” she said her tone crisp and severe. “Beritte, you can either tell me where you got the flowers now, or you can wait until I find out, later.”
Isana felt Beritte’s fluttering panic, dancing around on the edges of the girl’s voice as she spoke. “Honestly, Mistress, I found them waiting for me at my door. I don’t know who —”
“Yes you do,” Isana said. “Hollybells don’t just miracuously appear, and you know the law about harvesting them. If you make me find out on my own, by the great furies, I’ll see to it that you suffer whatever is appropriate anyway.”
Beritte shook h
er head, and one of the hollybells fell from her hair. “No, no, mistress.” Isana could taste the way the lie made the girl inwardly cringe. “I never harvested any of them. Honestly, I —”
Isana’s temper flared, and she snapped, “Oh, Beritte. You aren’t old enough to be able to lie to me. I’ve a banquet to cook and a truthfind to prepare for, and I’ve not time to waste on a spoiled child who thinks that because she’s grown breasts and hips that she knows better than her elders.”
Beritte looked up at Isana, flushing darker with awkward humiliation and then snapped back with her own anger. “Jealous, mistress?”
Isana’s temper abruptly flashed from a frustrated blaze to something cold, icy. For just a moment, she forgot everything else in the kitchen, all the events and disastrous possibilities that faced the steadholt that day, and focused her attention on the buxom girl. For only a moment, she lost control of her emotions and felt the old, bitter rage rise within her.
Every kettle in the kitchen abruptly boiled over, steam flushing out in a cloud that curved around Isana and flowed toward the girl, scalding water racing over the floor in a low wave toward her seat.
Isana felt Beritte’s defiance transformed in an instant to terror, the girl’s eyes widening as she stared at Isana’s face. Beritte thrust her hands out as she stumbled out of her chair, the feeble wind sprites she had collected slowing the oncoming steam enough to allow her to flee. Beritte took a jumping step over the nearest arm of the onrushing water and ran toward the kitchen doors, sobbing.
Isana clenched her fists and closed her eyes, wrenching her mind from the girl, forcing herself to take deep breaths, to regain control of her emotions. The anger, the sheer, bitter rage howled inside her like a living thing trying to tear its way free of her. She could feel its claws scraping at her belly, her bones. She fought it down, forced it away from her thoughts, and as she did the steam settled and spread throughout the room, fogging the thick, rough glass of the windows. The kettles calmed. The water started pooling naturally over the floor.
