Codex Alera 01 - Furies Of Calderon Part 8

Fidelias asked, "Fury-bound?" Fidelias asked, "Fury-bound?" Aldrick nodded. "Nasty one. Strong. I think the knife should be destroyed." Aldrick nodded. "Nasty one. Strong. I think the knife should be destroyed." "Do it," Aquitaine said. "Now, tonight Odiana, go with him. I wish to speak to Fidelias alone." "Do it," Aquitaine said. "Now, tonight Odiana, go with him. I wish to speak to Fidelias alone."

The pair rested fist over their hearts and bowed their heads. Then Odiana slipped up to the swordsman's side and pressed to him until he circled her shoulders with one arm. The two left, without looking back.

On the floor, Calix let out his death rattle, and his eyes glazed over, mouth hanging slightly open.

"How did you know?"

Aldrick repeated Fidelias glanced back at the dead Rhodesian Count and shrugged. "To be honest, Your Grace I didn't know. I guessed."

Aquitaine half-smiled "Based upon what?"

"Too many years in this line of work. And I've met Rhodes. He wouldn't step an inch from his way to help someone else, and he'd cut off his own nose just to spite his face Calix was being-"

"-too pleasant," Aquitaine murmured. "Indeed. Perhaps I should have seen it sooner." "-too pleasant," Aquitaine murmured. "Indeed. Perhaps I should have seen it sooner." "The important thing is that you acted promptly when you did see it, Your Grace." "The important thing is that you acted promptly when you did see it, Your Grace." "Fidelias," Aquitaine said. "I do not like you." "Fidelias," Aquitaine said. "I do not like you." "You have no reason to." "You have no reason to."

"But I think I can respect you, after a fashion. And if it's to be a choice of who will put the knife in my back, I would rather it be you than Rhodes or one of his lackeys, I think."

Fidelias felt his mouth tug up at the corners. "Thank you."

"Make no mistake, man." Aquitaine turned to face him. "I prefer to work with someone to forcing them to my will. But I can do it. And I can kill you if you become a problem. You know this, yes?"

Fidelias nodded.

"Good," Aquitaine said. The High Lord covered his mouth with his hand and yawned. "It is late. And you are right about moving quickly, before the Crown has a chance to act. Get a few hours sleep. At dawn, you leave for the Calderon Valley."

Fidelias bowed his head again. "Your Grace-I don't have any chambers here, as yet."

Aquitaine waved a hand toward the slave. "You. Take him to your chambers for the night. Give him whatever he wants and see to it that he is awake by dawn."

The slave bowed her head, without speaking or looking up. The slave bowed her head, without speaking or looking up. "Have you studied much history, Fidelias?" "Have you studied much history, Fidelias?" "Only a bit, Your Grace." "Only a bit, Your Grace."

"Fascinating. The course of a century of history can be set in a few short hours. A few precious days. Focal events, Fidelias-and those people who are a part of them become the ones to create tomorrow. I have sensed a distant stirring of forces from the direction of the Valley. Gaius is already arousing the furies of the Calderon, perhaps. History is stirring. Waiting to be nudged in one direction or the other."

"I don't know about history, Your Grace. I just want to do my job."

Aquitaine nodded, once. "Then do it. I will expect word from you." And without another word, the High Lord strode from the hall.

Fidelias watched him go and waited until the doors had closed behind him to turn to the slave girl. He offered her a hand, and she took it, her fingers warm and soft, her expression uncertain. Fidelias straightened his posture, bent, and placed a formally polite kiss to the back of the slave's fingers. "Your Grace," he said. "High Lady Invidia. May I convey to you my heartfelt admiration."

The slave's expression flickered with shocked surprise. Then she threw back her head and laughed. Her features changed, subtle and significant, until the woman standing before him appeared to be several years older, her eyes holding a great deal more wisdom. Her eyes were grey, like ashes, and her hair had delicate feathers of frost all through it, though her features looked no older than a woman nearing her thirtieth year-all of the great Houses had that kind of skill at water-crafting (or nearly any other form of fury-crafting one could name).

"How did you guess?" she asked. "Not even my lord husband saw through the disguise."

"Your hands," Fidelias replied. "When you washed my feet, your fingers were warm. No slave in her right mind would have been anything less than anxious in that room. She would have had chilly fingers. And no one but you, I judged, would have had the temerity or skill to attempt such a thing with His Grace."

High Lady Aquitaine's eyes shone. "A most astute a.s.sessment," she said. "Yes, I had been using Calix to find out more about what Rhodes was up to. And tonight was the night I thought I might get rid of him. I made sure that my husband was in a mood he would not enjoy being taken from and waited for the Rhodesian fool to shove his foot down his own throat. Though I must say, you seemed to pick up on what was happening and ensure that it carried through without any hints from me. And not the least bit of fury-crafting to a.s.sist you."

"Logic is a fury all its own."

She smiled, but then her expression grew serious, intent. "The operation in the Valley. Will it succeed?"

"It might," Fidelias said. "If it does, it might accomplish what no amount of fighting or plotting could. He could win Alera without ever spilling Aleran blood."

"Not directly, in any case," said Lady Aquitaine. She sniffed. "Attis has few compunctions about blood. He is as subtle as a roaring volcano, but if his strength can be properly focused-"

Fidelias inclined his head. "Just so."

The woman studied him for a moment then took his hand. Her features shimmered and slid back into the mask of the slave girl she had worn before, the grey smoothing out of her hair, her eyes shading toward a dark, muddy brown, rather than grey. "In any case. I have my orders regarding you this night."

Fidelias hesitated, "Your Grace-"

Lady Aquitaine smiled. She touched her fingertips to his mouth and said, "Don't make me press the point. Come with me. I will see to it that you rest deeply in what time you have." She turned and started walking again. "You have far to go, come the dawn."

Chapter 8

When twilight fell, Tavi knew that he was still in danger. He had not seen or heard either of his pursuers since he had slithered down an almost sheer rock cliff, using several frail saplings to slow what would have been a deadly plummet to a careening slide. It had been a perilous gamble, and Tavi had counted on the saplings' frailty to betray the heavy Marat warrior, killing or at least slowing him.

The plan had been only a partial success. The Marat looked once at the cliff and set off at a run to find a safe place to descend. It bought Tavi enough of a lead to attempt to lose his pursuer, and he thought that he had begun to widen his lead. The Marat were not like the Alerans-they had no ability at fury-crafting, though they were reported to possess an uncanny understanding of all the beasts of the field. It meant that the Marat had no vast advantage-like Tavi, he had only his wits and skill to guide him.

The storm settled over the valley in a glowering veil as the light began to fade. Thunder growled forth, but there was no rise of wind, no fall of rain or sleet. The storm waited for night to fall in full, while Tavi kept a nervous eye on both the sky and the barrens around him. His legs ached and his chest burned, but he had avoided the Marat, and just before sundown he emerged from the barrens onto the causeway several miles west of the lane to Bernard-holt. He found a deep patch of shade beside a windfall and crouched there, panting, allowing his tired muscles a brief rest.

Lightning flashed. He hadn't meant to move so far to the west. Instead of being nearly home again, Tavi would have an hour-long run just to reach the lane down to the stead-holt. Thunder rumbled, this time so loud that it shook needles from the fallen pine beside him. There was a low, dull roar from the direction of Garados, and in a moment Tavi heard it growing nearer. The rain had finally begun. It came in a wave of half-frozen sleet, and Tavi barely had time to pull up his hood before a furious, frozen wind howled down from the north, driving rain and ice alike before it.

The storm devoured whatever meager sc.r.a.ps of daylight remained and drowned the valley in cold, miserable darkness, barring frequent flares of lightning skittering among the storm clouds. Though his cloak had been made to shed water, no fabric in Alera would have kept the rain and sleet of the fury-storm out for long. His cloak grew cold and wet, clinging to him, and the bitter wind drove the chill straight through his garments and into his bones.

Tavi shivered hard. If he remained where he was, he would die from exposure to the storm in only hours-unless a bloodthirsty wind-mane beat the cold to the punch. And though Brutus had surely reached the stead-holt with Bernard by now, he could not rely upon any of the hold-folk to rescue him. They knew better than to expose themselves to a fury-storm.

Tavi peered at the windfall in the next lightning flash. There was a hollowed out s.p.a.ce underneath, thick with pine needles-and it looked dry.

Tavi started crawling inside, and the next lightning flash showed him an image from a nightmare. The windfall already had occupants-half a dozen slives. The supple, dark-scaled lizards were nearly as long as Tavi was tall, and the nearest lay within arm's reach. The lizard thrashed restlessly, stirring from its torpor. It opened its jaws and let out a syrupy hiss, showing rows of needle-pointed teeth.

A thick yellow liquid coated the slive's front fangs. Tavi had seen slive venom at work before. If the slive struck him, he would grow warm and sluggish, until he sank slowly down to the ground. And then the slives would drag him still alive into their lair. And eat him.

Tavi's first reaction was a terrified desire to spring away-but fast motion could trigger the surprised slive. Even if the slive missed, the filthy little scavengers would regard his flight as a sign that he was prey to be pursued and eaten. He could outrun them on open ground, but slives had a nasty tendency to remain on the trail of their prey, sometimes following for days, waiting for their target to sleep before moving in for the kill.

Fear and excitement made Tavi tremble, but he forced himself to remain calm. He withdrew as slowly and smoothly as he could. He had just gotten out of the slive's striking range when the beast hissed again and bolted out of its shelter and toward the boy.

Tavi let out a panicked scream, his light baritone cracking into a child's higher pitch as he did. He threw himself back from the slive's deadly bite, got his feet underneath him and started to run.

Then, to his complete surprise, he heard someone call out in an answering shout, one nearly drowned out by the rising winds.

Tavi snarled in frustration. The memory of the Marat warrior and his terrible partner came back to him in a flood of terror. Had they caught up to him?

The wind brought him another shout, the pitch too high to be the Marat. There was no mistaking the panic and fear in it. "Please! Someone help!"

Tavi bit his lip, looking down the causeway toward his home and safety- then facing the opposite way, toward the cry for help. He took a shaking breath and turned west, away from his home, and forced his tired legs into motion again, running along the pale stone of the causeway.

The lightning flashed again, a shuddering flame that swept from cloud to cloud, overhead, first green, then blue, then red, as though the furies of the skies had gone to battle against one another. Light bathed the rain-swept valley for nearly half a minute, while thunder shook the stones of the causeway and half-deafened him.

Shapes began to whirl down toward the ground through the tumult and rain, and raced and danced across the valley floor. The wind-manes had followed the storm. Their luminous forms swirled and gusted effortlessly among the winds, pale-green clouds, nebulous and vaguely human in shape, with long, reaching arms and skeletal faces. The wind-manes screamed their hatred and hunger, their cries rising even above the bellowing thunder.

Tavi felt terror slow his legs, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on, until he could see that most of the wind-manes in sight swirled around and around a central point, their pale, sharp-nailed hands reaching.

In the center of the ghostly cyclone, there stood a young woman Tavi had never seen before. She was tall and slender, not unlike his own Aunt Isana, but there the resemblance to his aunt ended. The woman had skin of dark, golden brown, like the traders from the southernmost cities of Alera. Her hair was straight and fine, whipped wildly about her by the wind, and was almost the same color as her skin, giving her something of the appearance of a golden statue. Her features were stark, striking, if not precisely lovely, with high cheekbones and a long, slender nose softened by a generous mouth.

Her face was set in a grimace of desperation and defiance. She wore a bloodstained cloth around her arm, and it looked as though she had torn her ragged, coa.r.s.e skirts to make it. Her blouse was stained with grime and pressed against her by the rain, and a woven leather slave's collar circled her slender throat. As Tavi watched, one of the wind-manes curled toward her in a graceful swoop.

The girl cried out, throwing one hand toward the wind-mane, and Tavi saw a pale blue stirring in the air-not as sharp or as well defined as the wind-manes themselves, but flashing there momentarily nonetheless, the spectral outline of a long-legged horse, lashing out with its forelegs at the woman's attacker. The wind-mane screamed and fell back, and the woman's fury drove forward, though it moved more sluggishly than the manes, more slowly. Three more manes rushed the air fury's flanks, and the woman lifted her weight from a branch she had leaned upon, hobbling forward to swipe at the wind-manes with desperate futility.

Tavi reacted without thinking. He lurched into a tottering run, clawing at his pouch as he did. His balance wavered in the darkness between thunderbolts, but only a breath later the clouds lit up again. Blue, red, and green lightning warred for domination of the skies.

One of the wind-manes abruptly whipped around toward him and then surged at him through the frigid rain. Tavi clawed a smaller package from his pouch and tore it open. The wind-mane howled in a spine-tingling scream, spreading its claws wide.

Tavi grabbed at the crystals of salt within the packet and hurled a portion of them at the wind-mane as it charged him.

Half a dozen crystals tore through the fury like lead weights through cheesecloth. The wind-mane let out an agonized scream, a note that sent terrified chills racing down Tavi's spine and into his belly. It curled in upon itself, green fire flaming up and over it as it began to tear, wherever the crystals had hit. In seconds, the mane tore apart into smaller fragments that dispersed and vanished into the gale-gone.

The others of its kind scattered out into a wide circle, letting out screeches of rage. The slave looked back at Tavi, her eyes wide with desperate hope. She clutched at her stick and hobbled toward him, the ragged shape of her fury once more becoming unseen, when the wind-manes drew away.

"Salt?" she shouted, through the storm. "You have salt?"

Tavi managed to draw a ragged breath and to shout back, "Not much!" His heart thudded and lurched in his chest, and he hurried to the slave's side, casting a look out and around him at the pale phosph.o.r.escence of the wind-manes, circling the pair at a wary distance. "b.l.o.o.d.y crows!" he swore. "We can't stay out here. I've never seen so many in one storm."

The slave squinted out at the darkness, shivering, but her voice came to him clearly. "Can your furies shelter us at all?" The slave squinted out at the darkness, shivering, but her voice came to him clearly. "Can your furies shelter us at all?" Tavi felt a sickly little rush in his belly. Of course they couldn't, as he didn't have any. "No." Tavi felt a sickly little rush in his belly. Of course they couldn't, as he didn't have any. "No." "Then we've got to get to shelter. That mountain. There could be a cave-" "Then we've got to get to shelter. That mountain. There could be a cave-" "No!" Tavi blurted. "Not that mountain. It doesn't like trespa.s.sers." "No!" Tavi blurted. "Not that mountain. It doesn't like trespa.s.sers." The girl pressed her hand against her head, panting. She looked exhausted. "Is there a choice?" The girl pressed her hand against her head, panting. She looked exhausted. "Is there a choice?"

Tavi cudgeled his wits to work, to remember, but fear and exhaustion and cold made them as sluggish as a snow-covered slive. There was something he should remember, something that might help, if he could just think of what it was. "Yes!" he shouted, finally. "There's a place. It isn't far from here, if I can find it."

"How far?" asked the slave, eyeing the circling wind-manes, her words trembling as her body shook with cold.

"A mile. Maybe more."

"In the dark? In this this?" She shot him an incredulous look. "We'll never make it."

"We're not spoiled for choice," Tavi called back, over the wind. "It's that or nothing." "We're not spoiled for choice," Tavi called back, over the wind. "It's that or nothing." "Can you find it?" the girl asked. "Can you find it?" the girl asked. "I don't know. Can you walk that far?" "I don't know. Can you walk that far?"

She looked hard at him for a moment, during another strobe of lightning, hazel eyes intent, hard. "Yes," she said, "give me some of the salt."

Tavi pa.s.sed over half of the scant handful of crystals left to him, and the slave accepted them, closing her fingers over them tightly.

"Furies," she said. "We'll never get that far."

"Especially if we never get started," Tavi shouted and tugged at her arm. "Come on!" He turned to move away, but the girl abruptly leapt at him and shouldered him hard to one side. Tavi fell with a yelp, startled and confused.

He climbed back to his feet, cold and shivering, his voice sharp and high. "What are you doing?!?"

The slave slowly straightened, meeting his eyes. She looked tired, barely holding on to her wooden club. On the ground at her feet lay a dead slive. Its head had been neatly crushed.

Tavi looked from it to the slave and saw the dark blood staining the end of her club. "You saved me," he blurted.

Lightning flared again. In the cold and the gale, Tavi saw the slave smile, baring her teeth in defiance, even as she shivered. "Let's not let it go to waste. Get us out of this storm, and we'll be even."

He nodded and peered around. Lightning showed him the strip of the causeway, a dark, straight line, and Tavi took his bearings from it. Then he turned his back on the looming shape of Garados and started off into the darkness, fervently hoping that he could find the shelter before the wind-manes recovered their courage and renewed their attack.

Chapter 9

Isana woke to the sound of feet pounding up the stairs to her room. The day had pa.s.sed and night had fallen while she slept, and she could hear the anxious rattle of rain and sleet on the roof. She sat up, though it made her head pound to do it.

"Mistress Isana," gasped a breathless Beritte. She tripped in the darkness at the top of the stairs and stumbled to the floor with a gasp and an unladylike curse.

"Lamp," Isana mumbled, forcing out a familiar effort of will. The spark imp in the lamp flickered to life on its wick, giving the room a low golden glow. She pressed the heels of her hands to her temples, trying to sort out her rushing thoughts. Rain pounded, and she heard the wind gust into an angry howl. Lightning flickered outside, followed swiftly by an odd, bellowing thunder.

"The storm," Isana breathed. "It doesn't sound right."

Beritte gathered herself to her feet and bobbed in a hasty curtsey. Holly-bells, the scarlet flowers just beginning to wilt, dropped petals to the floor. "It's horrible, mistress, horrible. Everyone's afraid. And the Stead-holder. The Stead-holder is here, and he's badly hurt. Mistress Bitte sent me to fetch you."

Isana jerked in a sharp breath. "Bernard." She pushed herself out of bed, rising to her feet. Her head throbbed with pain as she rose, and she had to rest a hand against the wall to keep herself from falling. Isana took a deep breath, trying to still herself against the rising panic inside her, to steel herself against the pain. Dimly, now, she could feel the fear and anger and anxiety of the rest of the people in the stead-holt, rising up from the hall below. They would need strength and leadership now, more than ever.

"All right," she said, opening her eyes and forcing her features to smooth out. "Take me to him."

Beritte rushed out of Isana's room, and the woman followed her with short, determined steps. As she stepped out into the hallway, the anxious fear flowing up from the room below began to press more firmly against her, almost like a cold, damp cloth that clung to her skin and began to seep inside her. She shivered, and at the top of the stairs paused for a moment, forcing the cold sensation away from her thoughts, until it no longer pressed so tightly against her. The fear would not simply go away, she knew, but for the moment it was enough that she distance herself from it, make herself functional again.

Isana then walked down the stairs, into Bernard-holt's great hall. The room was fully a hundred feet long, half as wide, and made entirely of bedrock granite long ago raised from the earth. The living quarters above had been added on, wood beam and brick construction, but the hall itself was a single shaped piece of stone, wrought by long and exhausting hours of fury-crafting from the bones of the earth. Storms, no matter how fierce, could not damage the great hall or anyone sheltered within it or the only other such building in the stead-holt-the barn where precious livestock lived.

The hall was crowded with folk. All of the stead-holt's residents were there, representing several large families. Most were gathered around one of the several trestle tables that had been set out earlier in the evening, and the food that had been in preparation since before dawn had been taken to the tables and laid out upon them. The mood of the room was anxious-even the children, who normally would have been screeching and playing games of chase as the storm gave them a virtual holiday, seemed subdued and quiet. The loudest voices in the hall were tense murmurs, and every time the thunder roared outside, folk would fall silent, looking toward the doors of the hall.

The hall was divided. Fires burned in the hearths at either end. At the far fire, the Stead-holders had gathered at a small table. Beritte was leading her toward the other, where Bernard was laid. Between them, the hold-folk had gathered in separate groups, close together, with blankets laid by for sleeping on, should the storm last through the night. The talk was subdued- perhaps due to the confrontation earlier that day, Isana thought, and no one seemed to want to be too near either of the fireplaces.

Isana strode past Beritte and toward the nearer fire. Old Bitte, the stead-holt's fury-craft teacher, was crouched down beside where they had laid Bernard out on a pallet near the fire. She was an ancient, frail woman, whose long white braid hung to the small of her back. Her hands shook as a matter of course, and she couldn't walk far, but she was still confident, her eyes and her spirit undimmed by the years.

Bernard's face had the stark pallor of a corpse, and for a moment Isana felt her throat tighten with terror. But then his chest rose and fell in a slow, ragged breath, and she closed her eyes, steadying herself again. He was thickly covered with blankets of soft wool, except for his right leg, which was smeared with blood, pale, and uncovered. Bandages, also soaked in blood, had been wound around his thigh, but Isana could see that they would need changing shortly.

"Isana," Old Bitte croaked, her voice gently ragged with the roughness of her years. "I've done all I can for him, child. Needle and thread can only do so much."