Furies of Calderon (12 page)

Instead, she reached down to her tattered dress, tore at the hem on one side, and from it withdrew a small disk of bright copper.

“River Gaul,” she whispered, pushing whatever reserves she had left into the effort to speak to the water furies. “Know this coin, and hasten word to thy master.” She dropped the coin, giving it a slight spin, and the image of the First Lord’s profile spun and tumbled, alternating with the image of the sun in the bloody light.

Amara slumped down then, by the water, reaching out to cup her hands in it. Long runs were not as draining as an hour of flight—even on a good day for it. She had been fortunate. If the winds had been different, she would not have been able to escape to the Gaul.

She stared down at her faint reflection and shivered for a moment. She thought of the water writhing its way up her hands, down her nose and throat, and her heart thudded with sickly fear. She struggled to force it away, but it wouldn’t leave her. She could not make herself touch the water.

The water witch could have killed her. Amara could have died, right there. She hadn’t. She had survived—but even so, it was all she could do to keep from cowering back on the bank.

She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to force the image of the woman’s laughter out of her head. The men who had been chasing her presented no special fear. If she was captured by them, she would be killed with bright steel, perhaps brutalized—but all of that, she had prepared herself for.

She thought of the smile on Odiana’s face as her water fury had smothered Amara, drowning her on dry land. There had been an almost childish, unrestrained glee in the woman’s eyes.

The young Cursor splashed water onto her face and made an abortive attempt to comb her hair with her fingers. Even though she wore it shorter than was customary, barely to her shoulders, and even though her hair was straight and fine, a tawny, brown-gold, still, a few hours in gale winds had tangled it into knots and made her look like a particularly shaggy mongrel dog.

She eyed her reflection again. Thin, harsh features, she thought, though with the proper cosmetics, she could whittle them down to merely severe. Listless hair, cobwebby and delicate—and currently as tousled as a haystack. Her face and arms, beneath the grime, were tanned as dark as her hair, giving her a monochromatic look in the water, like a statue carved of pale wood and then lightly stained. Her simple clothes were tattered, frayed at the edges from hours in the wind, and thickly stained with mud and spatters of dark brown that must have been blood around the slice in her blouse where her arm throbbed with dull pain.

The water stirred, and a fury-crafted form rose out of it—but instead of the First Lord, a woman took shape. Gaius Caria, wife to Gaius Sextus, Alera’s First Lord, seemed young, hardly older than Amara herself. She wore a splendid high-waisted gown, her hair coiffed into an intricate series of braids with a few artful curls falling to frame her face. The woman was beautiful, but more than that, she carried with her a sense of serenity, of purpose, of grace— and of power.

Amara abruptly felt like a gangling cow and dropped into a curtsey as best she could, hands taking the soiled skirts and holding to them. “Your Grace.”

“Academ,” murmured the woman in reply. “Not twenty days have passed since my husband gave you his coin, and already you interrupt his supper. I believe that is a new record. Fidelias, I am told, did not see fit to drag him from his meal or his bed until at least a month had gone by.”

Amara felt her face flush with heat. “Yes, Your Grace. I apologize for the necessity.”

The First Lady gave her an arch look, up and down the grimy length of her body. Amara felt her blush deepen, and she fought not to squirm. “No apology is necessary,” Lady Caria said. “Though you might work on your timing in the future.”

“Yes, Lady. Please, Your Grace. I need to speak to the First Lord.”

Lady Caria shook her head. “Impossible,” she said, her tone one of finality. “I’m afraid you’ll have to speak to him later. Perhaps tomorrow.”

“But, Lady—”

“He’s swamped,” the First Lady said, emphasizing each syllable. “If you feel the matter is an important one, Academ, then you may leave me a message and I will present it to him as soon as opportunity allows.”

“Admirable. But the First Lord is not a favorite professor you can simply visit yourself upon whenever you wish, Academ.” She stressed the last word, very slightly. “And he has affairs of state to attend to.”

Amara swallowed and said, “Your Grace, please. I will not be long in telling him. Let him judge if I am abusing the privilege. Please.”

“No,” Caria said. The sculpted figure looked over its shoulder. “You have taken enough of my time, Academ Amara.” The First Lady’s voice gained a note of tension, hurry. “If that is all…”

Amara licked her lips. If she could hold on a moment more, perhaps the First Lord would overhear the conversation. “Your Grace, before you go, may I give you a message to pass on to him?”

“Be quick.”

“Yes, Your Grace. If you would only tell him that—”

Amara didn’t get any farther than that before the watery form of the First Lady grimaced and shot her a cool glance, her features becoming remote and hard.

The water beside Lady Caria stirred, and a second fury-crafted shape rose from it. This one was a man, tall, with shoulders that had once been broad, but were now slumped with age. He carried himself with a casual pride and a confidence that showed in every line of his body. The water-figure did not appear in liquid translucence, as did Lady Caria’s. It rose from the river in full color, and Amara thought, for just a moment, that the First Lord himself had somehow come, rather than sending a fury in his place. His hair was dark, streaked with silver-white strands, and his green eyes looked faded, weary, and confident.

“Here now,” said the figure in a gentle, ringing bass. “What passes, my wife?” The figure of Gaius turned toward Amara, squinting. His features went completely still for a moment. Then he murmured, “Ah. I see. Greetings, Cursor.”

Lady Caria shot her husband’s image a glance at the use of that title, and then her remote gaze returned to Amara. “This one wished to speak with you, but I had informed her that you had a state dinner to attend.”

“Your Majesty,” Amara murmured, and curtseyed again.

Gaius let out a sigh and waved a hand, vaguely. “You go ahead, my wife. I’ll be along shortly.”

Lady Caria’s chin lifted, tilting with a sharp little motion. “Husband. There will be considerable consternation if we do not arrive together.”

Gaius turned his face toward Lady Caria. “Then if it pleases you, wife, you may wait elsewhere for me.”

The First Lady pressed her lips together, but gave a graceful, proper nod, before her image abruptly fell back into the water, creating a splash that drenched Amara to the waist. The girl let out a surprised cry, moving to wipe uselessly at her skirts. “Oh, my lord, please excuse me.”

Gaius made a tsking sound and his image moved a hand. The water fled from the cloth of her skirts, simply pattered out onto the ground in a steady rain of orderly droplets that gathered into a small, muddy puddle and then flowed back down into the river, leaving her skirts, at least, quite clean.

“Please excuse the First Lady,” Gaius murmured. “These last three years have not been kind to her.”

Three years since she married you, my lord
, Amara thought. But aloud, she said only, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

The First Lord inhaled, then nodded, the expression brusque. He had shaved his beard since Amara had seen him last, and the lines of age, faint on the mostly youthful features, showed as dark shadows at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Gaius appeared to be a hale forty years of age—in fact, Amara knew that he was twice that. And that no silver had been showing in his hair when she arrived at the Royal Academy, five years before.

“Your report,” Gaius said. “Let’s hear it.”

“Yes, milord. As you instructed, Fidelias and I attempted to infiltrate the suspected revolutionary camp. We were successful in getting inside.” She felt her mouth go dry, and she swallowed. “But… But he…”

Gaius nodded, his expression grave. “But he betrayed you. He proved to be more interested in serving the cause of the insurrectionists than in remaining loyal to his lord.”

Amara blinked up at him, startled. “Yes, milord. But how did you—”

Gaius shrugged. “I didn’t. But I suspected. When you reach my age, Amara, people show themselves to you very clearly. They write their intentions and beliefs through their actions, their lies.” He shook his head. “I saw the signs in Fidelias when he was only a little older than you. But that seed has picked a particularly vicious moment to bloom.”

“You suspected?” Amara asked. “But you told me nothing?”

“Could you have kept it from him? Could you have played that kind of charade with
him
, who taught you, for the duration of the mission?”

Amara clenched her teeth rather than speak in anger. Gaius was right. She never would have been able to keep such knowledge from Fidelias. “Why did you send me?” Her words came out clipped, precise.

Gaius gave her a weary smile. “Because you are the fastest Cursor I have ever seen. Because you were a brilliant student at the Academy, resourceful, stubborn, and able to think on your feet. Because Fidelias liked you. And because I was sure of your loyalty.”

“Bait,” Amara said, her words still with hard edges, points. “You used me as bait. You knew he wouldn’t be able to resist trying to bring me with him. Recruit me.”

“Essentially correct.”

“You would have sacrificed me.”

“If you hadn’t come back, I would know that you had failed in your mission, probably because of Fidelias. Either that, or you would have cast your lot with the insurgents. Either way, I would be sure of the color of Fidelias’s cloak.”

Amara took a breath, and without looking up, she recounted the events of the day—what she and Fidelias had seen, what she knew about the insurgent Legion, and especially of the strength and estimated numbers of the Knights accompanying it.

She looked up at the end of her report. Gaius’s face looked older, the lines deeper, somehow, as though her words to him had drained out a little more of his life, his youth, his strength.

“The note. The one you were allowed to read,” Gaius began.

“A diversion, milord. I know. An attempt to cast suspicion elsewhere. I do not believe Lord Atticus to have a hand in this.”

“Perhaps. But remember that the note was addressed to the commander of the
second
Legion.” Gaius shook his head. “That would seem to indicate that more than one of the High Lords is conspiring against me. This may be the effort of one to ensure that the blame for the entire matter falls on the other.”

“Assuming there are only two, milord.”

Gaius’s eyes wrinkled further, at the corners. “Yes. Assuming all of them aren’t in it together, eh?” The brief smile faded. “And that they wished details of my inner chambers from you seems to indicate that they believe they could accomplish an assassination, and so take power directly.”

“Surely not, milord. They could not kill you.”

Gaius shrugged. “Not if I saw it coming. But the power to shake mountains does little good if the knife is already buried in one’s throat.” He grimaced. “One of the younger High Lords. It must be. Anyone of any age would simply use Time as his assassin. I am an old man.”

“No, Your Majesty. You are—”

“An old man. An old man married to a willful and politically convenient child. An old man who rarely sleeps at night and who needs to be on time to dinner.” He eyed Amara up and down and said, “Night is falling. Are you in condition to travel?”

“I believe so, milord.”

Gaius nodded. “Events are stirring all over Alera. I can feel it in my bones, girl. The march of feet, the restless migration of beasts. Already the behemoths sing in the darkness off the western coast, and the wild furies of the north country are preparing a cold winter this year. A cold winter…” The First Lord drew in a breath and closed his eyes. “And voices speak loudly. Tension gathers in one place. The furies of earth and air and wood whisper everywhere that something dangerous is abroad and that the peace our land has enjoyed these past fifteen years nears its end. Metal furies hone the edges of swords and startle smiths at the forge. The rivers and the rains wait for when they shall run red with blood. And fire itself burns green of a night, or blue, rather than in scarlet and gold. Change is coming.”