Furies of Calderon

Chapter 15

For Amara, the walk back to Bernardholt 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 Steadholder had shown was new to Tavi, and it had hurt him badly-dashing his hopes for making a future for himself at the Academy and driving home the notion that without furycrafting 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 Steadholder 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 watercrafter 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 furystorm 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 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 repetitions 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 Steadholders, 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 assault 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 shores.

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 embarrassment 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 assigned 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 Bernardholt 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 steadholt, and she knew the signs of a strong holding-and one in a heightened state of alert. The steadholt'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 Steadholder. "Taking them down to the south field to pull out that big stone, sir."

"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."

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 Steadholder 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 Steadholder'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 reassuring and alive, and he smelled of leather and hay. Amara struggled to say something, but wound up remaining awkwardly silent as the Steadholder 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.

"No substitute for a good pair of socks." He frowned over her foot, fingers moving smoothly. "Hurt there?"

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.

"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 Steadholder, sir?"

Bernard nodded.

"Then you should not be doing this, sir. Washing my feet, I mean."

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?"

"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?"

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 Steadholder 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 Steadholder'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, lass. 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 pinpricks. 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 steadholt, his word was literal law, on nearly any matter one could name-including the disposition and nondebilitating 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 earthwave-he was an earthcrafter, 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 Steadholder was clearly a man who commanded some measure of respect in his people. His steadholt was solid and obviously prosperous. The holdfolk she had seen

had been clean and well fed. His reaction to the boy had been severe, in its own fashion, 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, repetitive, 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 Steadholder. 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 accomplishing 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 Steadholder was hiding something.

What?

Why?

What she wouldn't have given, at that moment, to be a watercrafter, 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.

Bernard came back a few moments later, carrying another bowl under one arm. The Steadholder lifted his eyebrows, his expression surprised. Then he scowled at her, coming over to stand by the table.

"Sir?" she asked. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Crows, girl," Bernard said. "I thought you'd still be warming your feet up."

"You wanted me to peel these, sir."

"Yes, but-" He made an irritated noise. "Never mind. Sit back, let me see your feet again. And your arm, while we're at it."

Amara settled back on her stool, and the Steadholder knelt down on the floor in front of her, setting the bowl to one side. He lifted her feet, grunted something, and then reached into the bowl, drawing out a small jar of some kind of pungent-smelling ointment. "You've got some cuts, from the hills," he said. "Doubt you even felt them, as cold as your feet were. This should help keep them clean and numb some of the pain, when you start getting the feeling back."

He smoothed on the ointment with broad, gentle fingertips, on both feet. Then he drew out a roll of white cloth and a pair of shears. He wrapped her feet carefully in the cloth and finally drew from the bowl a pair of slippers with flexible leather soles and a pair of grey woolen socks. She began to protest, but he shot her a glare and put both socks and slippers on her. "Big feet, for a woman," he commented. "Had some old slippers that should do for a while."

She studied him quietly, during the process. "Thank you. How badly off are they?"

He shrugged. "They look like they'll be all right to me, but I'm no water-crafter. I'll ask my sister to take a look at them when she's feeling better."

Amara tilted her head to one side. "Is she ill?"

Bernard grunted and stood up. "Move that cloak back and roll up your sleeve. Let me have a look at that arm."

Amara moved the cloak back from her shoulder. She tried to roll the sleeve of her blouse up, but the injury was high on her arm, and the cloth bunched too much to allow it. She tried anyway, and the sleeve pinched in on the wound. Pain flashed through her arm again, and she sucked in a shaky breath.

Bernard said, "That's no good. We'll have to get you another shirt." He lifted the shears and, carefully, started snipping the bloodied sleeve away, a little above the first cut in the fabric. He frowned at it and then at the scarlet

cloth of the bandage. The frown only deepened when he unwound the bandage and found the cloth clotted to the wound. He shook his head, fetched fresh water and cloth, and began to soak the bandage and to pull gently at it.

"How did you hurt your arm?"

Amara used her other hand to brush at her hair, pulling it back from her face. "I fell, yesterday. I cut it."

Bernard made a quiet sound and said nothing more until he had soaked the cloth and teased it gently off of the cut without tearing it open. He frowned, and with the cloth and water and soap, cleaned it gently. It burned, and Amara felt her eyes tear up again. She thought she would break down crying, simply from the exhaustion and the constant, relentless pain. She closed her eyes tightly, while he continued the slow, patient work.

There was a rap at the kitchen door, and a nervous voice, belonging to the boy he'd called Frederic, said, "Sir? They're asking for you outside."

"I'll be there in a moment."

Frederic coughed. "But, sir-"

The Steadholder said, voice hardening slightly, "Fred. In a moment."

"Yes, sir," the boy said. The door closed again.

Bernard continued with the wound and murmured, "This should have had stitches. Or someone to craft it closed. You fell?"

"I fell," Amara repeated.

"Apparently you fell along the blade of a sharp sword," the Steadholder commented.

He rinsed and dressed the wound once more, his hands gentle, but even so her arm throbbed and ached horribly. More than anything, Amara wanted to go somewhere dark and quiet and curl into a ball. But she shook her head and said, "Sir, please. Is the boy's story true? Were you really attacked by the Marat?"

Bernard took in a deep breath. He walked away and then came back to her and draped a soft, gentle weight over her shoulders-a blanket. "You're asking a lot of questions, girl. Not sure I like that. And I don't know if you're being honest with me."

"I am, sir." She looked up at him and tried to smile.

His mouth crooked up at one corner. He glanced at her before turning away to pick up a towel, hanging from a peg near the basin. "I've got a problem with your story. No one would send a slave that was hurt as badly as you out to run a message. That's insane."

Amara flushed. "He didn't… exactly know." That much was true, at least. "I didn't want to miss the opportunity."

"No," Bernard said. "Girl, you don't look much like most slaves I've seen. Particularly pretty young women in service to a man."

She felt her face heat still more. "What do you mean, sir?"

He didn't turn toward her. "The way you hold yourself. The way you blushed when I touched your leg." He glanced back and said, "Very few people disguise themselves as a slave, for fear they won't be able to get back out of it again. One has to be either foolish or desperate."

"You think I'm lying to you."

"I know you're lying," the Steadholder said, without malice. "It just remains to be seen if you're foolish or desperate. Maybe you need my help, or maybe you just need to be locked in a cellar until the authorities can collect you. I've got people to look after. I don't know you. I can't trust you."

"But if-"

"This discussion," he said, "is over. Now shut your mouth, before you pass out."

She felt him move closer and looked up just as he lifted her up again, keeping her unwounded arm against his chest. She didn't mean to, but she found herself laying her head against his shoulder and closing her eyes. She was just too tired, and it hurt too much. She hadn't slept since… had it been two days ago?

"… going to be in here fixing dinner," Bernard was saying, "so we'll move you to a cot by the fire in the great hall. Everyone will be in here tonight, because of the storm."

She heard herself make a small sound of acknowledgment, but the ordeal of having her wounds cleaned, coupled with her exhaustion, left her in no condition to do more. She leaned against him and soaked in his warmth, his strength, drowsing.

She didn't stir until he began lowering her onto the cot. The door to the hall opened, somewhere behind him and out of her sight. Footsteps came toward them, but she couldn't see who they belonged to and couldn't work up the energy to care. Frederic's nervous voice said, "Sir, there's some travelers asking for shelter from the storm."

"That's right, Steadholder," said Fidelias, his voice even, pleasant, using a relaxed Rivan accent as though he were a native. "I hope the three of us won't be an inconvenience."