Furies of Calderon ca-1

by Jim Butcher

  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 Bernard-holt'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 her 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.

  Isana stood amidst the sweltering steam and the spilled water and closed her eyes, taking slow, deep breaths. She'd done it again. She'd let too much of the emotion she'd been feeling in another color her own thoughts, her own perceptions. Beritte's insecurity and defiant anger had glided into her and taken root in her own thoughts and feelings-and she had let it happen.

  Isana lifted one slim hand and rubbed at her temples. The additional senses of a watercrafter felt like being able to hear another kind of sound- sound that rubbed against one's temples like eiderdown, until she almost felt that it was grating her skull raw, that blisters would rise on her face and scalp from the sheer friction of all the emotions she felt rubbing against her.

  Still, there was little she could do about it now, but to control herself and to bear what came. One couldn't open one's eyes and later simply decide not to use them. She could dim the perceptions Rill's presence brought to her, but she could never shut them away altogether. It was simply a fact a watercrafter of her power had to live with.

  One of many, she thought. Isana crouched down, murmuring to the tiny furies in the spilled water on the floor, beckoning them until the separate puddles and droplets began running together in the center of the floor into a more coherent mass. Isana studied it, waiting for all the spare droplets to roll in from the far corners of the kitchen.

  The reflection of her own face looked back at her, smooth and slender, and barely older than that of a girl's. She winced, thinking of the face Rill showed her every time the fury came. Perhaps it was not so different from her own.

  She lifted her hand and traced her fingers over her cheek. She had a pretty face, still. Most of forty years, and she barely looked as though she had lived twenty of them. She might look as old as thirty, if she lived another four decades, but no older. There were no lines on her face, at the corners of her eyes, though faint shades of frost stirred in her auburn hair.

  Isana rose and regarded the woman reflected in the water. Tall. Thin. Too thin, for a woman of her age, with scarcely any curve of hip or breast. She might have been mistaken for a gawky child. True, she may carry herself with more confidence, more strength than any child could muster, and true the faint grey touches in her hair may have granted her an age and dignity not strictly warranted by her appearance-and true, everyone in the whole of the Calderon Valley knew her by name or sight or reputation as one of the most formidable furycrafters in it. But that did nothing to change the simple and heartless fact that she looked like a boy in a dress. Like nothing any man would want to marry.

  Isana closed her eyes for a moment, pained. Thirty-seven years old, and she was alone. No suitors, naturally. No garlands to wear, or dances to plan for, or flirtations to plot. That was all long past her, even with the apparent youth her watercrafting bestowed on her. The youth that kept her always a bit distant from the other women her age-women with husbands, families.

  She opened her eyes and idly bade the spilled water to make itself useful and clean the floor. The puddle began sweeping over it obediently, gathering up bits of dust and debris as it did, and Isana went to open the door.

  Cold air poured in, sharp contrast to the steamy kitchen, and she closed her eyes, taking deep, bracing breaths.

  She had to admit it. Beritte's words had stung her, not simply because she'd been feeling too many of the adolescent's intense emotions, but because they had rung true as well. Beritte had all the luscious curves and rondure that would draw any man in the Valley to her-and indeed, she had half a dozen of them dancing on her strings even now, including Tavi, though the boy tried to deny it. Beritte. Firm and ripe and able to bear strong children.

  The way no one had thought Isana would ever be able to.

  She pressed her lips together and opened her eyes. Enough. There was too much work to be about to let an old pain rise to the surface, now. Thunder rumbled over the Valley's floor, and Isana crossed to the northern window, opened it, and eyed the mountain peak to the north. Garados loomed in all of his surly majesty there, snow already gliding further down his shoulders and toward the valley floor, warning of the coming winter. Dark clouds gathered around his head, and as she watched, they flashed with dark green lightning, sending another rumbled warning across the Valley. Lilvia, then-Garados's wife, the storm fury, gathering up clouds for another assault on the people of the Valley. She would wait all day, gathering the warmth of the sun into her cloud-herds and then send them stampeding across the Valley in a rush of thunder and wind and, like as not at this time of the year, sleet and icy rain.

  Isana pressed her lips together. Intolerable. If only a decently gifted windcrafter would settle down in the Valley, they might blunt the worst of Thara's storms before they ever reached the steadholts-but then, any windcrafter that strong would be serving as a Knight or one of the Cursors.

  She walked to the sink and touched the spigot, alerting the furies inside that she desired water from the well. A moment later, it spilled out, cold and clear, and she filled a pair of pans before letting the furies stop the flow of it, then went around the kitchens and refilled the water in the pots that had boiled over. A moment later, she took the bread from the ovens, setting it out in its pans, and slipped the next round of pans into their places. She glanced around the kitchens once more, making sure that everything was in place. The puddle was finished with the floor, so she shooed it out the door to ease into the earth beside the threshold and sink back into the ground.

  "Rill?" Isana called. "What's taking so long?"

  The water bubbled and stirred in her scrying bowl (which doubled as her mixing bowl most days), and then three little splashes announced Rill's

  presence. Isana crossed back to the bowl, drew her braid back over her shoulder, and regarded the surface of the water intently as the ripples stilled.

  The fury showed her a dim view from what must have been a stagnant pool somewhere in the Pine Hollows. A murky shape that could have been Bernard
paced across the image in the bowl and then was gone. Isana shook her head. Rill's images were not always entirely clear, but it seemed that Bernard and Tavi were still pursuing the missing flock.

  She murmured a dismissal to Rill and set the bowl aside-and then noticed a sudden lack of sound from the courtyard. A breath later, the tension levels of Bernardholt swelled into painful intensity.

  Isana steeled herself against the perceptions and walked briskly out of the kitchen. She kept her breathing steady and held herself with rigid confidence. The holdfolk were pressed shoulder to shoulder, facing the center of the courtyard. They were silent, but for faint mutters and worried whispers.

  "Kord," she murmured. Isana stepped forward, and the holdfolk made way for her, clearing a narrow path through the onlookers until she could see the scene in the center of the courtyard.

  Two men stood facing one another in the courtyard, and the air between them practically thrummed with tension. Kord stood with his arms folded over his chest, the ground at his feet shifting and trembling. His greasy beard framed his smile sharply, and his eyes were bright and eager beneath his heavy brows.

  Facing him stood Steadholder Warner, a tall man, slender as a post, with gangling arms and legs and a head that shone bold but for a fringe of wispy grey hair. Warner's narrow, chiseled face had flushed bright red in anger, and the air around him quivered and danced like heat rising off an oven.

  "All I'm saying," Kord drawled, "is that if that little slut of yours can't keep her legs together and men out from between them, it's your problem, friend. Not mine."

  "Shut your mouth," Warner snarled.

  "Or what?" Kord asked, throwing a sneer into the words. "What are you going to do, Warner? Run and hide behind the skirts of a woman and whimper for Gram to come save you?"

  "Why you…" Warner spat. He took a step forward, and the air in the courtyard grew detectably warmer.