Furies of Calderon

Chapter 35

Amara took off her belt in pure frustration and used the buckle to rap hard against the bars in the tiny window of the cell she'd been thrown into. "Guard!" she shouted, trying to force authority into her tone. "Guard, come down here at once!"

"Won't do any good," Bernard said, stretched out on the pallet against the far wall of the room. "They can't hear anything down here."

"It's been hours," Amara said, pacing back and forth in front of the door. "What could that idiot Pluvus be waiting for?"

Bernard rubbed at his beard with one hand. "Depends how gutless he is."

She stopped to look at him. "What do you mean?"

Bernard shrugged. "If he's ambitious, he's going to send out his own people to find out what's going on. He'll try to exploit the situation to his advantage."

"You don't think he is?"

"Not like that, no. Odds are, he's got Gram put in a bed somewhere, and he's dispatched a courier to carry word to Riva, informing them of the situation and asking for instructions."

Amara spat out an oath. "There isn't time for that. He'll have thought of it. He's got Knights Aeris around the perimeter of the Valley to intercept any airborne couriers."

"He? The man at the ford. The one who shot at Tavi." Though his tone didn't change much, Bernard's words held a note of bleak determination.

Amara folded her arms over her chest and leaned against the door, exhausted, frustrated. If it would have helped, she'd have started crying. "Yes. Fidelias." The bitter venom in her own voice surprised even her, and she repeated the name more quietly. "Fidelias."

Bernard turned his head to look at her for a long, quiet moment. "You know him."

She nodded once.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Amara swallowed. "He is… he was my teacher. My -patriserus."

Bernard sat up, frowning. "He's a Cursor?"

"Was," Amara said. "He's thrown in with someone. A rebel." She flushed, her face heating. "I probably shouldn't say any more, Steadholder."

"You don't have to," he assured her. "And call me Bernard. As long as we're stuck in a storage closet together, I think we can skip the titles. There won't be room for all of us."

She gave him a weak smile. "Bernard, then."

"He was your friend, this Fidelias."

She nodded, looking away from him, quiet.

"More than that?"

Amara flushed. "If he'd have let it happen. I was about thirteen when I started training with him, and he was everything. He didn't though. He didn't…" She let her voice trail off.

"He didn't want to take advantage of you," Bernard suggested. At Amara's flustered silence, he said, "I can appreciate that in a man."

"He's good," she said. "I mean, skilled. One of the Crown's best. He's got more missions on record than any Cursor alive, and there are rumors of many more that were never recorded. Some of the things he's done are in textbooks. He's saved the lives of thousands of people who never even knew he was there." She swallowed. "And if you'd asked me a week ago, I would never have dreamed that there could be a man more loyal to the Realm." She heard her voice grow bitter again. "A patriot."

"Maybe that's the problem," Bernard said, pensive.

Amara frowned and looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"There's two kinds of bad men in the world. I mean, there's all kinds of ways for a man to go bad, but when you get right down to it, there's only about two kinds of men who will hurt others with forethought. Premeditation. Men that don't figure there's anyone else alive who matters but them.

And men who figure that there's something that matters more than anyone's life. Even their own." He shook his head. "First one is common enough. Petty, small. They're everywhere. People who just don't give a scorched crow about anyone else. Mostly, the bad they do doesn't amount to much.

"The second kind is like your patriserus. People who hold something dear above their own lives, above anyone else's. They'll fight to protect it and kill to protect it, and the whole time they'll be thinking to themselves that it has to be done. That it's the right thing to do." Bernard glanced up at her and said, "Dangerous those. Very dangerous."

Amara nodded. "Yes. He's dangerous."

"Who said," Bernard rumbled, eyes steady, "that I was talking about Fidelias."

Amara looked up at him sharply.

"It all comes down to people. You can't have a realm or an ideal without people to believe in it. Support it. The realm exists to protect people. Seems kind of backward to me to sacrifice people to protect it."

"It's just not that simple, Steadholder."

"Isn't it? Remember who taught you," Bernard said, his voice gentle, the words clear, firm. "Right now, he's out there and he probably thinks he's doing the only thing he can. Crows, he probably thinks he's doing the right thing. That he's in a position to know when others don't, and so its his choice to make and no one else's."

She pushed her hair back from her face. "How do I know that he hasn't made the right one?"

Bernard stood up and moved toward her. He put a hand on her shoulder, eyes earnest. "Because a sound tree doesn't have bad roots, Amara. No enterprise of greatness begins with treachery, with lying to the people who trust and love you."

Tears did burn her eyes this time, and she closed them for a moment. He tugged her a bit toward him, and she leaned against his warmth for a moment, his strength. "I don't know what else to do," she told him. "I've done everything I can think of to try to avert what's coming. It hasn't been enough." And Gaius had counted on her. Had entrusted her with this mission.

"Sometimes," Bernard rumbled, "the only smart thing to do is nothing. Sometimes you just have to be still and see how events begin to unfold before you move. Be patient."

She shook her head. "There isn't time for that," she insisted. "We have to get someone down here. You have to make them listen to me or-"

Bernard put both large hands on her shoulders, gripped her lightly, and pressed her shoulders against the heavy wood of the door. Then he leaned his weight against her, trapping her there, and lowered his mouth to hers in a kiss that managed to be abrupt and relaxed all at the same time.

Amara felt her eyes widen in surprise. His mouth was soft, warm, and she felt a surge of outrage. Did he think she was some vapid, chattering child to be distracted with a kiss, like a twittering schoolgirl?

Granted, his warmth, his closeness, were very comforting. Granted, the gentle power of his hands and body was something that felt compelling, reassuring, and intimidating all at once. And granted that the scent of him, leather and the wind outdoors and something indescribably, utterly masculine, was something she felt she could take off her clothes and roll about naked in.

She lifted her hands to shove him away from her, but found her palms just resting on the heavy muscle of his chest, taking the measure of his strength, his heat, while her mouth turned farther up to his, her lips parting, pressing against his, exploring and tasting him.

He let out a small, hungry sound, pressing closer to her, his body to hers, and her heart raced. She was still annoyed with him. Of course. And she had a job to do. And regardless of how nice he might smell, or feel, or how her body responded so quickly to his-

She broke the kiss with a frustrated growl. He drew away, just a little, his eyes searching hers.

"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded. Her voice came out more quiet than she meant it to, low.

"I think I am locked in a small room with a beautiful woman," Bernard said, evenly. "And I am kissing her."

"I don't have time to kiss you," Amara said, but her eyes focused on his mouth and her own lips felt a little pang of separation.

"But you want to kiss me," Bernard said.

"No," Amara said. "I mean, this isn't the time."

"No? Where did you plan to go?" He bent his head and placed a soft kiss upon the side of her throat, mouth warm. His tongue fluttered over her skin, and lightning raced out through her limbs in response, yearning more fierce than anything she had felt before. She felt her body melt against his, though she didn't really mean for it to.

She grasped at his hair and dragged his mouth back up to hers, sudden and hungry, kissing him, pressing back against him with a kind of defiant abandon, her hands sliding over his chest, arms, shoulders. Then she shoved against the wall with her hips, pushing him away from it, her body still close to his. She kept him going, back to the pallet, until it hit the back of his knees and he dropped down onto it.

She never lifted her mouth from his, following him, settling astride his hips as he sat down. His hands settled on her waist, huge and strong, and her hunger doubled on itself, sudden irrational desire to feel those hands on her thighs, her back, her throat, everywhere.

"This is just a kiss," she whispered, against his mouth, lips too hungry to touch his to spare much time for words. "That's all. Just a kiss." She followed her urges, trailing a line of kisses down over his jaw to the softer skin of his throat, the beginning of the slope of one shoulder, biting at his skin.

"That's all," he agreed, though there was a groan hidden inside the words. His hands tightened on her waist, sliding down to her hips.

Amara drew up sharply as her hips pressed against his, focusing on his face, struggling to clear her thoughts. But it was hard-it would be so much easier to get rid of her clothing, his, naked skin between them was what she wanted. She wanted to feel his weight pinning her down, feel the hot strength of him pushing into her, to struggle and test her strength against his, and to be overcome. It was a fire inside of her, a raw and primitive need, something that could not be denied. With a snarl of pure, animal hunger, she started tearing at his belt.

"Wait," Bernard said. "Oh, oh crows, Brutus you idiot." He moved beneath her, abruptly, lifting her and dropping her unceremoniously on the pallet. She landed with a thump.

Bernard took a pair of swift steps away from her and held up his hand, palm toward her, motioning her to stop. He frowned in concentration and muttered, "No. Brutus, down."

And Amara abruptly found herself staring at Bernard from the pallet, cold and hungry and panting, body aching with fading need, her clothing disheveled, her hair mussed, her lips swollen from the heat and intensity of the kisses.

She lifted a hand to her temple. "Y-you… you crafted on me."

"I know," Bernard said, his face flushing bright red. "I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."

"You earthcrafted me."

"I'm sorry," Bernard said again, quickly. "Brutus is… my fury is a strong one, and he starts to thinking he knows what's good for me better than I do sometimes." Bernard sank down against the floor. "I'm sorry. I didn't know he was doing it, or I would have never. I mean, I-" He shook his head. After a moment he said, "It's been a long time. And Brutus just… wanted to make something happen."

She stared at him for a long moment, settling onto the pallet, getting her breathing, her feelings back under control. She gathered her feet up and wrapped her arms around her knees, staring down at her shoes, the slippers Isana had put on her feet at Bernardholt.

"You were married," she said, quietly.

"Ten years ago," Benard said, the words quiet, soft, as though they were burrs that would tear at his mouth if he sent them out too quickly. "She died. Blight. My daughters, too."

"And you haven't…" She let it hang unspoken.

He shook his head. "Been busy. Haven't really wanted to be close to anyone until-" he drew in a breath. "Until you kissed me last night. Guess it stirred up some things."

Amara couldn't keep the wry tone from her voice. "I guess it did."

Bernard flushed further and didn't lift his eyes.

She let out a tired laugh. "Bernard. It's all right. You didn't hurt me." And she'd enjoyed it. Wanted it. She had to work to keep from blushing herself. Just the memory of the molten need of that kiss was enough to make her shiver.

"Doesn't make it right." He looked up at her, his eyes worried and, she thought, exquisitely vulnerable, exposing how much he cared about what she would think. "You sure you're all right?"

She nodded. "Well. The obvious parts of being locked up aside."

"I don't think we'll have to worry about it too much longer. That's why I wanted to steal a kiss. I didn't mean that to happen, but I wanted a chance to kiss you before."

"Before what?"

Bernard tilted his head to one side. "Listen."

Dimly, outside, Amara heard a chime tolling the midnight hour

"Change of the watch," Bernard said "If Pluvus follows the regulations, he'll go to his bed and appoint one of his senior centurions as the watch commander "

"All right," Amara said "What does that do for us'"

"It gets us a chance to talk to someone I know," Bernard said He rose, head tilted as he listened, and only a moment later the heavy door at the top of the cellar stairs rattled and banged open

Amara felt her heart race again "Will they let us out?"

"One way to know," Bernard said, and stood by the door

Amara came up to stand beside him "You wanted to kiss me'"

He cleared his throat "Yes "

"Why?"

"I like you," he said

"You like me "

Color crept up his cheeks "You're pretty, and you're brave as anyone I ever saw And I like you "

She felt her mouth creep up at the edges and fought the smile Then gave in to it, looking up at him, and rose onto her toes to plant a kiss on the roughness of his cheek

He glanced down at her, his gaze, for just a moment, showing that heated hunger that she had felt in his kiss "Sometime, I think I'm going to get you alone when there isn't some kind of life threatening situation to interrupt me "

Amara's tongue promptly stuck to the roof of her mouth, which had as abruptly gone dry She tried to gather up enough of her suddenly scattered wits to respond, but the sound of heavy boots on the stairs came first, and a key rattled in the door

The door opened, and Pluvus Pentius faced them with a vacuous expression

Or rather, that was Amara's first impression The truthfinder's head lolled forward on his neck, and a moment later he let out a distinct snore

The door opened farther, and Amara saw two men on either side of the snoozing truthfinder, supporting his limp weight One she recognized, the grizzled old healer from earlier in the day The other wore a centurion's breastplate and helmet, a round-faced man of middle years with dark, squinting eyes

"Bernard," said Harger cheerfully. "I was just asking Pluvus here if we shouldn't let you out, and he said 'yes.'" Harger seized Pluvus's hair and vigorously rocked his head back and forth. "See? The boy can't handle his drink, I'm afraid."

"Steadholder," said the centurion, his voice tense. "This could be worth my helm."

"Giraldi." Bernard stepped forward and clasped the man's shoulder. "Good to see you. How's Rosalia?"

"Worried," Giraldi said, his squinting eyes moving from Bernard back to Amara. "Bernard, what's going on?"

"The Marat are coming. Here. And we think they have the support of a company of mercenary Knights."

Giraldi stared at Bernard, his mouth dropping open. "Bernard. That's crazy. That couldn't happen. Alerans helping the Marat?"

"I was half killed by a Marat warrior near Garados two days ago," Bernard said. "Last night, a group of crafters stronger than me tried to kill my nephew, who had also seen them."

"Tavi? Great furies, Bernard."

"There isn't any time. I told Gram, and he believed me. He ordered a full arming and mobilization, scouts to be sent out, messengers to Riva for reinforcements, before we were attacked by more of the same at the gates to Garrison. Has it been done?"

"I've ordered my full century on watch and armed, Bernard, and I've sent runners to the watchtowers to make sure the balefires will be lit if there's trouble, but that's as much as I can do on my authority."

"Then do it on Gram's," Bernard said. "Get the Knights armed and ready and the rest of your Legion armed out. Bring the local folk inside the walls and get word to Riva. Without the support of the Rivan Legions, it might not matter if we are ready to fight."

With an irritated growl, Giraldi shoved Pluvus's weight onto Harger, who accepted it with a grunt. "Bernard," Giraldi said, "you don't understand. Pluvus is bringing charges against you. Treason, Bernard. He says you were a part of a plot to assassinate Gram."

"That's a load of slive droppings, and you know it."

"But I'm not a Citizen," Giraldi said, his tone quiet. "And off your steadholt, neither are you. With Gram down-"

"How bad is he?"

Harger grunted. "Not good, Bernard. Unconscious. The knife got him low in the back. He's not as young as he used to be, and he'd been drinking pretty heavy the past few weeks. I've done as much as I can for him, but we sent one of our Knights Aeris to bring a healer with more skill than me. I'm a workhorse, but this is delicate. Beyond me."

"At least you've done that. Did he take any word of the attack?"

Giraldi made a frustrated sound. "Bernard. There hasn't been an attack. There hasn't been any sign of an attack."

"It's coming," Bernard snapped. "Crows and carrion, you know what Gram would do. Do it."

"I can't," Giraldi snarled. "Pluvus gave specific orders against a general arming at 'wild and unfounded rumor'. Unless Gram gives me orders himself, I won't be able to do any more than I already have. You don't think I want to, Bernard? I've a wife and three children here. I don't have the authority."

"Then I'll-"

Giraldi shook his head. "You don't either. There are men here who know you, but there are a lot of new ones, too. Those fools you met at the wall today."

Harger let out a nasty chuckle.

Giraldi shot the healer a hard look. "You flattened the son of a Rivan Lord, Bernard. They're insulted, and they aren't going to take any orders from you. You don't have the rank to do this."

Amara stepped forward and said, "I do."

The three men fell abruptly silent. Giraldi reached up and swept off his helmet, a polite gesture. "Excuse me, young lady. I didn't see you there. Miss, I know that you want to help, but-"

"But this is man's work?" Amara asked. "None of us have time for that, centurion. My name is Amara ex Cursori Patronus Gaius. His Majesty has seen fit to grant me the honorary rank of Countess, which I believe entitles me to the same privileges of command as Count Gram."

"Well, young lady, in theory I'm sure that-"

Amara stepped closer to the centurion. "Why are you wasting my time, centurion? You obviously believe that there is a threat, or you wouldn't have armed your men. Stop getting in my way and tell me who I have to bring to heel to get anything done around here."

Giraldi stared at her in baffled surprise. Then he looked at Bernard and said, "Is she telling the truth?"

Bernard folded his arms and eyed Giraldi.

The centurion passed a hand over his close-cropped hair. "All right, Your Ladyship. I suppose the first place to start would be Pluvus-"

Harger drawled, "Pluvus agrees with whatever the lass says, don't you sir?" He took Pluvus's hair and nodded his head back and forth. "There you have it. I'm the doctor, and in my medical opinion, this man is of sound judgment. Sounder than when he's awake, anyway."

Giraldi swallowed nervously. "Yes, and then you'd have to speak to Pirellus, Your Ladyship. He's the Knight Commander of the garrison here. If he goes with you, the other centurions will follow his lead, and their men with them."

"Pirellus? Pirellus of the Black Blade?"

"Aye, Your Ladyship. Strong metalcrafter he is. Fencer like I've rarely seen. Old blood, old family, that one. He don't care much for these puppies we got, but he don't care to be ordered about by a woman, either, Your Ladyship. He gave Finder Olivia headaches like you never saw."

"Wonderful," Amara said, drawing in a breath, thinking. Then she turned to Bernard. "I need my sword back."

Bernard's eyes widened. "Don't you think killing him is a little extreme? Especially since he'd cut you apart."

"It won't come to that. Get it for me." She turned to Giraldi and said, "Take me to him."

"Your Ladyship," Giraldi said hesitantly. "I don't know if you understand. He and the rest of the Knights are abed already."

"They're gambling and wenching you mean," Amara said. "I've seen it before, centurion. Take me to him."

"I'll have the sword, Countess," Bernard rumbled.

She looked back at him and flashed him a quick smile. "Thank you, Steadholder. Healer, perhaps the truthfinder needs a good bed."

"I think he does, at that," agreed Harger cheerfully. He toted Pluvus into the cell and dumped him unceremoniously on the bare palette. "The closest bed possible."

Amara had to stifle the laugh that leapt to her throat and struggled to keep her expression stern. "Centurion, lead on."

"Come on, Bernard," Harger said. "I know where they put your stuff."

Amara followed Centurion Giraldi up out of the basement of what turned out to be a storage building and into Garrison itself, laid out in the

standard formation of a marching camp. "Mutiny," he muttered. "Assaulting a senior officer. Abducting a senior officer. Misrepresenting the orders of a senior officer."

"What's that, centurion?"

"I'm counting how many ways I'll be executed, Your Ladyship."

"Look at it this way," Amara said. "If you live to be hanged, we'll all be very fortunate." She nodded toward the barracks that would customarily house the Knights of a camp. Lights still glowed inside, and she heard a piper and laughter from within. "This one?"

"Yes, Lady," the centurion said.

"Fine. Get to your men. Make sure they watch the signal towers. And ready any other available defense of the walls."

The centurion drew in a breath and nodded. "All right. Do you think you'll convince him, Lady?"

"The only question is whether or not he survives it," Amara said, and her voice sounded cool to her, very certain. "One way or another, those Knights will be ready to fight, by the Crown."

Harger came panting up to them out of the dark, blowing like an old but spirited horse. He held the sword Amara had claimed from the Princeps Memorium in his hand and offered her the hilt. "There you go," the healer panted. "Hope you work quick, girlie. One of the guards thought he saw a light from the furthest tower, but it went out. Bernard took a horse out to see what's going on."

Amara's heart skipped a beat. Bernard alone in that country. The Marat that close. "How far is the tower from here?"

"Seven, eight miles," Harger said.

"Centurion. How long to move troops that far?"

"Without furycrafting? At night? That's rough country, Lady. Maybe they could be here in three hours or a little more, as a body. Light troops could do it a lot faster."

"Crows," Amara breathed. "All right. Get the rest of the troops out of bed, centurion. Assemble them and tell them that the Knight Commander will address them in a few moments."

"Uh, Lady? If he won't come-"

"Leave that to me." She slipped the sword's scabbard through her belt, holding it at her hip with her left hand and stalked toward the Knight's barracks, her heart pounding in her throat. She stopped outside the doors and

took a breath to stabilize herself and clear her mind. Then she put her hand on the door and shoved it open, hard, letting it rattle against its frame.

The inside of the barracks was thick with the smell of wood smoke and wine. Furylamps burned in shades of gold and scarlet. Men played at draughts at one table, stacks of coins riding on the game, while groups threw dice at two others. Women, most of them of an age to speak of their status as camp women, draped on a man's arm here and there, carried wine, or sprawled on a sofa or in a chair, drinking or kissing. One girl, a lithe young thing in a slave's collar and little more, danced to the music of the piper before the fire, casting a slender, dark shadow there like some kind of exotic ornament.

Amara took a breath and walked to the nearest table. "Excuse me," she said, keeping her voice cool, businesslike. "I'm looking for Commander Pirellus."

One of the men at the table looked up at her with a leer. "He's already had his girls for tonight, lass. Though I'd be happy to fill your…" His eyes wandered suggestively. "… time."

Amara faced the man and said, cooly, "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. Where is Commander Pirellus?"

The man's face darkened with drunken anger, and he straightened, picking up a knife in his fist. "What? You saying I'm not good enough for you? You some kind of snob whore that only goes for rich boy Citizens?"

Amara reached for Cirrus and borrowed of her fury's swiftness. Her arm blurred, drawing the short guardsman's blade from its scabbard at her hip. The sword leapt across the space between them before the startled soldier could react, and Amara leaned forward enough to let it dimple his throat. The room abruptly went dead silent, but for the crackle of the fire. "I am a Cursor of the First Lord himself. I'm here on business. And I have no tolerance for drunken fools. Drop the knife."

The soldier made a strangled sound, holding up one hand to her, palm out. The other, he lowered to the table and set the knife down. Amara could feel the ugly stares of the men around him focusing on her like the tips of a dozen spears about to be driven home. Her throat grew tight with fear, but she allowed none of it to be seen on her face, leaving her expression cool, calm, and merciless as an icy sea.

"Thank you," Amara said. "Now. Where is Pirellus?"

Amara heard a door open behind her, and a calm, almost languid voice

said, in a lazy Parcian drawl, "He's having his bath. But he's always at the disposal of a lady."

Amara drew the sword from the throat of the soldier before her and with a glance of disdain, turned her back on him to face the speaker.

He was a man, taller than most, his skin the dark golden brown of her own. His night-black hair, worn long against Legion regulations, spilled down in a damp tangle around his shoulders. He was lean with hard, flat muscle, and bore a slender, curved sword of metal blacker than mourning velvet in his hand. He faced Amara with an expression of bland, confident amusement on his face.

He was also dripping wet and as naked as a babe.

Amara felt her cheeks start to heat and firmly kept herself from giving away her embarrassment. 'You are Pirellus, Knight Commander of Garrison?"

"A Parcian girl," Pirellus said, a wide, white smile coming over his mouth. "It has been a very long time since I have sat down and entertained a Parcian girl." He inclined his head, though his sword did not change its casually ready position at his side. "I am Pirellus.''

Amara arched an eyebrow at him and looked him up and down. "I'd heard so much about you."

Pirellus smiled, confident.

"I thought you'd be," she coughed delicately, letting her gaze linger significantly. "Taller."

The smile vanished. With it, Amara would hope, some of that arrogance.

"Put on some clothes, Commander," Amara said. "Garrison is about to come under attack. You will arm and prepare your men and address the members of the Legions who are assembling outside even now."

"Attack?" Pirellus drawled. "By whom, may I ask?"

"The Marat. We believe they have the support of a company of Knights. Possibly more."

"I see," he said, his tone unconcerned. "Now, let me see. I've seen you somewhere before. I'm trying to remember where."

"The capital," Amara said. "I went to some of your matches two years ago and was in a class you lectured at the Academy."

"That's right," Pirellus said, smiling. "Though you were dressed up like a woman at that time. Now I remember-you're that little windcrafter girl who saved those children in the fires on the east side of the city. That was bravely done."

"Thank you," Amara said

"Stupid, but brave What are you doing here, schoolgirP"

"I'm a Cursor now, Pirellus I've come to warn you of an attack before you get buried in a Marat horde "

"How thoughtful of you And you are speaking to me instead of the garrison commander, because…"

"I am speaking to you because you are the ranking capable officer The Count is unconscious, Pluvus an idiotic politico, and the watch commander a centurion without the rank to order a general mobilization You will order it and send to Riva for reinforcements "

Pirellus's brows shot up "On whose authority?"

"On mine," Amara said "Countess Amara ex Cursori Patronus Gaius of Alera "

Pirellus's expression changed again, to a scowl "You got yourself a title for that little display, and you think you can go where you please and order around who you like?"

Amara abruptly reversed her grip on her sword and laid it, blade gleaming, on the table beside her Then she turned to face him and walked toward him, stopping less than an arm's length away "Pirellus,' she said, keeping her voice to a low murmur "I'd rather not be here And I'd rather not pull rank on you Don't force me to push this as far as I'm willing to "

His eyes met hers, hard, stubborn "Don't threaten me, girl You've got nothing to do it with "

In answer, Amara called upon Cirrus again and struck the man with her open hand across his cheek, a ringing blow that had landed and turned his head before he could avoid it Pirellus stepped back from her, blade coming up to rest pointing at her heart in pure reflex

"Don't bother," Amara told him "If you will not do what needs to be done, I challenge you to juns macto here and now, for negligence of duty treasonous to the Realm " She turned from him and reclaimed the blade, turning back to face him "Blades I can begin when you are ready "

The commander had stopped and was staring at her intently "You're kidding me," he said "You've got to be joking You could never beat me "

"No," Amara said, 'but I'm enough of a blade to make you kill me to win You'd be killing a Cursor in the execution of her duties, Commander Whether I'm a man or woman, whether I'm right or wrong about the coming attack, you will be guilty of treason And we both know what will happen to

you." She lifted her sword and saluted him. "So. If you are willing to throw your life away, please, call the duel and let us be about it. Or get dressed and make ready to defend Garrison. But one way or another, you will hurry, Commander, because I have no time to coddle your ego."

She faced him across the space of a pair of long steps, her blade held up, and did not blink at him. Her heart raced in her throat, and she felt a drop of sweat slide down her jaw to her neck. Pirellus was a master metal-crafter, one of the finest swordsmen alive. If he chose to engage in the duel, he could kill her, and there would be little she could do to stop him. And yet it was necessary. Necessary to convince him of her sincerity, necessary for him to know that she was willing to die to get him to act, that she would sooner die than fail in her duty to Alera, to Gaius. She stared at his eyes and focused on the task before her and refused to give in to her fear or to let it make the sword tremble at all.

Pirellus stared at her for a moment, his expression dark, pensive.

Amara held her breath.

The Knight straightened, slowly, from his casual slouch. He laid the flat of his blade across his forearm, holding it in one hand, and bowed to her, the motion graceful, angrily precise. "Countess," he said, "in the interests of preserving the safety of this garrison, I will do as you command me. But I will make a note of it in my report that I do so under protest."

"So long as you do it," Amara said. Relief spun in her head, and she nearly sat down on the floor. "You'll see to the preparations, then?"

"Yes, Your Ladyship," Pirellus said, his words exquisitely barbed and courteous. "I think I can take care of things. Otto, let's get something into the men besides tea. Wake everyone up. Camdon, lass, fetch me my clothes and armor." One of the men at the draughts table and the collared dancer went running.

Amara withdrew from the room and out into the town again, sheathing her sword and taking deep breaths. It was only moments later that she heard a tightly focused roar of wind and looked up to see a pair of half-dressed Knights Aeris hurtle into the night sky on different headings, bound for Riva, she had no doubt.

She had done it. Finally, Garrison was readying itself for battle. Troops started assembling in the square at the center of town. Furylights glowed. Centurians barked orders, and a drummer began playing fall in. Dogs barked, and wives and children appeared from some of the other buildings,

even as other soldiers were dispatched to wake those in the outbuildings and to draw them into the protection of the town's walls.

It was in the hands of the soldiers now, Amara thought. Her part was done. She had been the eyes of the Crown, its hands, giving warning to Alera's defenders. Surely that would be enough. She found a shadow against one of the heavy walls of the town and leaned back against it, letting her head fall back against the stone. Her body sagged with sudden exhaustion, relief hitting her like a hard liquor, making her feel heavy and tired. So very tired.

She looked up at the stars, now and then visible through the pale clouds overhead, and found herself vaguely surprised that no tears fell. She was too tired to cry.

Drums rolled, and trumpets sounded out orders, different brazen tones calling to separate centuries and maniples of the Legion. Men began to line the walls, while others drew water in preparation for fighting fires. Watercrafters, both Legion Healers, like Harger, and homeskilled wives and daughters of the legionares made their way to the covered shelters inside the walls, where tubs of water were filled and held in preparation to receive the wounded. Firecrafters tended to blazes on the walls, while windcrafters of the Knights at Garrison took to the air above, flying in patrol to warn and ward any surprise attack from the darkened night skies. Earthcrafters manned stations at the gates and walls, their weapons nearby, but their bare hands resting on the stone of the defenses, calling on their furies to imbue them with greater obdurate strength.

The wind began to blow from the north, bringing to Amara the scent of the distant Sea of Ice and of men and of steel. For a time, as distant light began to brush against the eastern horizon, all was silent. Tense anticipation settled over those inside the walls. In one of the barracks buildings, emptied now of men and filled with the children from the outbuildings and the town, children sang a lullaby together, the sound of it sweet and gentle.

Amara pushed away from her darkened patch of wall and paced forward, toward the gates that faced out into the Marat lands beyond Garrison. The guards at the base of the walls stopped her, but Centurion Giraldi saw her and waved her past them. She mounted a ladder that led up to the battlements above the gate, where archers and firecrafters had gathered the most thickly, prepared to rain death down on anyone attempting to storm the gates of the town.

Giraldi stood beside Pirellus, now decked out in armor of gleaming steel. The Parcian swordsman glanced at her and then out at the darkness. "There's been no sign," he said. "No balefires lit by the watchtowers."

Giraldi said quietly, "One of my men saw something earlier. A scout went to look."

Amara swallowed. "Has he come back?"

"Not yet, Lady," Giraldi said, his expression worried. "Not yet."

"Quiet," said one of the legionares abruptly, a lanky young man with large ears. He leaned out, one hand lifting to his ear, and Cirrus stirred gently against Amara, telling her of the windcrafting the young man was working to listen.

"A horse," he said. "A horseman."

"Lights," said Pirellus, and the command echoed down the walls. One by one, furylamps, brilliant and blue and cold lit along the walls, casting a glare out onto the predawn darkness beyond.

For a long moment, nothing moved on the snow. And then they could all hear it, the sound of galloping hoof beats. Seconds later, Bernard plunged into the light atop a hard-ridden grey, with foam on its withers and blood on its flanks, torn flaps of skin hanging from the terrified beast where something had raked at it. Even as Bernard rode closer, the horse bucked and screamed, and Amara could scarcely understand how the Steadholder kept his seat and kept the animal streaking toward Garrison.

"Open the gates!" Bernard shouted. "Let me in!"

Giraldi waited until the last possible moment before barking a command, and the gates were thrown open and then shut again behind the frantic horse, almost before it was through them. A groom came to take the animal, but it reared and screamed, panicked.

Bernard slid off the horse and swiftly away, but the frenzied animal slipped on the icy stones of the courtyard and collapsed onto its side, bleeding, wheezing. Amara could see the long rents in the beast's flesh, where knives or claws had torn at it.

"Get ready," Bernard panted, turning and swiftly mounting the ladder to the battlements above the gates. The Steadholder, his eyes wide, face pale said, "The Cursor was right. There's a horde out there. And about ten thousand of them are coming right behind me."