by Jim Butcher
It is too late. I cannot go back.
She tried, regardless. She struggled against the stillness, the warmth. She struggled to live.
Sudden light flared like a newborn sun above her. Isana reached for it, embraced that distant fire with every part of her that still lived. It washed over her in a flood and became an instant, blazing torment, horrible and bright, an agony more searing than anything she had ever known. She felt a dizzying wrenching sensation and a sudden rush of confusion, of emptiness where Rill had been before, of more and more pain.
She went back into it, and gladly. The light, the agony, became all consuming, her limbs aching, her lungs burning with her ragged breath, her head pounding, and her mind screaming as raw sensation poured into it.
She heard shouts. Someone was screaming, and there was a heavy thump of impact. Then more screams. Fade, she thought.
"There," someone shouted. Otto? "Look! She's breathing!"
"Get a blanket," replied Roth's steady voice. "And another for Bernard."
"Broth for both, they'll need food."
"I know that. Someone get that idiot slave out of here before he hurts someone else."
The general cloud of pain over her began to resolve itself, by slow degrees, to a dull throb in her hand, and a sweet and oddly satisfying ache of exhaustion spread throughout her. She opened her eyes and turned her head to one side to see Bernard looking blearily around him. She fumbled her hand toward him and saw the fingers of it swollen and oddly shaped. She touched him, and the pain swept down on her, blinded her.
"Easy, Isana." Roth took her wrist and gently pressed her hand back down. "Easy. You need to rest."
"Tavi," Isana said. She struggled to force out the words, though they sounded blurry, even to her. "Find Tavi."
"Rest," Roth said. The old Steadholder looked down on her with gentle, compassionate eyes. "Rest. You've done too much already."
Bitte appeared beside Isana and assured her, "We'll get the Steadholder back on his feet by morning, child. He'll take care of everything. Rest now."
Isana shook her head. She couldn't rest. Not while the storm raged outside. Not while Tavi remained in it, helpless and fragile and alone. She started to sit up, but simply could not. She did not have the strength to do much more than lift her head. She fell back to the floor and felt a tear of frustration glide from one eye. That tear seemed to trigger others, and then she was weeping, silently, weeping until she could not see, could barely breathe.
She should have been more careful. She should have forbidden him to leave the steadholt this morning. She should have seen to her brother more swiftly, should have understood the Kordholders' plans before it had come to violence. She had fought as hard as she could. She had tried. Furies knew, she had tried. But all of her efforts had been for nothing. Time had swept down on her, swift as a hungry crow.
Tavi was out there in the storm. Alone.
O furies and spirits of the departed. Please. Please let him come home safe.
Chapter 12
Amara strove to ignore the exhaustion and the cold. Her limbs shook almost too hard to be controlled, and her entire body throbbed with weariness. More than anything, she wanted to collapse upon the floor and sleep-but if she did, it might cost the boy his life.
She had wiped the mud from his face and his throat as best she could, but it clung to him in a thin layer of slimy clay, grey-brown and mottled over paler skin. It made him look almost like a corpse, several days old. Amara slipped a hand beneath the boy's shirt, feeling for his heartbeat. Even in this weather, he wore only a light tunic and cloak for warmth, evidence of his hardy upbringing here on the savage frontier of the Realm. She shuddered, soaked and half-frozen, and glanced up yearningly toward the nearest of the funeral fires.
The boy's heartbeat thudded against her own mud-stained palm, quick and strong, but when she drew her hand out, she saw the mud dappled with bright scarlet. The boy was wounded, though it couldn't have been anything major-he'd have been dead already. Amara cursed under her breath and felt for his limbs. They were dangerously cold. While she struggled to force her weary mind to decide on a course of action, she began rubbing briskly, at once scraping more of the frigid mud off of him and attempting to restore warmth and circulation to his limbs. She called his name, several times, but though his eyelashes flickered, his eyes did not open, nor did he speak.
She took a quick look around the chamber. Amara shuddered to think of what the mud of the Field of Tears, where so many had fallen, might do to him if it got into his blood. She had to clean it off, and quickly.
She undressed him roughly. He was too limp and heavy, for all his slender appearance, to allow her weakened hands to be any more precise. His clothes tore in a few places before she got them off of him, and by the time she had, his lips had tinged with blue. Amara half-carried, half-dragged him over to the water and then down into it.
The water's warmth came as a pleasant shock to her senses. The pool's floor sloped down sharply until it was about hip deep, and even as she kept the boy's face out of the water, she sank gratefully into it and simply huddled there for a moment, until the rattle of her teeth chattering had begun to slow down.
Then she dragged him a few feet to one side, out of the mud-clouded water, and began to rub roughly over his skin, brushing the clay away until the boy was clean.
He had a shocking collection of bruises, scrapes, abraded skin, and minor cuts. The bruises were fairly fresh, only a few hours old, she judged. His knees had several layers of skin peeled off, apparently a match to the ragged holes in his discarded trousers. His arms, legs, and flanks all showed patches of purple, slowly forming, as though he had been recently beaten, and a lattice of long, tiny cuts covered his skin. He had to have been running through thickets and thorns.
She cleared the mud from his face as best she could, using her already-torn skirts to clean him, and then dragged him back up, out of the water, and over to one of the fires.
As soon as she felt the air on her, she began to shiver again and realized that the water had not been nearly so warm as it had felt-she had simply been too cold, relatively, to feel the difference. She settled the boy in a heap on the floor, as near to the fire as she could manage, and huddled there for a moment, on her heels, her arms wrapped tight around her.
Her head nodded, and Amara let out a startled sound as she fell to her side. She wanted to simply surrender to the exhaustion, but she could not. Neither of them might wake up again. She felt her throat tighten on a whimper of protest, but she drove herself to her feet again, shivering nearly too hard to move, to think.
Her fingers felt like lead as she struggled from her own soaked clothing, thick and nerveless and unresponsive. She let the lighter clothing fall in a sopping heap to the marble floor and staggered to one of the stone sentries facing the bier. She clawed the red cape from its shoulders and wrapped it around her. Amara allowed herself a brief respite, leaning against the wall and shivering into the cape-but then drove herself along the wall to the next statue, and the one after, claiming both of those capes as well, then returning to the boy's side. With the last of her strength, she wrapped him in the scarlet cloaks, securing their warmth around him, near the fire.
Then, huddled into a ball beneath the scarlet fabric of the Royal Guard,
she leaned her head back against the wall. It took nothing more than that for her to sleep.
She woke, warm and aching. The storm raged steadily, all howling winds and frozen rain. Amara pushed herself to her feet, her body weary, stiff from sleeping crouched down on her heels, and blessedly warm beneath the heavy fabric of the cape. She moved to look out of the doorway of the chamber. Night still reigned outside. Lightning flashed and danced without, but it and the accompanying thunder seemed more distant now, sound rumbling along well after the light. The forces of the furies of the air still battled, but the winter winds had pushed their rivals to the south, away from the valley, and much of the rain that fell outside
now rattled and bounced against the cooling earth as true hailstones.
Gaius had to have known, Amara thought. He had to have been aware of the repercussions of calling the southern winds to bear her north to the valley. He had been crafting too long, and knew the forces that affected his realm too well for it to have been an accident. Thus, clearly, the First Lord had intended the storm. But why?
Amara stared out at the bleak night, frowning. She would be trapped until the storm relented. And so will be anyone else in the Valley, fool, she thought. Her eyes widened. Gaius, with this act, had effectively called a halt to any activity within the Calderon Valley until the storm had relented.
But why? If speed had truly been of the essence, why rush her here, only to fence her off from acting? Unless Gaius felt that the opposition was already in motion. In that case, her arrival would put an effective freeze on their activities, perhaps giving her a chance to rest, regain her balance, before acting.
Amara frowned. Would the First Lord truly arrange such a deadly storm, a furycrafting of proportions she could scarcely visualize, merely to allow his agent to rest?
Amara shivered and wrapped the cloak around her a little more tightly. She could only deduce so much of Gaius's reasoning. He knew far more than most in Alera ever could-most would not even begin to grasp the scope of it. He was oftentimes a subtle ruler: Rarely did his actions have only one objective, only one set of consequences. What else did her ruler have in mind?
Amara grimaced. If Gaius had wanted her to know, surely he would have told her. Unless he trusted her competence to work out on her own what he intended. Or unless he still doesn't trust you.
She turned away from the doorway and padded silently back into the chamber, her thoughts in a whirl. She leaned against a wall beside one of the stone guardians, denuded of his cloak, and raked her fingers through her hair. She had to get moving. Surely, the enemies of the Crown would not be idle once the weather broke. She had to have a plan, at least, and get to work on it right away.
The first order of business, Fidelias would have said, would be to gather intelligence. She had to establish what was going on in the Valley before she could effectively do anything about it, whether it be to act, to invoke her authority as a Cursor of the Crown to the local Count, or to report back to Gaius.
She swallowed. All she had to help her was the knife she'd stolen from Fidelias's boot and some clothing far too light for the weather it seemed she would be faced with. She looked back at the boy, curled on his side before the fire, shivering.
She also had him.
Amara moved to the boy's side and laid a hand on his forehead. He let out a soft groan. His skin was too hot, feverish, and his breathing had dried out his lips, cracked them. She frowned and went back to the water, cupping her hands together and carrying it back to the boy. She urged him to drink and tried to tip the water into his mouth. Most of it trickled through her fingers and splashed onto his chin and neck, but he managed to swallow a little. Amara repeated the process several times, until the boy seemed to relax a little, settling down again.
She studied him as she fetched another of the scarlet capes, folded it into a pad, and slipped it beneath his head. He was a beautiful child, in many ways, his features almost delicate. His hair curled around his head, dark, glossy ringlets. He had the long, thick lashes that so many men seemed to have and not care about, and his hands had long, slender fingers that seemed entirely oversized to the rest of him, promising considerable growth yet to come. His skin, where not marred with bruises or scratches, glowed with the ruddy clarity of youth that had somehow avoided awkward adolescence. She hadn't seen what color his eyes were, in the hectic events of the previous evening, but his voice had been clarion-clear in the storm, bell-sharp.
She frowned more seriously, studying the boy. He had almost certainly saved her life. But who was he? They were a considerable walk from any of the local steadholts. She had chosen her landing site in order to avoid coming
down within sight of any of the locals. So what had the boy been doing there, in the middle of nowhere, in that storm?
"Home," the boy murmured. Amara looked down at him, but he hadn't opened his eyes. His face twitched into a frown in his sleep. "I'm sorry, Aunt Isana. Uncle Bernard should be home. Tried to get him home safe."
Amara felt her eyes widen. Bernardholt was the largest steadholt in the Calderon Valley. Steadholder Bernard was the boy's uncle? She leaned closer and asked him, "What happened to your uncle, Tavi? Was he hurt?"
Tavi nodded, a dreamy motion. "Marat. The herdbane. Brutus stopped it but not before it bit him."
Marat? The savages hadn't given the Realm any trouble since the incident on this very site, fifteen or sixteen years ago. Amara had felt skeptical when Gaius had voiced his concern about the Marat, but apparently one had come into the Calderon Valley and attacked an Aleran Steadholder. But what did it mean? Could it have been one lone Marat warrior, a chance meeting in the wilderness?
No. Too coincidental for mere chance. Something larger was under way.
Amara clenched her hand on the fabric of the cape in frustration, wrinkling it. She needed more information.
"Tavi," she said. "What can you tell me of this Marat? Was he of the Herdbane tribe? Was he alone?"
"Had 'nother one," the boy mumbled. "Killed one, but he had 'nother one."
"A second beast?"
"Mmmhmm."
"Where is your uncle now?"
Tavi shook his head, and his expression twisted with pain. "Here. Was supposed to be home. Sent him home with Brutus. Brutus should have brought him back." Tears had started down his cheeks, and Amara swallowed upon seeing them.
She needed information, yes. But she couldn't torment an unconscious child for it. He needed rest. If he was the Steadholder's nephew, and the man had survived the attack, she could bring him home safely and almost certainly secure the Steadholder's enthusiastic cooperation.
"'M sorry," the boy said, broken and still weeping quiet tears. "I tried. Sorry."
"Shhhh," she said. She used an edge of the cloak to wipe the tears away. "Time to rest now. Lay down and rest, Tavi."
He subsided, and she frowned down at him, smoothing his hair back from his fevered forehead while he slept. If a lone Marat was in the Valley, perhaps the Steadholder had gone to hunt it down. But if so, then why would this boy be along? He had no particular skill at crafting, she judged, or he would have used it when the windmanes had been attacking them. He bore no weapons, no equipment. He couldn't have been hunting the Marat.
Amara inverted the idea. Had it hunted the folk of Bernardholt? Possible, particularly from the Herdbane tribe, if all that she heard of the Marat was true. They were a cold and calculating people, as ruthless and deadly as the animals that accepted them as one of their own.
But Marat didn't often take more than one beast as… what sufficed to describe the term? Mate? Companion? Blood-sibling? She shook her head with a shiver. The savages' ways were still alien to her, something fantastic from a tale rather than the businesslike reality she had learned from classes in the Academy.
Hordemasters took more than one beast, commonly, as a symbol of status. But what would a Marat hordemaster be doing in the Calderon Valley?
Invading.
Her own silent response to the thought gave her a little chill. Could the holders have run into the advance scouts of a Marat attack force?
The attack could hardly come at a more advantageous time for the enemy, Amara realized. The roads were slowly closing down for the winter season here among the northern cities. Many troops had been given winter furlough with their families, and folk of the countryside, in general, were winding down the frantic labor of harvest into the sedate pace of winter.
If the Marat attacked the Valley now, providing the forces stationed at Garrison were neutralized, they could wipe out every person in it and maraud through all the steadholts, practically all the way back to Riva itself. They might even, if they
numbered enough, simply pour around the city and into Alera's interior. Amara shuddered to imagine what a horde might accomplish in that event. She had to contact the Count at Garrison- his name was Bram or Gram or something like that-and put him on the alert.
But what if the boy was lying about the Marat? Or mistaken? She grimaced. She knew the local Citizenry by name, at least, though the memorization of the Lords and Counts had been one of the more tedious chores at the Academy. She had no such knowledge of this Steadholder Bernard or
of the folk of the Valley By all accounts, they were a tough and independently minded folk, but she knew nothing about their reliability or lack of it
She had to talk to this Bernard If he had indeed seen a Marat horde-master and been wounded by one of the great hunting birds of the outland plains, then she had to know it, secure his support (and hopefully some new clothes with it), and act
She frowned But she could expect the opposition to be moving as well Fidelias had lead her into a trap she had escaped by the smallest of margins She had been pursued for several hours and escaped the Knights Aeris sent after her through skill and good fortune Did she suppose that Fidelias would not continue the pursuit?
In all probability, she realized, his business lay here, in the Calderon Valley That had to be one of the reasons Gaius sent her here Fidelias was her patnserus Or had been, she thought, with a bitter taste in her mouth She knew him, perhaps better than anyone else alive She had seen through his deception at the renegade camp, though only barely
What would Fidelias do?
He would judge her by her previous actions, of course He would expect her to arrive in the valley and promptly to make contact with the Steadholders, coordinating information and after suitable data had been gathered, to take action against whatever was happening, whether it meant falling into a defense within one of the strongest steadholts or mobilizing the men of the Valley and the troops of Garrison to meet it
