Furies of Calderon (47 page)

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t speak.

“It was you. That’s why she was trying to draw her father back from
juris macto
with yours. She wasn’t raped.”

Aric rubbed at the back of his neck. “We… we liked each other. Got together when there was a Meet or a Fair. Her little brother found us. Too young to know what he saw. I got out before he seen who I was. But he went running to her father, and how could she tell him she’d been making time with one of
Kord’s
sons.” He spat the words with disgust. “She didn’t say much, I guess, and her old man made up his own mind what happened.”

“Oh, furies,” Isana said, sadly. “Aric, why didn’t you say anything?”

“Say what?” Aric said, flicking a hard glance at her. “Tell my father that I loved a girl and wanted to marry her. Bring her
here
?” He gestured around the smokehouse with one hand. “Or maybe I should have been all honorable and went to her father. Do you think he would have listened to me? Do you think for a second Warner wouldn’t have strangled me where I stood?”

Isana rubbed a shaking hand at her eyes. “I’m sorry. Aric, I’m sorry. We’ve all… known that your father was… that he’d gone too far. But we didn’t do anything. We didn’t know things were this bad at his stead-holt.”

“You know him,” she said. “He’ll kill us. But if you help us get out, I’ll help you, I swear by all the furies. I’ll help you get away if you want to. I’ll help you settle things with Warner. If you do love the girl, you might be able to be with her if you do the right thing.”

“Help both of you? That woman was trying to kill you last night.” He looked back at her. “Why would you help her?”

“I wouldn’t leave any woman here, Aric,” Isana said, voice quiet, calm. “I wouldn’t leave anyone to him. Not anymore. I won’t let him keep doing this.”

“You can’t stop him.” Aric’s voice was tired. “You can’t. Not here. He’s a Citizen.”

“That’s right. And so is my brother. Bernard will call him to
juris macto
. And he’ll win, too. We both know that.” She stood up, facing Aric, and lifted her chin. “Break the circle. Bring me water. Help us escape.”

There was silence for a long moment.

“He’d kill me,” Aric said then, his voice numb. “He’s said so before. I believe him. Bittan was his favorite. He’d kill me, and he’d get the whole story, and he’d get Heddy, too.”

“Not if we stop him. Aric, it doesn’t have to be this way. Help me. Let me help you.”

“I can’t,” he said. He looked back at her and said, quietly, “Isana, I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for you and for that girl. But he’s my only blood. He’s a monster. But he’s all I have.” The young man turned and left, shutting the door to the smokehouse behind him. Isana heard several heavy bolts sliding shut on the outside. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, a growling, sleepy leftover of the previous night’s tempest.

Chapter 29

Amara’s ankle burned and ached, and she fought to keep her labored breathing from turning into a panting gasp. Bernard, running through the ice and snow-covered trees several yards ahead of her, reached a small rise and vanished down the other side. She followed him, stumbling at the last pace, and threw herself into the ditch behind the little rise with a crunching of snow and frozen leaves.

Bernard put his hand on her back, steadying her, and lifted a hand to hold it in front of her mouth and block the wisps of vapor escaping with each exhalation. His eyes went distant, and then she felt him pull the veil over them.

Shadows shifted and changed in subtle patterns over her skin, as the trees around them sighed and rustled as though in a wind. The frozen brush did not seem to move so much as to have simply grown into a screen over them, and the sudden scent of earth and crushed plants flooded over them, veiling even that much evidence of their presence.

Only a few seconds later, they heard hoof falls in the forest behind them, and Amara moved enough to peer over the rise at the direction in which they’d come.

“Won’t they see our tracks?” she whispered in a rough gasp of breath.

Bernard shook his head, his face drawn, weary. “No,” he whispered. “Trees lost some leaves in some places. Grass stirred enough to move the snow in others. And it’s all ice, sleet. Shadows are helping hide more.”

Amara sunk slowly back down behind the rise, frowning at him. “Are you all right?”

“Tired,” he said, and closed his eyes. “They’re Knights. Their furies are on unfamiliar ground, but they’re strong. Starting to have trouble misdirecting them.”

“Fidelias has pulled out all the stops if he’s started a general hunt for us. That means he’ll accelerate the plans for attack as well. How close are we to Garrison?”

“Few hundred yards to the edge of the trees,” Bernard said. “Then half a mile of open ground. Anything at this end of the Valley will be able to see us.”

Amara nodded and waited until the sound of the riders had drifted away from them, off in another direction. “Half a mile. If it comes to that, I might be able to carry us. Those riders are using earth furies, yes?”

“I’ll just have to be faster,” Amara said. She squinted up. “I still haven’t seen anyone. It would be a strain to hold position overhead with so little wind, unless they were so high in the air that the clouds were giving them cover—and that would hide us as well.”

Bernard shivered and touched the ground with one hand. “Hold on.” His voice had a strained note to it, and he let his breath out again a moment later with a low groan in it. “They’re close. We can’t stay here any longer. The earth is too hard. Difficult to hide us.”

The place was a fortress. There, two of the mountains that rose up all around them fell together into an enormous
V
. At the point of the Valley between them lay the grim grey walls of Garrison, stretching across the mouth of the Valley and blocking entry into it from the lands beyond with expansive, grim efficiency. The wall stretched across the mouth of the Valley from the Marat lands beyond, twenty feet high and nearly as thick, all of smooth grey stone, its walls surmounted by parapets and crenelation. The gleaming forms of armored
legionares
stood at regular posts along the wall, draped in cloaks of scarlet and gold, the colors of the High Lord of Riva.

Behind the wall stood the rest of Garrison, a blocky fortress laid out in a Legion square with ten-foot walls, a marching camp constructed of stone rather than of wood and earth. Fewer guards stood on the walls there, though they were not absent. Outbuildings had grown up around the outside of Garrison, impermanent and slapdash structures that nonetheless had somehow managed to acquire the air of solidity that accompanied a small town. The rear gates of Garrison stood open, and the causeway wound across the Valley and up to them. People drifted around, walking briskly from building to building and moving in and out of the gates to the camp proper. Children scampered around in the ice and snow, playing as they always did. Amara could see dogs, horses, a pen of sheep, and the smoke of dozens of fires.

“There’s the gate,” she said.

“Right,” said Bernard. “We head for that. I know the men stationed out here, for the most part. We shouldn’t have any trouble getting to Gram. Just remember: Be polite and respectful.”

“All right,” Amara said, impatient.

“I mean it,” Bernard said. “Gram’s got a quick temper, and he’s more than capable of tossing us into holding cells until he cools off. Don’t test him.”

“I won’t,” Amara said. “Can you tell if they’re getting any closer to us?”

Bernard shook his head, grimacing.

“Then we go across. Keep your eyes open, and if you see anyone coming, we’ll get into the air.” Amara glanced across the plain and swept her eyes across the sky one last time, winced as she put weight on her injured ankle, and started off toward Garrison at a limping lope. Bernard shuffled along several paces behind her, his footsteps heavy.

The run seemed to take forever, and Amara nearly twisted her ankle again, more than once, as she turned her head this way and that, watching for pursuit.

But for all their fear of being ridden down in the open ground, they reached the outbuildings and then the guarded gates to Garrison itself without incident.

A pair of young
legionares
stood on guard at the gates, their expressions bored, heavy cloaks worn against the cold, spears held negligently in gloved hands. One of them was unshaven (strictly against Legion regulations, Amara knew), and the other wore a cloak that did not seem to be of standard Legion issue, either, its fabric finer, its colors unmatched.

“And Citizens,” the guard in the fine cloak said. “So we’ll ask the questions, if that’s all right with you. State your name and the purpose of your visit.”

Bernard narrowed his eyes. “I suppose you boys are new to the Valley. I am Stead-holder Bernard, and I am here to see Count Gram.”