Furies of Calderon (29 page)

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 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 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.

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.

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

Amara settled back on her stool, and the Stead-holder 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.”

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.”

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 Stead-holder 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, Stead-holder,” 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.”

Chapter 16

Isana woke to the sounds of wind groaning over the valley and the hollow clanging of the storm chimes hanging outside.

She frowned and rubbed at her eyes, struggling to orient herself. Her last memories were of being carried to her bed, after tending to Bernard. She must have slept for hours. She didn’t feel thirsty, which was no surprise; Rill often tended to such matters on her own initiative. But her stomach growled and roiled with an almost painful need for food, and her body ached as though she’d not moved for days.

Frowning, Isana pushed aside the purely physical sensations, until she reached something deeper, more detached. And once she had isolated that feeling, she focused on it, closing her eyes to shut out the miscellaneous emotional noise she always felt around her.

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

It was a quiet, nauseating feeling deep down, something that made her think of funerals and sickbeds and the smell of burnt hair. It felt familiar, and it took her a moment to track back through her memory, to realize when she had found such a sensation within her before.

Isana’s heart lurched in sudden panic. She threw off the covers and rose, drawing a robe on over the shift she’d slept in. Her hair hung down past her waist, loose and tangled, but she left it so. She belted the robe and stepped toward her door. Her balance swayed, and she had to lean against the door for a moment, closing her eyes, until she regained her balance.

She opened the door, to find her brother moving quietly out of his room across the hall. “Bernard,” she cried, and went to him, gripping him in a sudden, tight embrace. He felt warm and solid and strong in her arms. “Oh, thank all the furies. You’re all right.” She lifted her eyes to his and asked, anguish making the words tight, “Is Tavi—”

“He’s all right,” Bernard said. “A little banged up, not terribly happy, but he’ll be fine.”