Furies of Calderon (28 page)

Amara shook her head and focused on the stones of the causeway beneath her feet. Though she felt some empathy for the boy, she could not allow his plight to distract her from her task, namely, to discover what was happening within the Valley and then to take whatever action she thought best to see to it that the realm was protected. She already had some facts to piece together, and her attention was best spent on them.

The Marat had returned to the Calderon Valley, something that had not happened in nearly seventeen years. The Marat warrior Tavi and his uncle had confronted could well have been an advance scout for an attacking horde.

But the growing light of day made that possibility seem increasingly remote, bringing inconsistencies to light. If they had truly encountered a Marat, why had the boy’s uncle showed virtually no relief upon finding his missing nephew? For that matter, how had the Stead-holder been on his feet again at all? If the wounds were as serious as the boy had described, it would have taken an extremely talented water-crafter to have had Bernard on his feet again, and Amara didn’t think that anyone that skilled would live far from one of the major cities of the Realm. Surely, the injury must have been less than the boy described—and if that was true, then perhaps the incident with the Marat had been likewise exaggerated.

Put into the context of fiction, Tavi’s tale of his adventures the previous day made a great deal more sense. The boy, crushed with feelings of inadequacy, could have made up the tales in order to make himself feel more important. It was a far more plausible explanation of what he had told her.

Amara frowned. It was a more plausible explanation, but the boy’s courage and resourcefulness could not be denied. Not only had he survived the violent fury-storm of the evening before, but he had also rescued her—at considerable danger to himself—when he could have taken himself to safety without risk. Such courage, conviction, and sacrifice rarely went hand in hand with falsehood.

In the end, Amara decided that she had very little information to work with, until she had spoken to the uncle as well—and he seemed to be in no mood for any kind of discussion. She would have to learn more. If the Marat
were
preparing to attack again, defending against them would require a major mobilization, at the end of the year and at fantastic expense to both the High Lord of Riva and the Crown’s treasury. There would be resistance to such news—and if she went to the local Count with nothing more than the word of a shepherd boy to go on, she would doubtless hear endless repetitions of the tale of the boy who cried thanadent. She would need the testimony of one of the Count’s trusted landowners, one of the Stead-holders, to get more than a token response.

The best reaction she could hope for in such a case would be for the Count to dispatch scouts of his own to find the enemy, and even if they managed to return from such a deadly encounter, it might be with a Marat horde on their heels. The Marat could swallow the valley in one assault and ravage the lands around Riva, while its High Lord, held captive by the onrush of winter, could do little but watch his lands be destroyed.

Ideally, with Bernard’s testimony, she might get the Count to mount a more active defense from Garrison, and to send to Riva for reinforcements. Perhaps even manage a preemptive strike, something that might disperse the wave of an oncoming horde before it broke upon the Realm’s shores.

On the other hand, if there was no imminent invasion and the Crown’s agent roused the local Legions and incurred vast expenditure on Riva, it would be a major embarrassment before the other High Lords, and the Senate. Gaius’s reputation might not survive the subsequent attacks, further agitating the already restless High Lords with what could be tragic results.

Amara swallowed. Gaius had assigned her to represent his interests in the Valley. Her decisions would be his. And while he would bear the moral and ethical responsibility for her actions here, the High Lords might demand legal retribution against her for the misuse of Crown authority—and Gaius would be compelled to grant it. Imprisonment, blinding, and crucifixion were some of the gentler sentences she could expect from such a trial.

The Crown’s reputation, the possible security of the Realm, and her own life rode upon her decisions. Best she make them carefully.

She needed more information.

They came to Bernard-holt some time just after the sun reached its peak.

Amara was struck at once by the solidity of the place. She had been born and raised in a stead-holt, and she knew the signs of a strong holding—and one in a heightened state of alert. The stead-holt’s central buildings had walls higher than some military encampments, reaching nearly twice the height of a man and made of seamless, dark grey stone, laboriously raised from the ground by a powerful earthcrafter. The gates, heavy oak bound with steel, were half-closed, and a grizzled holder wearing an old sword stood on the wall above them, squinting laconically out over the distance.

Outbuildings stood not far from the walls, all of them one-story affairs, including what looked like a forge, vast gargant burrow, a combination barn and stables, and several animal pens. The granary, she knew, would be within the central enclosure, along with the kitchens, the living areas, and several smaller holding pens for animals, usually used only in emergencies. A pair of gargants, tended by a tall, handsome young man with wind-ruddy cheeks and black hair, stood in harness, waiting patiently while he threw several long, heavy ropes into a sack and secured it to one side of the harness.

“Frederic,” Bernard called, as they drew closer. “What are you doing with the team?”

The young man, already tall and strong for a boy not yet old enough to depart for the Legions, tugged at a forelock with one hand and ducked his head to the Stead-holder. “Taking them down to the south field to pull out that big stone, sir.”

Bernard grunted. “There’s another storm in the air. I want you back in two hours, Fred, whether the stone’s moved or not. I have no intentions of more people getting hurt.”

Frederic nodded and turned back to his work, as Bernard strode on to the gates, nodded to the watchmen over them, and slipped into the stead-holt proper. Once inside, Bernard said, “Tavi.”

The boy, without waiting to hear anything else, paced toward the side of the great hall and flung himself up the wooden staircase built along the outside of the building and into a door on the upper story, where Amara knew living quarters would commonly be situated.

Bernard watched the young man vanish inside with a grimace on his face. Then he let out a heavy sigh and glanced back at her. “You, come with me.”

“Yes, sir,” Amara said, and sketched a small curtsey. It was then that her ankle chose to give out on her altogether, and she wavered to one side with a little yelp.

Bernard’s hand shot out and gripped her shoulder, through the scarlet cloak, steadying her—and closing tightly over the painful cut on her upper arm. She let out an involuntary gasp of pain, and her balance swam.

The big Stead-holder stepped forward and simply picked her up as though she weighed no more than a child. “Crows, girl,” he muttered with a scowl. “If you were hurt, you should have said something.”

Amara swallowed, as a pang of relief from her beleaguered body warred with a nervous anxiety at the Stead-holder’s sudden proximity. Like Aldrick, he was an enormous man, but he exuded none of the sense of placid, patient danger that surrounded the swordsman. His strength was something different—warm and reassuring and alive, and he smelled of leather and hay. Amara struggled to say something, but wound up remaining awkwardly silent as the Stead-holder carried her into the great hall and then into the kitchens behind it, where warm air and the smells of baking bread wrapped around her like a blanket.

He carried her over to a table near the fire and promptly sat her down upon it.

“Sir, really,” she said. “I’m all right.”

Bernard snorted. “The crows you are, girl.” He turned and drew up a stool to the table and sat down on it, taking her foot quite gently between his hands. His touch was warm, confident, and again she felt soothed, as though some of that confidence had transferred into her by the touch. “Cold,” he said. “Not as bad as it could be. You used crafting to keep your feet warm?”

“Not broken. Sprain. We need to get your feet warmed up.” He rose and walked to a shelf, withdrawing a small copper tub. He touched a finger to the spigot above the washbasin and held his hand beneath it until the water streaming out steamed and turned his skin red with its heat. Then he started filling the tub.

Bernard grunted, his expression darkening. He tapped the spigot again rather sharply, and the water cut off with an apologetic little hiccup. “Tavi likes to tell stories.”

She tilted her head to one side. “But did it happen?”

He placed the tub on the stool he’d sat upon a moment before and took her foot and part of her calf in hand. For a moment, Amara was acutely conscious of the sensation of his skin upon hers, the way the cloak and her skirts had fallen to reveal her leg nearly to the knee. She felt her face heat, but if the Stead-holder took note of it, he gave no sign. He slipped her injured foot into the water, then motioned for her to put the other there as well. Her cold-numbed feet tingled unpleasantly, and steam curled up from the tub.

“How did you hurt your leg?” he asked her.

“I slipped and fell,” she replied. She repeated to him her story, about carrying a message to Garrison on behalf of her master, adding in a fall just before Tavi found her.

The Stead-holder’s expression darkened. “We’ll have to send him word. You’re not in any shape to continue traveling for another day or two. Wait until your feet have warmed up. Then dry them off and have a seat.” He turned toward a larder, opened it, and withdrew a homespun sack full of tubers. He dropped that, a large bowl, and a small knife on the table. “Everyone under my roof works, lass. Once you warm up, peel these. I’ll be back directly to see about your arm.”

She lifted a hand, resting it over the bandage on her opposite arm. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

“With that ankle you won’t be going far. And there’s another storm rising. The closest shelter, other than this hall, is the Princeps’ Memorium, and it looks like you’ve already cleaned that place out.” He nodded toward the scarlet cloak. “I’d be thinking about what I was going to say to Count Gram about that, if I were you. Safeguarding the Memorium is his responsibility. I doubt he’s going to be terribly happy with you. Or your master, whoever he is.” Bernard turned and started to leave through the doors to the hall.

“Sir,” Amara blurted. “You didn’t tell me if it was true or not. What Tavi said about the Marat.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I didn’t.” Then he left.

Amara stared after the man for a moment in frustration. She looked from the doorway he’d vanished through, down to her feet in the steaming basin, and then back up again. Sensation was returning to her feet in an uncomfortable ripple of sharp pinpricks. She shook her head and waited for the feeling in her feet to return to something closer to normal.

A maddening man, she thought. Confidence bordering upon arrogance. She would not be so poorly treated in any court in the Realm.

Which was the point, of course. This was not one of the cities. Here, on the stead-holt, his word was literal law, on nearly any matter one could name—including the disposition and non-debilitating punishment of a runaway slave. Were she a slave in fact, rather than in fiction, he could have done nearly anything to her, and as long as he returned her in one piece, and capable of fulfilling her duties, the law would support him as though he were a Citizen. Instead of caring for her and leaving her in a warm room with her feet in a hot bath, he could have as easily stabled her with the animals or put her to any of a number of other uses.

Her cheeks flushed again. The man had affected her, and he shouldn’t have. She had seen him riding an earth-wave—he
was
an earth-crafter, after all. Some of them could affect the temperaments of animals and the base natures of human beings, as well, draw out raw, primal impulses that otherwise would never surface. That would explain it.

But then, and more to the point, he had been very gentle with her, when he held her. He needn’t have done so much as let her onto his land, and he had all but forcibly pressed hospitality onto her. Despite his threats and words, he hadn’t locked her in a cellar or shown anything but concern and kindness.

Amara stirred her feet in the water, frowning. The Stead-holder was clearly a man who commanded some measure of respect in his people. His stead-holt was solid and obviously prosperous. The hold-folk she had seen had been clean and well fed. His reaction to the boy had been severe, in its own fashion, but restrained by the standards of most of the Realm. Had the man wanted her, he could simply have taken her, and not bothered with crafting her into a frenzy.