Academ's Fury ca-2

by Jim Butcher

  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 thi
nk 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.