Codex Alera 01 - Furies Of Calderon Part 14

Tavi headed out of the Memorium and into the chill of the northern wind blowing down from the mountains in the north and the Sea of Ice beyond. Though Tavi had kept the scarlet cloak from the Memorium, the wind was still almost enough to make him turn back inside and seek shelter. Frozen blades of gra.s.s crunched beneath his feet, and his breath came out in a steamy haze before his mouth, swiftly torn apart by the winds. There could be no more argument on the subject: Winter had arrived in full force upon the Calderon Valley, and the first snow could not be far behind.

He glanced at the slave behind him. Amara's expression seemed remote, distracted, and she walked with a definite limp, bare feet pale against the icy gra.s.s. Tavi winced and said, "We should stop before long, to get your feet warmed up. We could strip one of the cloaks, at least try to wrap them."

"The wrappings would freeze," she said, after a moment's silence. "The air will keep them warm better than cloth. Just keep going. Once we get to your stead-holt, we can warm them up."

Tavi frowned, more at the way her attention seemed fixed on things elsewhere than at what she had to say. He resolved to keep a close eye on her: Frozen feet were nothing to scoff at, and if she was used to life in the city, she might not realize how dangerous it could be on the frontier, or how quickly frostbite could claim her limbs or her life. He stepped up the pace a little, and Amara kept up with him.

They reached the causeway and started down it, but had walked for no more, than an hour when Tavi felt the ground begin to rumble, a tremor so faint that he had to stop and place his spread fingers against the flagstones in order to detect it. "Hold on," he said. "I think someone's coming."

Amara's expression sharpened almost at once, and Tavi saw her draw the cloak a little more closely against her, her hands beneath it and out of sight. Her eyes flickered around them. "Can you tell who?"

Tavi chewed on his lip. "Feels kind of like Brutus. My uncle's fury. Maybe it's him."

The slave swallowed and said, "I feel it now. Earth fury coming."

In only a moment more, Bernard appeared from around a curve in the road. The flagstones themselves rippled up into a wave beneath his feet, which he kept planted and still, his brow furrowed in concentration, so that the earth moved him forward in one slow undulation, like a leaf borne upon an ocean wave. He wore his winter hunting clothes, heavy and warm, his cloak one of thanadent-hide, layered with gleaming black feather-fur and proof against the coldest nights. He bore his heaviest bow in his hand, an arrow already strung to it, and his eyes, though sunken and surrounded by darker patches of skin, gleamed alertly.

The Stead-holder came down the road as swiftly as a man could run, his pace only slowing as he neared the two travelers, the earth slowly subsiding beneath his feet until he stood upon the causeway, walking the final few paces to them.

"Uncle!" Tavi cried, and threw himself at the man, wrapping his arms as far around him as they could go. "Thank the furies. I was so afraid that you'd been hurt."

Bernard laid a hand on Tavi's shoulder, and the young man thought he felt his uncle relax, just a little. Then he gently, firmly pushed Tavi back and away from him.

Tavi blinked up at him, his stomach twisting in sudden uncertainty. "Uncle? Are you all right?"

"No," Bernard rumbled, his voice quiet. He kept his eyes on Tavi, steadily. "I was hurt. So were others, because I was out chasing sheep with you."

"But Uncle," Tavi began.

Bernard waved a hand, his voice hard if not angry. "You didn't mean it. I know. But because of your mischief some of my folk came to grief. Your aunt nearly died. We're going home."

"Yes, sir," Tavi said quietly.

"I'm sorry to do it, but you can forget about those sheep, Tavi. It appears that there are some things you aren't swift to learn after all."

"But what about-" Tavi began.

"Peace," the big man growled, a warning anger in the tone, and Tavi cringed, feeling the tears well in his eyes. "It's done." Bernard lifted his glower from Tavi and asked, "Who the crows are you?"

Tavi heard the rustle of cloth as the slave dipped into a curtsey. "My name is Amara, sir. I was carrying a message for my master, from Riva to Garrison. I became lost in the storm. The boy found me. He saved my life, sir."

Tavi felt a brief flash of grat.i.tude toward the slave and looked up at his uncle, hopefully. Tavi felt a brief flash of grat.i.tude toward the slave and looked up at his uncle, hopefully. "You were out in that? Fortune favors fools and children," Bernard said. He grunted and asked, "You're a runaway, are you?" "You were out in that? Fortune favors fools and children," Bernard said. He grunted and asked, "You're a runaway, are you?" "No, sir." "No, sir." "We'll see," Bernard said. "Come with me, la.s.s. Don't run. If I have to track you down, I'll get irritable." "We'll see," Bernard said. "Come with me, la.s.s. Don't run. If I have to track you down, I'll get irritable." "Yes, sir." "Yes, sir."

Bernard nodded and then frowned at Tavi again, his voice hardening. "When we get home, boy, you're to go to your room and stay there until I decide what to do with you. Understand?"

Tavi blinked up at his uncle, shocked. He had never reacted like this before. Even when he'd given Tavi a whipping, there had never been the sense of raw, scantily controlled anger in his voice. Bernard was always in control of himself, always calm, always relaxed. Looking up at his uncle, Tavi felt acutely aware of the sheer size of the man, of the hard, angry glitter to his eyes, of the strength of his huge hands. He didn't dare speak, but he tried to plead with his uncle, silently, letting his expression show how sorry he was, how much he wanted things to be right again. He knew, dimly, that he was crying but he didn't care.

Bernard's face remained hard as granite, and as unforgiving. "Do you understand, boy?" Bernard's face remained hard as granite, and as unforgiving. "Do you understand, boy?" Tavi's hopes crumbled before that gaze, wilted away before the heat of his uncle's anger. Tavi's hopes crumbled before that gaze, wilted away before the heat of his uncle's anger. "I understand, sir," he whispered. "I understand, sir," he whispered.

Bernard turned away and started walking down the causeway again, back toward home. "Hurry up," he said, without looking back. "I've wasted enough time on this nonsense."

Tavi stared after him, shocked, numb. His uncle hadn't been this angry the day before, when he'd caught Tavi leaving. What had made this happen? What could drive his uncle to that kind of fury?

The answer came at once. Someone he cared about had been harmed- his sister Isana. Had she truly almost died? Oh, furies, how bad was it?

He had lost something, Tavi knew, something more than sheep or status as a skilled apprentice. He had lost his uncle's respect-something that he had only just began to realize that he had possessed. Bernard had never treated him like the others, not really-never shown him pity for his lack of fury-craft, never a.s.sumed Tavi's incompetence. There had been, especially over the past few months, a kind of comrades.h.i.+p Tavi hadn't known with anyone else, a quiet and un.o.btrusive bond between near-equals, rather than his uncle speaking down to a child. It was something that had been built slowly over the past several years, as he served as his uncle's apprentice.

And it was gone. Tavi had never really realized it was there, and it was gone.

So were the sheep.

So was his chance at the future, of escaping this valley, escaping his own status as a fury-less freak, an unwanted b.a.s.t.a.r.d child of the Legion camps.

Tears blinded him, though he fought to keep them silent. He couldn't see his uncle, though Bernard's impatient snarl came to him clearly. "Tavi."

He didn't hear Amara start walking until he had stumbled forward, after his uncle. He put one foot in front of the other, blindly, the ache inside him as sharp and more painful than any of the wounds he had received the day before.

Tavi walked without looking up. It didn't matter where his feet were taking him.

He wasn't going anywhere.

Chapter 15

For Amara, the walk back to Bernard-holt proved to be a long and arduous exercise in ignoring pain. Despite her words to Tavi earlier that morning, her ankle, injured during the wild landing beneath last night's storm, had stiffened and burned hideously, barely supporting her weight at all. Similarly, the cut Aldrick ex Gladius had dealt her back in the renegade camp throbbed and ached. She could barely ignore one injury without the other occupying her full attention, but even so, she had enough presence of mind to feel pain on behalf of the boy trudging along in front of her.

The reaction of his uncle had not been unkind, she thought at first. Many men would simply have commenced with beating the boy, and only after would they have had anything to say about why the beating had been delivered, if at all. But the longer she walked, the more clear it became just how deeply injured the boy had been by his uncle's words-or perhaps the lack of them.

He was used to being treated kindly, and with some measure of respect. The quiet, cool distance that the Stead-holder had shown was new to Tavi, and it had hurt him badly-das.h.i.+ng his hopes for making a future for himself at the Academy and driving home the notion that without fury-crafting of his own, he was nothing more than a helpless child, a danger to himself and others.

And here, on the wild frontiers of the realm of humanity, where life or death hinged on the daily struggle against hostile furies and beasts, perhaps it was true.

Amara shook her head and focused on the stones of the causeway beneath her feet. Though she felt some empathy for the boy, she could not allow his plight to distract her from her task, namely, to discover what was happening within the Valley and then to take whatever action she thought best to see to it that the realm was protected. She already had some facts to piece together, and her attention was best spent on them.

The Marat had returned to the Calderon Valley, something that had not happened in nearly seventeen years. The Marat warrior Tavi and his uncle had confronted could well have been an advance scout for an attacking horde.

But the growing light of day made that possibility seem increasingly remote, bringing inconsistencies to light. If they had truly encountered a Marat, why had the boy's uncle showed virtually no relief upon finding his missing nephew? For that matter, how had the Stead-holder been on his feet again at all? If the wounds were as serious as the boy had described, it would have taken an extremely talented water-crafter to have had Bernard on his feet again, and Amara didn't think that anyone that skilled would live far from one of the major cities of the Realm. Surely, the injury must have been less than the boy described-and if that was true, then perhaps the incident with the Marat had been likewise exaggerated.

Put into the context of fiction, Tavi's tale of his adventures the previous day made a great deal more sense. The boy, crushed with feelings of inadequacy, could have made up the tales in order to make himself feel more important. It was a far more plausible explanation of what he had told her.

Amara frowned. It was a more plausible explanation, but the boy's courage and resourcefulness could not be denied. Not only had he survived the violent fury-storm of the evening before, but he had also rescued her-at considerable danger to himself-when he could have taken himself to safety without risk. Such courage, conviction, and sacrifice rarely went hand in hand with falsehood.

In the end, Amara decided that she had very little information to work with, until she had spoken to the uncle as well-and he seemed to be in no mood for any kind of discussion. She would have to learn more. If the Marat were were preparing to attack again, defending against them would require a major mobilization, at the end of the year and at fantastic expense to both the High Lord of Riva and the Crown's treasury. There would be resistance to such news-and if she went to the local Count with nothing more than the word of a shepherd boy to go on, she would doubtless hear endless repet.i.tions of the tale of the boy who cried thanadent. She would need the testimony of one of the Count's trusted landowners, one of the Stead-holders, to get more than a token response. preparing to attack again, defending against them would require a major mobilization, at the end of the year and at fantastic expense to both the High Lord of Riva and the Crown's treasury. There would be resistance to such news-and if she went to the local Count with nothing more than the word of a shepherd boy to go on, she would doubtless hear endless repet.i.tions of the tale of the boy who cried thanadent. She would need the testimony of one of the Count's trusted landowners, one of the Stead-holders, to get more than a token response.

The best reaction she could hope for in such a case would be for the Count to dispatch scouts of his own to find the enemy, and even if they managed to return from such a deadly encounter, it might be with a Marat horde on their heels. The Marat could swallow the valley in one a.s.sault and ravage the lands around Riva, while its High Lord, held captive by the onrush of winter, could do little but watch his lands be destroyed.

Ideally, with Bernard's testimony, she might get the Count to mount a more active defense from Garrison, and to send to Riva for reinforcements. Perhaps even manage a preemptive strike, something that might disperse the wave of an oncoming horde before it broke upon the Realm's sh.o.r.es.

On the other hand, if there was no imminent invasion and the Crown's agent roused the local Legions and incurred vast expenditure on Riva, it would be a major embarra.s.sment before the other High Lords, and the Senate. Gaius's reputation might not survive the subsequent attacks, further agitating the already restless High Lords with what could be tragic results.

Amara swallowed. Gaius had a.s.signed her to represent his interests in the Valley. Her decisions would be his. And while he would bear the moral and ethical responsibility for her actions here, the High Lords might demand legal retribution against her for the misuse of Crown authority-and Gaius would be compelled to grant it. Imprisonment, blinding, and crucifixion were some of the gentler sentences she could expect from such a trial.

The Crown's reputation, the possible security of the Realm, and her own life rode upon her decisions. Best she make them carefully.

She needed more information.

They came to Bernard-holt some time just after the sun reached its peak.

Amara was struck at once by the solidity of the place. She had been born and raised in a stead-holt, and she knew the signs of a strong holding-and one in a heightened state of alert. The stead-holt's central buildings had walls higher than some military encampments, reaching nearly twice the height of a man and made of seamless, dark grey stone, laboriously raised from the ground by a powerful earthcrafter. The gates, heavy oak bound with steel, were half-closed, and a grizzled holder wearing an old sword stood on the wall above them, squinting laconically out over the distance.

Outbuildings stood not far from the walls, all of them one-story affairs, including what looked like a forge, vast gargant burrow, a combination barn and stables, and several animal pens. The granary, she knew, would be within the central enclosure, along with the kitchens, the living areas, and several smaller holding pens for animals, usually used only in emergencies. A pair of gargants, tended by a tall, handsome young man with wind-ruddy cheeks and black hair, stood in harness, waiting patiently while he threw several long, heavy ropes into a sack and secured it to one side of the harness.

"Frederic," Bernard called, as they drew closer. "What are you doing with the team?"

The young man, already tall and strong for a boy not yet old enough to depart for the Legions, tugged at a forelock with one hand and ducked his head to the Stead-holder. "Taking them down to the south field to pull out that big stone, sir."

"Can you handle the fury in that one?" "Can you handle the fury in that one?" "Thumper and me can, yes sir." The boy started to turn away. "Hullo, Tavi. Glad you're back in one piece." "Thumper and me can, yes sir." The boy started to turn away. "Hullo, Tavi. Glad you're back in one piece." Amara looked at the shepherd boy, but Tavi barely lifted his gaze to the other young man. He waved a hand, the motion vague. Amara looked at the shepherd boy, but Tavi barely lifted his gaze to the other young man. He waved a hand, the motion vague.

Bernard grunted. "There's another storm in the air. I want you back in two hours, Fred, whether the stone's moved or not. I have no intentions of more people getting hurt."

Frederic nodded and turned back to his work, as Bernard strode on to the gates, nodded to the watchmen over them, and slipped into the stead-holt proper. Once inside, Bernard said, "Tavi."

The boy, without waiting to hear anything else, paced toward the side of the great hall and flung himself up the wooden staircase built along the outside of the building and into a door on the upper story, where Amara knew living quarters would commonly be situated.

Bernard watched the young man vanish inside with a grimace on his face. Then he let out a heavy sigh and glanced back at her. "You, come with me."

"Yes, sir," Amara said, and sketched a small curtsey. It was then that her ankle chose to give out on her altogether, and she wavered to one side with a little yelp.

Bernard's hand shot out and gripped her shoulder, through the scarlet cloak, steadying her-and closing tightly over the painful cut on her upper arm. She let out an involuntary gasp of pain, and her balance swam.

The big Stead-holder stepped forward and simply picked her up as though she weighed no more than a child. "Crows, girl," he muttered with a scowl. "If you were hurt, you should have said something."

Amara swallowed, as a pang of relief from her beleaguered body warred with a nervous anxiety at the Stead-holder's sudden proximity. Like Aldrick, he was an enormous man, but he exuded none of the sense of placid, patient danger that surrounded the swordsman. His strength was something different-warm and rea.s.suring and alive, and he smelled of leather and hay. Amara struggled to say something, but wound up remaining awkwardly silent as the Stead-holder carried her into the great hall and then into the kitchens behind it, where warm air and the smells of baking bread wrapped around her like a blanket.

He carried her over to a table near the fire and promptly sat her down upon it.

"Sir, really," she said. "I'm all right."

Bernard snorted. "The crows you are, girl." He turned and drew up a stool to the table and sat down on it, taking her foot quite gently between his hands. His touch was warm, confident, and again she felt soothed, as though some of that confidence had transferred into her by the touch. "Cold," he said. "Not as bad as it could be. You used crafting to keep your feet warm?"

She blinked at him and nodded mutely. She blinked at him and nodded mutely. "No subst.i.tute for a good pair of socks." He frowned over her foot, fingers moving smoothly. "Hurt there?" "No subst.i.tute for a good pair of socks." He frowned over her foot, fingers moving smoothly. "Hurt there?" She shook her head. She shook her head. "There?" Pain flashed through the whole of her leg, and she couldn't keep the grimace from her face. She nodded. "There?" Pain flashed through the whole of her leg, and she couldn't keep the grimace from her face. She nodded.

"Not broken. Sprain. We need to get your feet warmed up." He rose and walked to a shelf, withdrawing a small copper tub. He touched a finger to the spigot above the washbasin and held his hand beneath it until the water streaming out steamed and turned his skin red with its heat. Then he started filling the tub.

Amara cleared her throat and said, "You are the Stead-holder, sir?" Amara cleared her throat and said, "You are the Stead-holder, sir?" Bernard nodded. Bernard nodded. "Then you should not be doing this, sir. Was.h.i.+ng my feet, I mean." "Then you should not be doing this, sir. Was.h.i.+ng my feet, I mean." Bernard snorted. "We don't hold much with that city nonsense out here, girl." Bernard snorted. "We don't hold much with that city nonsense out here, girl." "I see, sir. As you wish, of course. But may I ask you another question?" "I see, sir. As you wish, of course. But may I ask you another question?" "If you like." "If you like." "The boy, Tavi. He told me that you were attacked by a Marat warrior and one of their war birds. Is that true?" "The boy, Tavi. He told me that you were attacked by a Marat warrior and one of their war birds. Is that true?"

Bernard grunted, his expression darkening. He tapped the spigot again rather sharply, and the water cut off with an apologetic little hiccup. "Tavi likes to tell stories."

She tilted her head to one side. "But did it happen?"

He placed the tub on the stool he'd sat upon a moment before and took her foot and part of her calf in hand. For a moment, Amara was acutely conscious of the sensation of his skin upon hers, the way the cloak and her skirts had fallen to reveal her leg nearly to the knee. She felt her face heat, but if the Stead-holder took note of it, he gave no sign. He slipped her injured foot into the water, then motioned for her to put the other there as well. Her cold-numbed feet tingled unpleasantly, and steam curled up from the tub.

"How did you hurt your leg?" he asked her.

"I slipped and fell," she replied. She repeated to him her story, about carrying a message to Garrison on behalf of her master, adding in a fall just before Tavi found her.

The Stead-holder's expression darkened. "We'll have to send him word. You're not in any shape to continue traveling for another day or two. Wait until your feet have warmed up. Then dry them off and have a seat." He turned toward a larder, opened it, and withdrew a homespun sack full of tubers. He dropped that, a large bowl, and a small knife on the table. "Everyone under my roof works, la.s.s. Once you warm up, peel these. I'll be back directly to see about your arm."

She lifted a hand, resting it over the bandage on her opposite arm. "You're just going to leave me here?"

"With that ankle you won't be going far. And there's another storm rising. The closest shelter, other than this hall, is the Princeps' Memorium, and it looks like you've already cleaned that place out." He nodded toward the scarlet cloak. "I'd be thinking about what I was going to say to Count Gram about that, if I were you. Safeguarding the Memorium is his responsibility. I doubt he's going to be terribly happy with you. Or your master, whoever he is." Bernard turned and started to leave through the doors to the hall.

"Sir," Amara blurted. "You didn't tell me if it was true or not. What Tavi said about the Marat."

"You're right," he said. "I didn't." Then he left.

Amara stared after the man for a moment in frustration. She looked from the doorway he'd vanished through, down to her feet in the steaming basin, and then back up again. Sensation was returning to her feet in an uncomfortable ripple of sharp pinp.r.i.c.ks. She shook her head and waited for the feeling in her feet to return to something closer to normal.

A maddening man, she thought. Confidence bordering upon arrogance. She would not be so poorly treated in any court in the Realm.

Which was the point, of course. This was not one of the cities. Here, on the stead-holt, his word was literal law, on nearly any matter one could name-including the disposition and non-debilitating punishment of a runaway slave. Were she a slave in fact, rather than in fiction, he could have done nearly anything to her, and as long as he returned her in one piece, and capable of fulfilling her duties, the law would support him as though he were a Citizen. Instead of caring for her and leaving her in a warm room with her feet in a hot bath, he could have as easily stabled her with the animals or put her to any of a number of other uses.

Her cheeks flushed again. The man had affected her, and he shouldn't have. She had seen him riding an earth-wave-he was was an earth-crafter, after all. Some of them could affect the temperaments of animals and the base natures of human beings, as well, draw out raw, primal impulses that otherwise would never surface. That would explain it. an earth-crafter, after all. Some of them could affect the temperaments of animals and the base natures of human beings, as well, draw out raw, primal impulses that otherwise would never surface. That would explain it.

But then, and more to the point, he had been very gentle with her, when he held her. He needn't have done so much as let her onto his land, and he had all but forcibly pressed hospitality onto her. Despite his threats and words, he hadn't locked her in a cellar or shown anything but concern and kindness.

Amara stirred her feet in the water, frowning. The Stead-holder was clearly a man who commanded some measure of respect in his people. His stead-holt was solid and obviously prosperous. The hold-folk she had seen had been clean and well fed. His reaction to the boy had been severe, in its own fas.h.i.+on, but restrained by the standards of most of the Realm. Had the man wanted her, he could simply have taken her, and not bothered with crafting her into a frenzy.

The contrast of his strength, physical and otherwise, against several demonstrations of gentleness was a surprising one. Though she had no doubts that he could be a hard man when called upon, she sensed a genuine kindness in his manner and an obvious love for the boy.

Amara drew her feet from the tub and patted them dry with the towel, then lowered herself from the table and perched gingerly on another stool. She reached for the paring knife and one of the tubers and started skinning the peel off of it, dropping the peel in a smooth spiral into the tub of water she'd just used and depositing the flesh of the root into the bowl the Stead-holder had left her. The task was soothing, in its own way, repet.i.tive, comforting.

She had been through a lot in the past few hours. Her world had been shaken, and she'd faced death at close quarters more than once. That might explain the sudden vibrance of her emotions, of her pure physical reaction to the Stead-holder. He was, after all, an imposing and not unattractive man, she supposed. She might have had the same reaction to anyone in such proximity to her. Soldiers reacted that way often, when death was so near at hand, seizing at any opportunity to live life more richly, more fully. That must have been it, Amara decided.

But that got her no closer to accomplis.h.i.+ng her mission. She blew out a frustrated breath. Bernard had neither confirmed nor denied the encounter with the Marat. Any mention of it, in fact, seemed to have made him increasingly evasive. Much more so, she thought, than was reasonable for the situation.

She frowned over that thought. The Stead-holder was hiding something. She frowned over that thought. The Stead-holder was hiding something. What? What? Why? Why?

What she wouldn't have given, at that moment, to be a water-crafter, to have been able to sense more about him-or to have had more experience in reading people's expressions and body language.

She had to know more. She had to know if she had a credible witness to bring before the local Count or not. She had to know if the First Lord's fears were viable.