by Jim Butcher
“That’s inhuman,” Isana said. “Great furies, Aric. How can you let this happen?”
“Shut up,” he said. “Just you shut up.” Motions stiff, angry, he pushed off the wall and recovered the bucket and started filling it with coal again.
“You were right, you know,” Isana said, keeping her voice quiet. “I was telling the truth. So was Tavi, if he told you that the Valley was in danger. That the Marat may be coming again. It could happen soon. It could have begun already. Aric, please, listen to me.”
He dumped more coal out onto the fires and returned to gather up more.
“You have to get word out. For your own sake, if not for ours. If the Marat come they’ll kill everyone of Kordholt, too.”
“You’re lying,” he told her, not looking at her. “You’re just lying. Trying to save your hide.”
“I’m not,” Isana said. “Aric, you’ve known me your whole life. When that tree fell on you that Winterfair, I helped you. I helped everyone in the Valley who needed it, and I never asked for anything in return.”
Aric added more coal to the fire.
“How can you be a part of this?” she demanded. “You aren’t stupid, Aric. How can you do this to other Alerans?”
“How can I not?” Aric said, voice cold. “This is all I have. I don’t have a happy steadholt where people take care of each other. I have this. Men who no one else would take live here. Women who no one would want to be. He’s my blood. Bittan—” He broke off and swallowed. “He was my blood, too. As stupid and mean as he could be, he was my brother.”
“I’m sorry,” Isana said, and found that she felt it. “I never wanted anyone to get hurt. I hope you know that.”
“I know,” Aric said. “You heard what happened to Heddy and you wanted what was right to happen. To keep her safe, and girls like her. Crows know they need it, with Pa around like some—” He shook his head.
Isana fell silent for a long moment, staring at the young man, an understanding dawning on her. Then she said, quietly, “It wasn’t Bittan that was with Heddy. It was you, Aric.”
He didn’t look at her. He didn’t speak.
“It was you. That’s why she was trying to draw her father back from juris macto with yours. She wasn’t raped.”
Aric rubbed at the back of his neck. “We . . . we liked each other. Got together when there was a Meet or a Fair. Her little brother found us. Too young to know what he saw. I got out before he seen who I was. But he went running to her father, and how could she tell him she’d been making time with one of Kord’s sons.” He spat the words with disgust. “She didn’t say much, I guess, and her old man made up his own mind what happened.”
“Oh, furies,” Isana said, sadly. “Aric, why didn’t you say anything?”
“Say what?” Aric said, flicking a hard glance at her. “Tell my father that I loved a girl and wanted to marry her. Bring her here?” He gestured around the smokehouse with one hand. “Or maybe I should have been all honorable and went to her father. Do you think he would have listened to me? Do you think for a second Warner wouldn’t have strangled me where I stood?”
Isana rubbed a shaking hand at her eyes. “I’m sorry. Aric, I’m sorry. We’ve all . . . known that your father was . . . that he’d gone too far. But we didn’t do anything. We didn’t know things were this bad at his steadholt.”
“Too late for all of that now.” Aric dropped the bucket and headed for the door.
“It’s not,” Isana said. “Wait. Just listen to me, Aric. Please.”
He stopped, his back still to her.
“You know him,” she said. “He’ll kill us. But if you help us get out, I’ll help you, I swear by all the furies. I’ll help you get away if you want to. I’ll help you settle things with Warner. If you do love the girl, you might be able to be with her if you do the right thing.”
“Help both of you? That woman was trying to kill you last night.” He looked back at her. “Why would you help her?”
“I wouldn’t leave any woman here, Aric,” Isana said, voice quiet, calm. “I wouldn’t leave anyone to him. Not anymore. I won’t let him keep doing this.”
“You can’t stop him.” Aric’s voice was tired. “You can’t. Not here. He’s a Citizen.”
“That’s right. And so is my brother. Bernard will call him to juris macto. And he’ll win, too. We both know that.” She stood up, facing Aric, and lifted her chin. “Break the circle. Bring me water. Help us escape.”
There was silence for a long moment.
“He’d kill me,” Aric said then, his voice numb. “He’s said so before. I believe him. Bittan was his favorite. He’d kill me, and he’d get the whole story, and he’d get Heddy, too.”
“Not if we stop him. Aric, it doesn’t have to be this way. Help me. Let me help you.”
“I can’t,” he said. He looked back at her and said, quietly, “Isana, I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for you and for that girl. But he’s my only blood. He’s a monster. But he’s all I have.” The young man turned and left, shutting the door to the smokehouse behind him. Isana heard several heavy bolts sliding shut on the outside. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, a growling, sleepy leftover of the previous night’s tempest.
Inside the smokehouse, the coals popped and simmered.
Odiana breathed slowly, quietly.
Isana bowed her head, staring at the woman, at the collar about her throat. She remembered Odiana’s frantic pleas to kill her.
Isana lifted her hand to her own throat and shivered.
Then she sank back to the ground, her head bowed.
CHAPTER 29
Amara’s ankle burned and ached, and she fought to keep her labored breathing from turning into a panting gasp. Bernard, running through the ice and snow-covered trees several yards ahead of her, reached a small rise and vanished down the other side. She followed him, stumbling at the last pace, and threw herself into the ditch behind the little rise with a crunching of snow and frozen leaves.
Bernard put his hand on her back, steadying her, and lifted a hand to hold it in front of her mouth and block the wisps of vapor escaping with each exhalation. His eyes went distant, and then she felt him pull the veil over them.
Shadows shifted and changed in subtle patterns over her skin, as the trees around them sighed and rustled as though in a wind. The frozen brush did not seem to move so much as to have simply grown into a screen over them, and the sudden scent of earth and crushed plants flooded over them, veiling even that much evidence of their presence.
Only a few seconds later, they heard hoof falls in the forest behind them, and Amara moved enough to peer over the rise at the direction in which they’d come.
“Won’t they see our tracks?” she whispered in a rough gasp of breath.
Bernard shook his head, his face drawn, weary. “No,” he whispered. “Trees lost some leaves in some places. Grass stirred enough to move the snow in others. And it’s all ice, sleet. Shadows are helping hide more.”
Amara sank slowly back down behind the rise, frowning at him. “Are you all right?”
“Tired,” he said, and closed his eyes. “They’re Knights. Their furies are on unfamiliar ground, but they’re strong. Starting to have trouble misdirecting them.”
“Fidelias has pulled out all the stops if he’s started a general hunt for us. That means he’ll accelerate the plans for attack as well. How close are we to Garrison?”
“Few hundred yards to the edge of the trees,” Bernard said. “Then half a mile of open ground. Anything at this end of the Valley will be able to see us.”
“Can you earthwave us across it?”
Bernard shook his head. “Tired.”
“Can we run it?”
“Not with your leg,” Bernard said. “And with them mounted. They’d just ride us down and spit us.”
Amara nodded and waited until the sound of the riders had drifted away from them, off in another direction. “Half a mile. If it comes to that, I
might be able to carry us. Those riders are using earth furies, yes?”
Bernard nodded. “Some wood.”
“Either way, we’ll be away from them in the open and in the air.”
“And if they have Knights Aeris with them?”
“I’ll just have to be faster,” Amara said. She squinted up. “I still haven’t seen anyone. It would be a strain to hold position overhead with so little wind, unless they were so high in the air that the clouds were giving them cover — and that would hide us as well.”
Bernard shivered and touched the ground with one hand. “Hold on.” His voice had a strained note to it, and he let his breath out again a moment later with a low groan in it. “They’re close. We can’t stay here any longer. The earth is too hard. Difficult to hide us.”
“I’m ready,” Amara said.
Bernard nodded, opening his eyes, his face set in lines of grim and weary determination. They rose and headed through the woods.
It only took a few moments to get to the end of the trees and to the open ground that led up to Garrison.
The place was a fortress. There, two of the mountains that rose up all around them fell together into an enormous V. At the point of the Valley between them lay the grim grey walls of Garrison, stretching across the mouth of the Valley and blocking entry into it from the lands beyond with expansive, grim efficiency. The wall stretched across the mouth of the Valley from the Marat lands beyond, twenty feet high and nearly as thick, all of smooth grey stone, its walls surmounted by parapets and crenelation. The gleaming forms of armored legionares stood at regular posts along the wall, draped in cloaks of scarlet and gold, the colors of the High Lord of Riva.
Behind the wall stood the rest of Garrison, a blocky fortress laid out in a Legion square with ten-foot walls, a marching camp constructed of stone rather than of wood and earth. Fewer guards stood on the walls there, though they were not absent. Outbuildings had grown up around the outside of Garrison, impermanent and slapdash structures that nonetheless had somehow managed to acquire the air of solidity that accompanied a small town. The rear gates of Garrison stood open, and the causeway wound across the Valley and up to them. People drifted around, walking briskly from building to building and moving in and out of the gates to the camp proper. Children scampered around in the ice and snow, playing as they always did. Amara could see dogs, horses, a pen of sheep, and the smoke of dozens of fires.
“There’s the gate,” she said.
“Right,” said Bernard. “We head for that. I know the men stationed out here, for the most part. We shouldn’t have any trouble getting to Gram. Just remember: Be polite and respectful.”
“All right,” Amara said, impatient.
“I mean it,” Bernard said. “Gram’s got a quick temper, and he’s more than capable of tossing us into holding cells until he cools off. Don’t test him.”
“I won’t,” Amara said. “Can you tell if they’re getting any closer to us?”
Bernard shook his head, grimacing.
“Then we go across. Keep your eyes open, and if you see anyone coming, we’ll get into the air.” Amara glanced across the plain and swept her eyes across the sky one last time, winced as she put weight on her injured ankle, and started off toward Garrison at a limping lope. Bernard shuffled along several paces behind her, his footsteps heavy.
The run seemed to take forever, and Amara nearly twisted her ankle again, more than once, as she turned her head this way and that, watching for pursuit.
But for all their fear of being ridden down in the open ground, they reached the outbuildings and then the guarded gates to Garrison itself without incident.
A pair of young legionares stood on guard at the gates, their expressions bored, heavy cloaks worn against the cold, spears held negligently in gloved hands. One of them was unshaven (strictly against Legion regulations, Amara knew), and the other wore a cloak that did not seem to be of standard Legion issue, either, its fabric finer, its colors unmatched.
“Hold,” said the unshaven guard in a flat tone. “State your name and purpose of your visit.”
Amara deferred to Bernard, glancing back at the Steadholder.
Bernard frowned at the two men. “Where is Centurion Giraldi?”
The one in the cloak gave Bernard a blank look. “Hey,” he said. “Clodhopper. In case you didn’t notice, we’re the soldiers here—”
“And Citizens,” put in the other in a surly tone.
“And Citizens,” the guard in the fine cloak said. “So we’ll ask the questions, if that’s all right with you. State your name and the purpose of your visit.”
Bernard narrowed his eyes. “I suppose you boys are new to the Valley. I am Steadholder Bernard, and I am here to see Count Gram.”
Both soldiers broke out in snickers.
“Yes, well,” the unshaven one said, “The Count is a busy man. He doesn’t have time for visiting with every scruffy clodhopper about every little problem that comes up.”
Bernard took a deep breath. “I understand that,” he said. “Nonetheless, I am well within my rights to request to see him immediately on a matter of urgency to his holdings.”
The unshaven guard shrugged. “You aren’t a Citizen, clodhopper. You don’t have any rights that I know of.”
Amara’s temper flashed, her patience evaporating. “We do not have time for this,” she snapped. She turned to the guard in the fine cloak and said, “Garrison could be in danger of attack. We need to warn Gram about it, and let him react as he thinks fit.”
The guards glanced at each other and then at Amara. “Look at that,” the unshaven one drawled. “A girl. And here I thought that was just a skinny boy.”
His partner leered. “I suppose we could always take off those breeches and find out.”
Bernard narrowed his eyes. The Steadholder’s fist lashed out, and the young legionare in the fine cloak landed in a senseless sprawl on the snow.
His unshaven partner blinked down at the unconscious young man and then up at Bernard. He reached for his spear, but Bernard spoke sharply, and the weapon’s haft bowed, then straightened again, writhing out of the guard’s reach and bounding away. The guard let out a short shriek and reached for his dagger.
Bernard stepped close to the young man and clutched his wrist, holding his hand at his belt. “Son. Don’t be stupid. You’d best go get your superior officer.”
“You can’t do that,” the guard sputtered. “I’ll throw you in irons.”
“I just did it,” Bernard said. “And if you don’t want me to do it again, you’ll go get your centurion.” Then he gave the young man a stiff shove, sending him clattering backward and falling into the snow at the base of the wall.
The guard swallowed and then bolted, running inside.
Amara looked from the guard in the snow to Bernard and asked, “Polite and respectful, eh?”
Bernard’s face flushed. “They might be spoiled city boys, but they’re Legion, by the furies. They should treat women with more respect.” He rubbed at his hair. “And show more respect to a Steadholder, I suppose.”
Amara smiled, but didn’t say anything. Bernard flushed even brighter and coughed, looking away.
The unshaven guard emerged from the guardhouse with a half-dressed centurion, a young man little older than him. The centurion blinked stupidly at Bernard for a minute, then gave the guard a terse order, before stumbling back into the guardhouse to march off a moment later, still only half-dressed.
Several legionares gathered around the gate, and to Bernard’s relief he recognized a few of the men from previous visits to Garrison. A few moments later, a grizzled old man dressed in a civilian tunic, but with the bearing and mien of a soldier, came walking briskly out of the gates, wisps of white hair drifting around his bald pate.
“Steadholder Bernard,” he said, critically, eyeing the Steadholder. “You don’t look so good.” He made no particular comment about the condition of the guard lying in the snow, leaning down to r
est his fingertips lightly on the young man’s temples.
“Healer Harger,” Bernard responded. “Did I hit him too hard?”
“Can’t hit a head that thick too hard,” Harger muttered. Then cackled. “Oh, he’ll have a headache when he wakes up. I’ve been waiting for this to happen.”
“New recruits?”
Harger stood up and paid little further attention to the young guard in the snow. “The better part of two whole cohorts down from Riva herself. Citizens’ sons, almost all of them. Not enough sense to carry salt in a storm among the whole lot.”
Bernard grimaced. “I need to get to Gram. Fast, Harger.”
Harger frowned, tilting his head to one side and studying Bernard. “What’s happened?”
“Get me to Gram,” Bernard said.
Harger shook his head. “Gram’s . . . been indisposed.”
Amara blinked. “He’s sick?”
Harger snorted. “Sick of rich boys who expect to be treated like invalids instead of legionares, maybe.” He shook his head. “You’ll have to talk to his truthfinder, Bernard.”
“Olivia? Get her on down here.”
“No,” Harger said, and grimaced. “Livvie’s youngest came to term, and she went back to Riva to help with the birth. Now we’ve got —”
“Centurion,” bawled a high, nasal voice. “What’s going on down here? Who is in charge of this gate? What foolishness is this?”
Harger rolled his eyes. “We’ve got Pluvus Pentius instead. Good luck, Bernard.” Harger stooped down and scooped up the unconscious young legionare, tossing him over one shoulder with a grunt, and then headed back inside the fort.
Pluvus Pentius turned out to be a slight young man with watery blue eyes and a decided overbite. He wore the crimson and gold of a Rivan officer, though his uniform tended to sag around the shoulders and stretched a bit over the belly. The officer slouched toward them through the snow, squinting in disapproval.
