Furies of Calderon (7 page)

Kord didn’t reply. He beckoned his sons with a curt gesture and started down the lane. They followed him, and Bittan cast a harsh, hateful glare at Tavi as he walked. “Freak.”

Tavi clenched his hands into fists, but let the comment pass. Bernard nodded his approval, and they waited as Kord and his sons headed down the lane to Bernard-holt. As they watched, Tavi said, “They were there to attack Warner, weren’t they, uncle?”

“It’s possible,” Bernard said. “That’s why your aunt asked Warner to come in last night Kord is desperate.”

“Why? It’s Bittan that’s been accused, not him.”

“Rape is a realm offense,” Bernard answered. “Kord is the family head, and he shares responsibility for offenses against the realm. If the truth-find shows that there needs to be a trial, and Bittan is judged guilty, Count Gram could remove Kord’s claim to Kord-holt.”

“You think he’d kill to protect it?” Tavi asked

“I think men who lust for power are capable of almost anything.” He shook his head. “Kord sees power as something to satisfy his desires, instead of a tool to protect and serve the people beholden to him. It’s a stupid attitude, and it will eventually get him killed—but until then it makes him dangerous.”

“He scares me,” Tavi said.

“He scares anyone with good sense, boy.” Bernard passed his bow to Tavi and opened a pouch on his belt. He withdrew a small glass button from it and dropped it over the side of the footbridge and into the brook. “Rill,” he said firmly. “I need to speak to Isana, please.”

They waited there on the bridge for several moments before the sounds of the brook began to change. A column of water rose straight up out of the brook, taking on human form as it did so, until it had formed into a liquid sculpture of Tavi’s aunt, Isana, a woman with the youthful form and features of a strong water-crafter, but the bearing and voice of a mature adult.

The sculpture peered around, eventually focusing on Bernard and Tavi. “Good morning, Bernard, Tavi.” Her voice sounded tinny, as if it had come down to them through a long tube.

Isana’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I doubt having a woman appointed the truth-finder for this crime has pleased him, either.”

“Try to hurry. I’ll keep things civil for as long as I can, but I’m not sure anyone but you can make Kord back down without shedding blood.”

“I will. Be careful.”

Isana nodded. “And you. Old Bitte says that Garados and his wife are brewing up a storm for us, by nightfall at the latest.”

Tavi shot an uneasy glance to the northeast, where the towering mountain of Garados sat glowering down at the inhabitants of the Calderon Valley. Its upper slopes were already growing white with ice, and clouds obscured the topmost peaks, where the hostile fury of the towering mountain conspired with Lilvia, the fury of the cold gales blowing over the great Sea of Ice to the north. They would gather in clouds like herds of cattle, feed them to anger on the day’s light, and drive them down over the inhabitants of the valley in a fury-storm as the sun set.

“I see. She isn’t yet of marrying age, she’s too irresponsible to care for a child, and she certainly is too young to wear hollybells. Do you think she’ll be finding any more?”

Bernard held on to his chuckle until the water sculpture had lowered itself back into the brook, the contact with Isana ending as it did. “No girl, eh? I thought Fred was the one walking out with Beritte.”

“He is,” Tavi sighed. “She’s probably wearing them for him. But she asked me to get them for her and… well it seemed a lot more important at the time.”

Bernard nodded. “There’s no shame in making a mistake, Tavi—provided you learn from it. I think you’d be smart to think of this as a lesson in priorities. So?”

Bernard’s mouth opened in a sudden, merry roar of laughter. Tavi looked up at his uncle, and cast him a hopeful grin. Bernard’s eyes shone with merriment. “Oh, lad. That’s about half of the truth.”

“What’s the other half?”

“You want them, anyway,” Bernard said. He shook his head, the smile lingering in his eyes, his mouth. “I did one or two stupid things to impress a girl in my day.”

“Was it worth it?”

Bernard’s smile faded, without giving the impression that he had become any less amused. It simply turned inward, as though what he was smiling at existed only within. Bernard never spoke of his dead wife, or their children, also gone. “Yes. Every bruise and every scrape.”

Tavi sobered. “Do you think Bittan’s guilty?”

“Likely,” Bernard said. “But I could be wrong. Until we’ve had the chance to hear everyone speak, we have to keep an open mind. He won’t be able to lie to your aunt.”

Chapter 4

Isana looked up from her scrying bowl with a faintly irritated frown. “That boy is going to get himself into more trouble than he can explain his way out of, one day.” Wan autumn sunlight streamed through the windows of Bernard-holt’s main kitchen. The smell of bread baking in the wide ovens filled the room, along with the tang of the sauce sizzling on the roast turning over the coals. Isana’s back hurt from a morning’s work that had begun well before the sun rose, and there wasn’t going to be a chance to rest any time in the immediate future.

Whenever she had a moment to spare from her preparations, she spent it focused on her scrying bowl, using Rill to keep a cautious eye upon the Kord-holters and Warner’s folk. Warner and his sons had added their efforts to that of Elder Frederic, master of the stead-holt’s gargants, as he and his brawny son, Younger Frederic, cleaned out the half-buried stables of the vast beasts of labor.

Kord and his youngest son lazed in the courtyard. The elder boy, Aric, had taken up an axe and had been splitting logs for the duration of the morning, burning off nervous energy with physical effort. The tension in the air throughout the morning was cloying, even to those without an ounce of water-craft in their bodies.

The hold women had fled the kitchen’s heat to take their midday meal, a quick round of vegetable soup and yesterday’s bread, together with a selection of cheeses they had thrown together then taken out into the stead-holt’s courtyard to eat. The weary autumn sun shone pleasantly down on the courtyard, the warmth of its flagstones sheltered from the cold north wind by Bernard-holt’s high stone walls. Isana did not join them. The tension building in the courtyard would have sickened her, and she wanted to save back her strength and self-discipline for as long as she could, in the event that she had to intervene.

So Isana ignored the rumble in her own belly and focused on her work, a portion of her thought reserved for her fury’s perceptions.

“Aren’t you going to eat, mistress Isana?” Beritte looked up from where she was carelessly slicing the skins from a mound of tubers, dropping the peeled roots into a basin of water. The girl’s pretty face had been lightly touched with rouge, and her already alluring eyes with kohl. Isana had warned her mother that Beritte was entirely too young for such nonsense, but there she was, hollybells in her hair and her bodice laced with deliberate wickedness beneath her breasts—more eager to admire herself in every shiny surface she could find than to help prepare the evening’s banquet. Isana had gone out of her way to find chores to occupy the girl’s day. Beritte often enjoyed seeing young men compete with one another for her attention, and between her bodice and the sweet scent of the hollybells in her hair, she’d have them killing one another—and Isana had far too much on her mind to be bothered with any more mischief.

Isana glanced at the girl, eyeing her up and down, before she reached for the poker and thrust it back into the oven, into the coals where one of two tiny fire furies that regulated the oven wasn’t doing its job. She raked the poker through them, stirring them, and saw the flames dance and quiver a bit more as the sleepy fury within stirred to greater life. “As soon as I have a moment to spare,” she told the girl.

“Oh,” Beritte said, somewhat wistfully. “I’m sure we’ll be finished soon.”

“Just peel, Beritte.” Isana turned back to the counter and her bowl. The water within stirred and then quivered upward, resolving itself into a face—her own, but much younger. Isana smiled warmly down at the fury. Rill always remembered what Isana had looked like, the day they’d found one another, and always appeared in the same way as when Isana, then a gawky girl not quite Beritte’s age, had gazed down into a quiet, lovely pool.

“Rill,” Isana said, and touched the surface of the water. The liquid in the bowl curled over her finger and then swirled around quietly in response to her. “Rill,” Isana said again. “Find Bernard.” She pressed an image from her mind, down to the fury through the contact of her finger: her brother’s sure, silent steps, his rumbling, quiet voice, and his broad hands. “Find Bernard,” she said again.