Cursor's Fury (73 page)

“I thought we didn’t have enough bodies who could earthcraft,” Max said.

“If you will remember,” Tavi said, “the Pavilion has a rather large number of employees who are quite practiced at earthcraft.”

Max blinked. “But those are
dancers,
Calderon. Professional, ah, courtesans.”

“Who have practiced earthcrafting every day of their professional lives,” Tavi said. “I know, stonework isn’t the same thing, but you’ve always told me
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that any application of one area of furycraft carries over toward different uses of the same gift.”

“I’ve had them practicing,” Tavi said. “They aren’t exactly engineers, but this isn’t a complicated crafting. It’s a demolition. All the engineers really need to get it done is earthcrafting muscle, and the dancers have got that. If we can get them and our engineers to the top of the bridge, they can take it apart.”

“Big if,” Max said quietly.

“Yes.”

Max lowered his voice in realization. “Someone will have to hold the Canim back while they work. Whoever does that will either go into the river or be trapped on the southern half of the bridge, when it goes.”

Tavi nodded. “I know. But there’s no way around it. It’s going to cost us to get it done, Max. We’ve got to hold through the night. If we can do that, we’re still going to take heavy losses pushing the Canim back through our own defenses. Maybe enough to break us.”

“And if it is possible,” Tavi said, “whoever holds the Canim off is going to die.” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I’ll lead it. I’ll ask for volunteers.”

“It’s suicide,” Max said quietly.

Tavi nodded. Then he shivered again. “Any chance you could do something about this rain?”

Max squinted up. “It isn’t crafted. I think a strong enough crafter could change some things. But to do that, you have to be up inside it, and with those things floating around . . .”

“Right,” Tavi said. “Crows take this rain. Without it, they’d still be waiting for the town to burn down. Without it, we could build a massive fire on the bridge and let
it
hold them off until daylight.”

Max grunted. “What I wouldn’t give for twenty or thirty Knights Ignus right now, instead of all those Aeris. Thousands of Canim, all trapped on that narrow
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bridge. With a solid bunch of Knights Ignus, we could turn those dogs into kindling.”

By crows and thunder, it could
work.

“He told me,” Tavi heard himself say in amazement. “He bloody well
told
me exactly where to hit them.”

“Who did?” Max asked.

“Nasaug,” Tavi said. He felt a sudden, wide grin stretch across his mouth. “Max, I’ve got to speak to the men,” he said. “I want you to get your brother and every Knight Aeris we have to meet me outside the town gates. They’ll need time to practice.”

Max blinked. “Practice what?”

Tavi glared up at the heavy storm clouds with their chilling rain and scarlet lightning, while Canim howls drifted toward him from the enemy positions on the Elinarch. “An old Romanic trick.”

Chapter 47

“Are you sure this will work, Steadholder?” Giraldi asked quietly. The centurion had hauled the room’s bed over to the side of the healing tub, and Isana now lay on it, her hand still bound to Fade’s. His sword lay in its sheath along the length of her body.

Isana tightened the fingers of her other hand on the sword’s hilt. “Yes.”

“Furycrafting in your sleep,” Giraldi said. He didn’t sound happy. “Sounds dangerous.”

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“Fade was able to make contact with me when I was in a state of near sleep,” she said. “If I am asleep, as he is, I might reach him again.”

“He isn’t taking a nap, Steadholder,” Giraldi said. “He’s dying.”

“All the more reason to make the attempt.”

“Even if you do it,” Giraldi said, “is it going to make a difference now? Even if he decides he wants to live, there’s only so much that it can do for him.”

“You don’t know him like I do, ‘ Isana replied quietly. “He has more will than any man I’ve ever known. Save one, perhaps.”

“And if his will is to die?” Giraldi pressed. “I can’t let that happen to you, Isana.”

Isana felt her voice crackle with sudden fire. “Neither can he. He simply needs to be reminded of the fact.” She turned to the centurion. “No interruptions.”

Giraldi clenched his jaw and nodded once. “Luck.”

Isana laid her head back down on the pillow and closed her eyes, all the while still focused upon the crafting. She held on to that focus as hard as she could. Her exhaustion made war upon her concentration, but only for a brief, dizzying moment. And then . . .

And then she was back at Calderon. Back twenty years. Back at that terrible night.

This time, though, the dream was not her own.

She saw her younger self, hurrying through the night, rounded with pregnancy, gasping with pain. Her little sister Alia walked beside her, holding one of Isana’s arms to steady her as they stumbled through the night. Araris walked with them, first before, then beside, then behind, his eyes sharp and glittering and everywhere.

In the distance, flashes of light against the night sky painted the outline of trees and hills upon Isana’s vision, darkly dazzling. From here, the roar of clashing armies sounded like the sea crashing upon the shore at high tide, back where the Crown Legion pitted itself against the Marat horde.

She followed the images of the dream, a silent and invisible witness to them, but the awareness of things she could not possibly know flowed through her thoughts. She was impressed that her younger self had maintained such a pace, and certain that it was not enough to have outpaced any barbarian trackers. Already, they had circled two enemy positions—a shock to Isana, who had known nothing of it at the time—and on one of his heartbeat-long forays out of
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sight of Isana and her sister, Araris had silently slain a Marat lying in ambush, never making mention of it.

Isana saw her younger self abruptly lose her balance and fall, crying out and clasping at her swollen belly. “
Crows
,” the younger Isana swore, breathless. “Bloody crows. I think the baby is coming.”

Alia was at her side immediately, helping her up, and the younger woman traded an uncertain look with Araris.

Araris pressed forward. “Are you sure?”

Isana watched as another spasm wrenched her younger self, and she spewed a stream of profanity worthy of a veteran centurion. It took her a moment to catch her breath, then she gasped, “Reasonably so, yes.”

Araris nodded once and looked around him. “Then we must go to ground. There’s a cave not far from here.” He looked around him for a moment, clearly evaluating his choices.

The dream froze in place.

“This was my first mistake,” said a voice from beside Isana. Fade stood there, ragged, scarred, dressed in rags, a figure utterly beaten down by hardship and time.

“Fade?” Isana asked quietly.

He shook his head, his eyes bitter. “I never should have left you there.”

The dream resumed. Araris vanished into the night. He moved like a shadow through the woods, casting about for perhaps three or four minutes, until he found the dark outline of the cave’s entrance. Then he spun and ran back toward Alia and Isana.

As he approached, he suddenly became aware of another Marat hunter, not ten feet from the two young women, unseen in the shadows. He moved at once, his hand darting to his belt, to the knife there, but it seemed to Isana to happen very slowly. The Marat arose from his hiding place, bow in hand, an obsidian-tipped arrow already upon the string. Isana realized, through Fade’s recollection of the scene, that the Marat had seen Alia’s golden hair, an incongruous bit of lighter shadow. He had aimed at her because he could more easily see her.

But the arrow he’d released struck Alia with a simple, heavy thump. The girl let out an explosive breath and fell to her hands and knees.

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“Crows,” Fade snarled, and closed the distance to them. He stood there for a moment, torn.

“I’m all right,” Alia said. Her voice shook, but she rose, blood staining her dress, several inches below one arm. “Just a cut.” She picked up a shard of a shattered wooden shaft, black crow feathers marking the Marat missile. “The arrow broke. It must have been flawed.”

“Let me see,” Araris said, and peered at the wound. He cursed himself for not knowing more of the healing arts, but there was not a great deal of blood, not enough to threaten the girl with unconsciousness.