Cursor's Fury (88 page)
Amara shook her head, and said, “It probably would have been better not to do that.”
“Never fear, dear,” Lady Placida said. “You’re too decent to court her favor, too smart to believe everything she tells you, and too loyal to the Realm to involve yourself in her little games. You could never have been anything but Invidia’s enemy.” She smiled. “You just . . . started it a bit early. With style.”
Amara felt a little laugh escape her.
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Lady Placida’s expression sobered. “You went beyond the call of duty.” She turned her head to Bernard and bowed again. “Both of you did. I and my lord husband are in your debt. If you are ever in need, you have only to ask.”
Amara frowned at her, and then glanced at Bernard. “Is Rook . . . ?”
“I spoke to Gaius on her behalf,” Bernard said quietly. “Pardoned and free to go.”
Amara smiled, somewhat surprised at the sense of satisfaction his words brought her. “Then, Lady Placida, there
is
something I wish to ask of you.”
“Only,” she said sternly, “if you stop Ladying me. I have a name, dear.”
Amara’s smiled widened. “Aria,” she said.
“Name it.”
“Rook and her daughter have nowhere to go, and don’t even own the clothes on their backs. She doesn’t want to remain involved in the game—not with her daughter to care for. If it isn’t too much to ask, perhaps you know a steadholt where she might fit in. Somewhere quiet. Safe.”
Aria pursed her lips, looking thoughtfully at Amara. “I might know such a place.”
“And . . .” Amara smiled at Bernard. “One other thing.”
“What?” Bernard said. Then his expression changed to one of understanding, and he smiled. “Oh, right.”
Amara looked back at Aria and said, “She’ll also need a pony. Her daughter, you see. Rook had promised her, and I want her to be able to make good on it.”
“She’ll need two,” Bernard said, smiling at Amara. He glanced at Aria, and said, “My favor can be the other pony.”
Lady Placida looked at both of them, then shook her head, a smile growing over her mouth. “I think I’m going to like you both very much,” she said quietly. Then she bowed to them again, more deeply this time, and said. “I’ll see to it. If you will excuse me?”
“Of course, “ Amara said, bowing her head. “And thank you.”
Bernard walked Lady Placida to the door, and returned to Amara. He stopped to regard her for a moment, pride in his eyes. Then he leaned down and kissed her on the forehead, on both eyes, on her lips. “I love you very much, you know.”
Amara smiled back at him. “I love you, too.”
“Time for something nice,” he said, and slipped his arms beneath her. He picked her up lightly, carrying her to the bed.
“Bernard . . .” Amara began. “You drive me mad with lust, but today isn’t the best time . . .”
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“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bernard replied. “But all that flying around in that little red silk number wasn’t good for your skin.” He laid her down on the bed and gently removed her clothes. Then he took a small jar from the night stand drawer and opened it. A warm scent, something like cinnamon, rose into the air. Bernard settled down on the bed beside her, and poured some of the jar’s contents, some sort of scented oil, onto his palms. He rubbed his hands together for a moment and murmured, “The healer said this would be best to help your skin mend itself. Your legs first, I think.”
Then his strong, warm hands began to slide over her legs, spreading oil over irritated, tender, dry skin. Amara felt herself melt into a puddle of contented exhaustion, and for the next hour or so, she just lay beneath his hands. He would move her limbs from time to time, and then he turned her over to take care of that side, too. The warmth of the oil, the sensation of his gentle hands on her worn muscles, the satisfying, heavy heat of the meal in her belly combined to keep her warm and send her into a languid torpor. She shamelessly reveled in it.
Amara woke up later with his arms around her, and she laid her cheek against his shoulder. It was dark. The only light came from the last embers of the fire.
“Bernard?” she whispered.
“I’m here, “ he said.
Her throat swelled up, tightened, and she whispered, “I’m so sorry. I haven’t ever been late before.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I didn’t mean to disappoint you.”
“Disappoint me?” Bernard murmured. “This just means that we’ll have to try harder.” His finger traced the line of her throat, and the touch sent a pleased little shiver through her. “And more often. I can’t say I’m disappointed about that.”
“But . . .”
He turned to her and kissed her mouth very gently. “Hush. There’s nothing to forgive. And nothing has changed.”
She sighed, closed her eyes, and rubbed her cheek against his warm skin. The various pains had eased, and she could feel drowsiness filling the void they left in her.
A thought occurred to her, just at the border of dreams and consciousness, and she heard herself sleepily murmur, “Something’s missing.”
“Hmmm?”
“Lady Aquitaine. She took Aldrick and Odiana to assist her.”
“You’re right. I was there.”
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“So why didn’t she take Fidelias? He’s her most experienced retainer, and he’s done this kind of rescue mission a dozen times.”
“Mmmm,” Bernard said, his own voice thick with sleep. “Maybe she sent him somewhere else.”
Maybe,
Amara thought.
But where?
The hour was late, and Valiar Marcus stood alone at the center of the Elinarch, staring quietly out over the river.
It had been ten days since the battle ended. The town’s southern walls had been built into a far-more-formidable defense in anticipation of a fresh Canim assault that never came. The work had gone swiftly, once they’d cleaned out the charred remains of the buildings that the captain had burned down, and the engineers were rebuilding that portion of the town from stone, designing the streets into a hardened defensive network that would make for a nightmarish defense, should the walls ever be breached again.
The unnatural clouds had emptied themselves into several days of steady rain, and the river’s level had risen more than three feet. The waters below were still thick with sharks that had feasted on the remains of fallen Canim, dumped there over the course of more than a week.
Few furylamps had survived the battle, and funeral pyres for fallen Alerans provided the only dim lights Marcus could see. The last of the pyres still burned in the burial yards north of the bridge—there had simply been too many bodies for proper, individual burials, the rain had complicated burials and pyres alike, and Marcus was glad that the most difficult work, laying the fallen to rest, was finally done. Dreams of faces dead and gone for days or decades haunted his sleep, but they didn’t disturb his rest as they might have three years ago.
Marcus felt sorrow for them, regret for their sacrifice—but also drew strength from their memories. Those men might be dead, but they were still legionares, part of a tradition that stretched back and vanished into the mists of Aleran history. They had lived and died Legion, part of something that was greater than the sum of its parts.
Just as Marcus was. Just as he always had been. Even if, for a time, he had forgotten.
He sighed, looking up at the stars, enjoying the seclusion and privacy of the darkness at the peak of the bridge, where the evening breezes swept away the last stench of the battle. As difficult and dangerous as the action had been, Marcus had found himself deeply contented to be in uniform again.
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To be fighting a good fight, in a worthy cause.
He shook his head and chuckled at himself. Ridiculous. Those were notions that rightfully belonged in far-younger, far-less-bitter hearts than his own. He knew that. It did not, however, lessen their power.
He heard nothing but a faint rustle of sound behind him, cloth stirred by wind.
“Good,” he said quietly. “I was wondering when you’d get here.”
A tall man in a simple, grey traveling cloak and hood stepped up beside Marcus and also leaned his elbows on the stone siding of the bridge, staring down at the river. “Well?”
“Pay up,” Marcus said quietly.
Gaius glanced aside at him. “Really?”
“I’ve always told you, Gaius. A good disguise isn’t about looking different. It’s about
being
someone else.” He shook his head. “Watercrafting is the beginning, but it isn’t enough.”
The First Lord said, “Perhaps so.” He watched the river for a time, then said, “Well?”
Marcus exhaled heavily. “Bloody crows, Sextus. When I saw him in uniform, giving orders on the wall, I thought for a moment I’d gone senile. He could have
been
Septimus. The same look, the same style of command, the same . . .”
“Courage?” the First Lord suggested.
“Integrity,” Marcus said. “Courage was just a part of it. And the way he played his cards—crows. He’s smarter than Septimus was. Wilier. More resourceful.” He glanced aside at the First Lord. “You could have just told me.”
“No. You had to see it for yourself. You always do.”
Marcus grunted out a short laugh. “I suppose you’re right.” He turned to face Gaius more fully. “Why haven’t you acknowledged him?”
“You know why,” Gaius said, voice quiet and pained. “Without furycraft, I might as well cut his throat myself as make him a target to men and women against whom he couldn’t possibly defend himself.”
Marcus considered that for a moment, then said, “Sextus. Don’t be stupid.”
There was a shocked little silence, then the First Lord said, “Excuse me.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Marcus repeated obligingly. “That young man just manipulated his enemies into disarray and cut down a ritualist with fifty thousand fanatic followers. He didn’t just defeat him, Sextus. He destroyed him. Personally. He stood to battle shoulder to shoulder with legionares, survived a Canim sorcery that killed ninety percent of the officers of this Legion—twice—and
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employed his Knights furycrafting with devastating effect.” Marcus turned and waved a hand toward the Legion camp on the south side of the bridge. “He earned the respect of the men, and you know how rare that is. If he told this Legion to get on their feet, right now, and start marching out to take on the Canim, they’d do it. They’d follow him.”
Gaius was silent for a long moment.
“It isn’t about furycraft, Gaius,” he said quietly. “It never has been. It’s about personal courage and will. He has it. It’s about the ability to lead. He can. It’s about inspiring loyalty. He does.”
“Loyalty,” Gaius said, light irony in the word. “Even in you?”
“He saved my life,” Marcus said. “Didn’t have to. Nearly got himself killed doing it. He cares.”
“Are you saying you’ll be willing to work for him?”
Marcus was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I’m saying that only a fool will discount him simply because he’s furyless. Crows, he’s already checked a Canim invasion, helped forge an alliance with the Marat, and personally prevented your assassination at Wintersend. How much more bloody qualified does he need to
be
?”
Gaius absorbed that in silence for a moment. Then he said, “You like being Valiar Marcus.”
Marcus snorted. “After I got done with him and he retired from the Shieldwall Legions . . . I forgot how much I’d liked being him.”
“How long did it take you to do the face?”
“Three weeks, give or take, several hours each day. I’ve never been particularly strong at watercraft.” They both fell quiet again. Then Marcus sighed. “Crows take it, Sextus. If only I’d known.”
Gaius chuckled without much humor. “If only
I’d
known.”
“But we can’t go back.”
“No,” the First Lord agreed. “We can’t.” He turned to Marcus, and said, “But perhaps we can go forward.”
Marcus frowned. “What?”
“You recognized him, when you finally got a good look at him. Don’t you think anyone else who ever served with Septimus might do the same?” Gaius shook his head. “He’s grown into a man. He won’t go overlooked for much longer.”
“No,” Marcus said. “What would you have me do?”
Gaius looked at him and said, “Nothing. Marcus.”
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Valiar Marcus frowned. “She’ll find out soon enough, whether or not I say anything.”
“Perhaps,” Gaius said. “But perhaps not. In either case, there’s no reason it couldn’t slip your notice as it has everyone else’s. And I hardly think she’d be displeased to have an agent as Octavian’s trusted right hand.”
Marcus sighed. “True. And I suppose if I refuse, you’ll take the standard measures.”
“Yes,” the First Lord said, gentle regret in his voice. “I don’t wish to. But you know how the game is played.”
“Mmmm,” Marcus said. Both were quiet for perhaps ten minutes. Then Marcus said, “Do you know what the boy is?”
“What?”
Marcus heard the faint, quiet wonder in his own voice when he spoke. “Hope.”
“Yes,” Gaius said. “Remarkable.” He reached out a hand and put several golden coins on the stone siding, next to Marcus’s hand. Then he took another one, an ancient silver bull, the coin worn with age, and placed it beside them.
Marcus took up the gold. He stared at the silver coin for a long moment, the token of a Cursor’s authority. “You and I can never be made right again.”
“No, “ Gaius said. “But perhaps you and Octavian can.”
