Chapter 41
Placidus Aria looked down from the Redhill Heights at the embattled Legions below.
Smoke blackened the skies, so thickly that not even the omnipresent crows were at hand. Where the smoke would part for seconds at a time, the sky to the south burned a sullen scarlet. What disaster could have done that to the skies? Only the release of one of the Great Furies, surely. But the only place south of here where one of the Great old Furies might rise was...
"Merciful furies," she breathed.
Far below, a mass of humanity fled through a nightmare.
The vast majority were freemen, men and women and older children trundling along the road at the steady lope of those propelled by furycraft-dodging the occasional cart or mounted rider. Many of them, though, either did not have the ability to utilize the causeway or else were too young or too old to keep the pace of the panicked flood of refugees. They made their way as best they could at the side of the road, mostly through fields barren for winter. Recent rains had made the ground into little more than mud pits stretching for miles. The unfortunate refugees struggled through them at a snail's pace.
Behind them, spread out in a broad bar of muscle and steel came three Legions, marching side by side, straddling the road in tight formation. Their march was slow but steady, their engineers moving ahead of them, earthcrafting the mud into more tractable footing as they approached and restoring it to mud as they passed.
Behind the Legions came the Vord.
The front edge of the enemy pursuit was a ragged line, the swift-moving Vord as slowed and separated by the horrible footing as the fleeing Alerans. But the farther back from that front edge one looked, the more coherent and organized the Vord became. The lizard-wolf creatures ran together in ranks, centered around the enormous hulking mass of the Vord warriors, or around the still-larger giants that covered the ground in strides yards long. Overhead swarmed the black-winged form of hundreds of vordknights, clashing and skirmishing with Knights Aeris covering the retreating Legions.
The three bars of Legion steel were badly outnumbered by their pursuers, but the black-and-scarlet banners flying from the center Legion flew bravely in the breeze, and the discipline of the troops held them in good order as the foe closed in on them.
"Bloody crows," Antillus Raucus breathed. "Crows and bloody furies."
"Do we attack?" Lady Placida breathed.
Gaius Isana, First Lady of Alera, nudged her horse to stand between Aria's and Raucus's. "Of course we do," she said in a firm voice, ignoring the twinge of discomfort from the still-tender wound in her stomach. "I didn't go through all of this and march these Legions all the way down from the Wall to stand around and watch things happen."
High Lord Antillus's mouth spread into a wolfish smile. "Looks like the boys are going to earn their pay today, then."
"Look at the banners in the center Legion," Lady Placida said. "Do you know who that is?"
"An Aleran," Isana said, her tone steady. She felt Araris's steady presence at her back, and looked over her shoulder to find him, on his horse, hovering a few feet away from her, his eyes focused on nothing and everything at the same time. "An Aleran in trouble." She turned to Raucus, and said, "Attack, Captain."
Raucus nodded sharply. His horse danced a step sideways, evidently picking up on his rider's excitement. "I recommend we wait, Your Highness," he said. "Let them advance another mile down that causeway, and I'll leave those ugly things in pieces."
Isana felt the confidence flowing from him, and arched an eyebrow. "You're sure?"
"They're coming with maybe thirty thousand troops. I've got three standing Legions, three Legions of veteran militia, better than a thousand Knights and every bloody Citizen in Antillus. Pieces, Your Highness," Raucus replied, vicious satisfaction in his voice. "Little ones."
"As you think best, High Lord Antillus," Isana said.
He threw back his head and laughed. "Hah! That's a good one." He turned his horse and said, "There are preparations to make. If you will excuse me." He saluted Isana and turned his horse-then hesitated, glancing back at Isana.
"Your Grace?" Isana asked.
"It's a battle. Things can happen." He reached into his coat and withdrew an envelope. It was brown with water stains and brittle with age. He held it out to her and said, "In case I'm not able to give it to you later." He nodded to them. "Ladies."
Isana took the envelope and watched as Raucus rode back to his senior centurion and the captains of his Legions.
"What is that?" Aria asked.
Isana shook her head. "I think it's..." She opened the letter hurriedly-and instantly recognized Septimus's liquid, precise handwriting.
Raucus, My insides are whole again, and I'm getting ready to leave the back end of nowhere. I expect that the holders here in Calderon will be just as happy to see the Crown Legion go. Too many handsome young men for all these pretty young hold-girls to resist-which reminds me that I've been meaning to tell you that I've got a surprise for Father. He's going to choke on it, but Mother will make him see reason. More later, old friend, but I'll need you to find some time to cover my flank during an important engagement. Murestus and Cestaag just got back from Rhodes. I had them following the money trail of those cutters I told you about. They didn't find anything that could go to a court, but I think I might like to visit Rhodes and Kalare with a few good friends once I wrap up my current obligations. Interested? I wrote Attis already, and he's in. Invidia got my letter. She was furious that I told Father no, though you had to read between the lines to see it. You know how she is-polite and cold as a fish, even when she's about to beat someone senseless. Father will be in a rage about me turning her down, though what else is new? To tell you the truth, though, I was never really sure about her. Oh, gorgeous, intelligent, strong, elegant, everything Father thinks I would need. But Invidia just doesn't give a crow's feather about people in any sense other than how they can profit her. It means she fits right in with everyone at the capital, but at the same time, I'm not sure she's entirely sane. Give me passion-and compassion-any day. I'm glad I can write you. There are fewer and fewer people I can speak my heart to, these days. Without you and Attis, I think I'd have lost my bloody mind after Seven Hills. Here's truth, old man. The next few months are going to bore future students of history at the Academy for decades. The three of us will get together again with the old gang from the fencing hall-minus Aldrick. Then we'll sort some things out. Are you in, snowcrow?
Sep
PS-How's the little snowcrow? He set anything on fire yet? When do I get to meet him? And his mother?
Isana stared at the letter and blinked away tears.
Septimus. She could hear his voice as she read the words.
She sniffed before anything could dribble down her nose and looked at the date on the letter. A second letter was visible in the envelope. She opened it and read it is as well.
The handwriting was not Septimus's. It was angular, sharply leaning to the right, and in places the paper had been torn, as if the quill had been pressed too viciously to the surface of the fine paper upon which it was written.
Raucus, By the time I got wind of anything and made it to Calderon, it was hours too late. But I was there when they found him. I know that by now the official story has reached you, but it's nothing but smoke. Septimus died with five of the finest blades in the Realm in a circle around him. And it wasn't the Marat alone who did for him. Firecrafting and earthcrafting were both involved. I saw it with my own eyes. Septimus was the only heir, and his father was arrogant or incompetent enough to allow him to be murdered, despite Septimus's appeals for his aid, for pressure upon the Senate, for direct action against the ambitious bastards who eventually killed him. The First Lord did nothing, and our Realm is doomed to division and self-destruction as a result. He doesn't deserve my loyalty, Raucus. Or yours. I know you won't believe me, you slow-witted northern snowcrow. And even if you did, you'd never come with me down the road I've chosen. If the House of Gaius can't defend and protect its own child-and a soul like Septimus's at that-then how can it do so for the people of the Realm? I don't ask you to help, old friend. Just stay out of my way. Good-bye.
Attis
"My Lady Isana?" Araris asked quietly.
Isana blinked and looked up from the letter.
Behind them, the Antillan Legions prepared for battle, men rushing about with the calm hurry of practiced professionals. On the fields below, the Vord had engaged the surviving Legions. Isana watched as the First Aquitaine, banners surrounding High Lord Aquitainus Attis himself, literally threw itself into the teeth of the pursuing Vord and stopped them cold, not a hundred yards from the slowest of the fleeing refugees.
"Attis Aquitaine was never his enemy," Isana breathed, her voice numb. "Rhodes. Kalare."
"Isana?" Aria asked.
Isana wordlessly passed her the letters. "A week. It's dated a week before we wed. He was almost the same age Tavi is now."
Aria read the letters. Isana waited until she looked up again.
"Rhodes and Kalare," Aria said. "Gaius killed Kalarus personally. And he as much as sent Rhodes out to be butchered by the first Vord attack."
"Revenge," Isana said quietly. "It took him more than two decades, but the old man had it all the same." She shook her head. "And Invidia Aquitaine had sought marriage to Septimus. I never knew that. He never said anything." Isana smiled faintly, bitterly. "And he spurned her. For a steadholt girl from the back end of nowhere."
"She was a part of it," Aria whispered. "The cabal that killed him. That's what Septimus's letter means. If one reads between the lines."
"Citizens and lords," Isana sighed. "Wounded pride. Ambition. Vengeance. Their motivations seem so... average."
Aria smiled faintly and nodded toward Raucus, who was the center of the swirl of activity. "I think you've been given ample opportunity to observe that Citizens and lords can be idiots as easily as anyone else. Perhaps more so."
Isana gestured at the letters. "Read the letter. It's in every flourish and scratch. Attis hated Gaius. Hated the corruption, the ambition of his peers."
"And became what he hated," Aria said quietly. "It's happened to many men before him, I suppose."
Fire blossomed in the midst of the First Aquitaine, the light of a burning sword that was clearly visible, even from that distance, in broad daylight. The Legion roared in response, the sound distant, like the surge of waves crashing on a shoreline. The Legion drove into the mass of the Vord, killing and crushing, lances of fire lashing into the largest of the Vord, spheres of white-hot flame enveloping the heads of the behemoths and sending them crashing down to crush their fellows.
Cavalry alae, launched from the Legions flanking the First Aquitaine, pressed into the gap, harassing and crushing the disordered Vord-while the Legion re-formed and retreated, screened by the shock of the cavalry's charge. The Legion withdrew perhaps three hundred yards from its original stand against the Vord and reset its lines as the cavalry retreated, in turn, behind them.
Again the Legion clashed with the Vord, who were coming thicker and in greater coordination. The First Aquitaine was joined by its brother Legions on either side-Second Placidan, Isana thought, and the Crown Legion, judging by the banners. Again, the Vord were driven back. Again, the cavalry charged and covered the infantry's withdrawal. Another three hundred yards were gained-but more and more armored forms were being left still and silent on the ground, to be overrun by the inhuman foes.
Isana watched as the Legion repeated its maneuver against the enemy, but each time the Vord came more thickly, and each time the Legions gained less ground before they were forced to turn and face them again.
"Why hasn't Antillus attacked yet?" she asked. She looked over her shoulder to Araris, who waited patiently at her back. "If they don't move soon, the Legions down there will be destroyed."
Araris shook his head. "No. Aquitaine's got them right where he wants them." He pointed at the thickening lines of the Vord. "He's tempting them into concentrating, readying for a final push."
"Bloody right he is," Antillus Raucus said, riding his horse closer, and surveying the battlefield below. "His fliers have spotted us up here. He's gathering all those great bloody bugs into one place so that I can-" He smashed one fist into the open palm of his other hand, the sound shockingly loud in the comparative quiet of the hilltop. "Not bad work," he added, in a tone of grudging admiration, "for someone who isn't much more than an amateur."
"How long?" Araris asked him.
Raucus pursed his lips. "Five minutes. Next retreat, they'll push up, and we'll have them." He signaled one of the Legion staff waiting nearby and called, "Five minutes!"
The call went up and down the lines of troops and officers, spreading with rapid and precise discipline. Antillus nodded to himself, a sense of confidence and satisfaction radiating from him, now that he was close enough for Isana to sense his emotions. He cleared his throat, and said, "Your Highness?"
"Yes?"
"May I have a moment to speak to you alone?"
Isana arched an eyebrow, but inclined her head to him. "Lady Placida. Araris. Would you give us a moment, please?"
Aria and Araris both murmured assent and walked their horses several yards away. It wasn't solitude, precisely, but it was as close to a private conversation as they were likely to come by, in the midst of an army preparing to move.
"You never asked me," Raucus said bluntly. "You never asked me why I had given the order to bring my Legions south. Why I had decided to trust my people's safety to your word. You just got out of bed and demanded a horse so you could come along."
"Politely," Isana said. "I demanded politely. I distinctly remember using the word 'please.' "
Raucus showed his teeth when he laughed. "Crows and bloody furies. It looks like Septimus knew what he was talking about after all."
Isana returned his smile. "I assumed you would tell me when you were ready."
"You never asked why I was... so set against you, either, when you came to the Wall."
"I assumed the same."
He gestured at the letters she once again held in her hand. "You read them?"
"Of course."
"You could have been with them," he said, simply. "You could have been one of the treacherous slives who killed him. Get a child on him, kill him, and put the child on the throne once he was grown."
Isana drew in a slow breath. "Do you think that now?"
Raucus shook his head. "I followed you here because of what you showed me on that field at the foot of the Wall."
"What was that?"
The High Lord stared at her for a moment, and then out at the desperate battle unfolding below them. "Any man with a brain in his head looks for three things in anyone he'll follow: will, brains, and a heart." His eyes grew distant. "Gaius has the first two. He's one fearsome old cat." He gestured at himself. "I've the first and last. But those things aren't enough. Gaius never felt much for his people. He had their fear and respect. Never their love. I took care of my men as best I could. But I let my fear for them blind me to what else was happening."
"I still don't understand," Isana said gently.
"Septimus had all three, lady," Raucus replied. "You showed me your will when you stayed my attack on the Icemen, and when you challenged me and wouldn't back down. Even when you bloody well knew you should have.
"You showed me your heart when you fought me as you did-to the death, without flinching. When you lay bleeding with-" He shook his head, as though flinching from the image, but forced himself to continue. "With my sword in your guts. But your concern was for me. I felt it in you. It was no act, lady. You were willing to die to open my fool eyes. There was no scheme in that, no puppet strings. You meant what you said."
"Yes," Isana said simply.
"That's two," Raucus said. "But when I realized that you staged the whole thing to happen where the Icemen could see-and bloody sense everything that was going on, you showed me you had the brains as well. Sunset came alone into my personal chambers, after we'd seen to your wounds, and gave me his hand and his word that his folk would abide by the truce until we returned from battling the Vord." Raucus shook his head, and a small note of what might have been wonder entered his voice. "And he meant it. It won't resolve everything overnight. Maybe even not in my lifetime, but..."
"But it's a start," Isana said.
"It's a start, Your Highness," Raucus said. "Septimus, my friend, chose you. And chose well." He bowed his head to her, and said, simply, "I am yours to command."
"Your Grace," Isana said.
"Highness?"
"These creatures have destroyed our lands. Murdered our people." Isana lifted her chin. "Pay them for it."
When Antillus Raucus looked up, his eyes were hard, cold, and clear. "Watch me."
Chapter 42
Once Lady Aquitaine and the Vord queen were gone with their retinues, the courtyard was strangely silent. Only a handful of Vord remained, along with a similarly reduced contingent of collared guards-and the prisoners, of course.
Of which, Amara was very much aware, she herself was currently the most endangered.
She shivered in the cold, her muscles aching from the effort, hardly able to do more than curl her body up as tightly as possible to keep from succumbing to the chills.
"You and your husband crippled my father," Kalarus Brencis Minoris said in a quiet, deliberate tone. He walked toward her, the silver band of a discipline collar in his hand. "Not that there was a great deal of love lost between Father and me, but my life grew harder after the old slive was trapped in his bed. Do you have any idea how much damage you had to do to his spine to leave him broken like that?"
"H-h-he should have held still," Amara said. "I'd have been glad to kill him."
Brencis smiled. "My father always appreciated defiance from his women. I never really had the same tastes-but I'm beginning to see the appeal." He crouched over Amara, the collar swaying in front of her eyes. "Rook was my first, you know. I think I was about thirteen. She was a couple of years older." He shook his head. "I thought she liked me. But I realized later that she must have been acting under orders." He bared his teeth, a hideous expression, completely disconnected from anything resembling a smile. "Just as she must have been doing tonight."
Amara stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then she said, "It's not really your fault you were raised by a monster, Brencis. M-maybe you never really had a chance. And I can't bl-blame you for wanting to survive." She smiled back at him. "So I'm going to give you one last chance to do the right thing before I k-kill you."
Brencis stared at her for a second, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. Then he let out a short bark of a laugh. "Kill me? Countess," he told her, "in a little while, I'm going to my bed. And you're going to be happy to go with me." He glanced idly around the courtyard. "Perhaps I'll bring one of my girls, so that she can bathe you. We'll see if we can broaden your horizons."
"Use your head, fool," Amara said. "Do you think for one moment that you're going to survive the Vord?"
"Life is short, Countess," he replied, bitterly. "I have to take what I can from it. And right now, I'm taking you."
She hadn't noticed that he'd smeared his bloodied thumb to the collar, but it went around her neck like a band of ice.
And ecstasy turned her world into a single, endless white blur.
She felt her body arch against her bonds, and was helpless to stop it. The pleasure wasn't merely sexual-although it was that, too intensely so to believe. But atop that rapture were layers and layers of other sensations. The simple satisfaction of a hot drink on a cold morning. The heart-pounding excitement she felt when seeing Bernard for the first time in days or weeks. The joy of soaring up through dark, heavy clouds into the clear blue sky. The fierce pleasure of victory over intense competition in the Wind Trials, when she had been at the Academy. The bubbling laughter that followed after the third or fourth excellent joke she'd heard in an evening-and a thousand more, every single happiness, every single joy, every wonderful thing that had ever happened to her, every individual gratification of the body, mind, and heart, all blended into a single, sublime whole.
Brencis, the courtyard, the Vord, the Realm, even her husband-none of it mattered.
Nothing mattered but feeling this.
She knew she'd be weeping if she'd had thought enough for such inanities.
Someone was whispering to her. She didn't know who. She didn't care. The whispers didn't matter. All that mattered was drowning in the pleasure.
She came back to herself, slowly, inside a warmly lit room. It looked like an inn room, a fairly lavish one. There were soft hangings on the walls, and an enormous bed. It was warm-blessedly warm, after the hideous cold of the courtyard. Her fingers and toes were tingling, so intensely that it would have hurt, if anything she felt could have been interpreted as anything but pure pleasure.
She was standing in a tub, and one of the barely clothed girls was taking off her travel-stained blouse. Amara stood in blissful disinterest. The girl began bathing her face and neck and shoulders, and Amara reveled in the warmth, the feeling of the soft washcloth against her skin, the scent of soap in the air.
She became aware of Brencis walking in a slow circle around the tub, unbuttoning his shirt as he went.
Despite his faults, she thought, he really was quite beautiful. She watched him, though the effort of moving her head simply became too much to sustain. She let her eyes follow him, tracking his movements through her lashes when the simple pleasure of feeling herself being cleaned of weeks of grime became almost too delicious to endure.
"Lovely, Countess," Brencis said. "You are lovely."
She shivered in response to his voice, and her eyes closed completely.
"Don't forget her hair," Brencis said.
"Yes, my lord," murmured the girl. Warm water cascaded over her head, and a gentler, softer-scented soap was applied to her hair. Amara just reveled in it.
"It's too bad, really," Brencis said. "I had hoped that you would put up more of a fight than this. But you were brittle, Countess. The ones who go this far under, this swiftly-they don't come back. Do they, little Lyssa?"
Amara felt the girl standing close beside her shiver. "No, my lord. I don't want to come back."
Brencis stopped in front of her, smiling slightly. "I'll bet she has pretty legs. Very long, very slender, very strong."
"Yes, my lord," Lyssa agreed.
Amara found herself sleepily returning Brencis's smile.
"Take the trousers, off, Amara," he said, his voice holding a quiet, snarling promise in it.
"Yes, my lord," Amara said drowsily. The soaking-wet leather was stubborn against her pleasure-numbed fingers. "I... it's too tight, my lord."
"Then be still," Brencis said, his voice amused. "Very still."
A dagger, its tip glittering with fascinating, wicked sharpness, appeared in his hand, and he knelt by her side. "Tell me, Countess," he murmured. "Were you here on Gaius's orders?"
"Yes, my lord," Amara murmured. She watched as the knife's tip, doubtless enhanced by Brencis's furycraft, sliced effortlessly through the hem of the leather flying trousers over her ankle. He began cutting slowly upward, his knife opening the garment as readily as a boy might peel a fruit.
"And your husband," Brencis said. "He isn't dead, is he?"
"No, my lord," Amara said sleepily. The knife slid over her calf. She wondered if she would feel it if such a sharp blade opened her flesh. She wondered if, in her current state, it would feel good.
"Where is he?" Brencis continued.
"Nearby, my lord," Amara replied, as the knife moved past her knee. "I'm not sure where, exactly."
"Very good," Brencis said, in approval, and placed a kiss on the naked flesh at the back of her knee.
Amara shuddered in anticipation.
"What are his intentions?" Brencis asked, returning to cutting his way up Amara's leg.
"He's waiting for my signal," Amara said.
Brencis smiled grimly as the knife opened the leather encasing Amara's thigh, slicing slowly up toward her hip. "To do what?"
"Free the captives, my lord."
Brencis laughed. "Ambitious of you. And what is to be the signal for him to begin? There doesn't seem to be much left of you, but when we take him, I can at least make sure that you are the one to whisper in his ears when he is captured and recruit-"
Metal scraped on metal, and Brencis paused, frowning in puzzlement.
Amara looked down, to see that his knife had parted the leather over the top of her thigh-where the discipline collar her husband had bound to her, hours before, nestled tight against pale flesh.
Brencis's eyes widened in stunned realization.
Amara called upon Cirrus, her hands lashing out. She caught Brencis by the wrist of the hand that held the knife, twisting toward his thumb, the motion taking him by surprise, so swiftly that he had no time to resist with his normal strength, much less with fury-enhanced power. The knife came free of his grasp, and Amara seized it with what seemed like lazy precision to her own accelerated senses before it could even begin to fall.
Brencis had seized upon his own wind furies by then, his hands beginning to rise to defend himself-but he had not been quick enough. Amara slapped his hand aside with one hand and with a flick of her wrist, passed the fury-sharpened dagger through both of the arteries in his throat.
Blood flowed out in a torrent, a cloud. It splashed over Amara's naked leg and torso, hot and hideous, as she stumbled, thrown off-balance by the speed of her own movements, and fell back out of the tub and out of the reach of Brencis's hands.
The young Aleran lord arched his back, his hands thrashing out wildly. One of his clenched fists struck the wooden frame of the tub and shattered it, sending soapy water, the bubbles stained with spraying blood, rushing out over the floor. He twisted, flailing toward Amara, and one of his thrashing shoulders struck a dazed Lyssa in the stomach, flinging her back like a doll.
"The signal?" Amara hissed, her body singing, alight with rage and with the silver-white pleasure flowing from the metal collar bound about her thigh. "The signal is your corpse, traitor. You will never touch my husband."
He tried to say something, perhaps, but no sound emerged-the dagger had parted his windpipe as well.
It was nearly impossible to strike down a furycrafter of Brencis's power without employing comparable furycraft to accomplish it.
But only nearly.
The last scion of Kalarus crumpled to the floor of the inn, shrinking like a bladder being slowly emptied of water. His blood joined the perfumed water on the floor.
There had barely been a sound to betray the murder.
Amara stumbled back against the wall of the room, fighting the euphoria still being forced upon her by the collars. She wanted, very badly, to just sink to the floor and let the pleasure have its way with her once more-
�C but the collar on her leg ceased sending its pulses of ecstasy through her at the very thought. She had, at her own insistence, been instructed otherwise. If she ignored those instructions, it would shortly begin inflicting hideous pain instead of bestowing rapture, and Amara felt little bubbles of entirely involuntary panic rippling through her at the very thought.
She forced herself to stagger to the room's wardrobe, conscious of Lyssa's wide eyes upon her as she moved. The collared girl had her mouth open in horror, and tears had flowed down her face, cutting streaks through the flecks of blood spattering her features. Amara opened it, and seized one of Brencis's tunics, quickly donning it, then tossed one of his capes over her shoulders. They fit her like sacks, but they would do. She took Brencis's sword from the belt at his hips a few seconds later, moving quickly, half-terrified that his stillness might be a ruse-but the dead man never stirred. Like the clothing, the sword was too large to fit her comfortably-but like the clothing, it would do.
"I'm sorry," Lyssa sobbed. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Amara turned to look at the girl, and caught her own reflection in a mirror hung upon the wall. She wore a dark green tunic and cloak, and the color contrasted sharply with the almost-solid scarlet staining her face, her hair, her hands, and the bare skin of her leg. She bore a bloodied knife in one hand, a bright sword in the other, and her eyes were wild and dangerous. For an instant, Amara frightened herself.
"Stay here," she told the girl, her voice hard and clear, "until you are instructed otherwise."
"Ye-yes, my lady," Lyssa said, pressing herself abjectly to the floor. "Yes, yes, I will."
She turned to the window, unlocked and opened it. The window overlooked the Slave Market courtyard, which looked much as it had when she had last seen it-full of prisoners, though with rather fewer guards than there had been. Only a few Vord were in sight-but the green glow of the croach was brighter, from other parts of Ceres, than it had been the night before.
She couldn't be sure of any of the collared Alerans. Some of them could have been collaborators like the two with Rook when they'd bumped into one another. Some of them could have been more deeply conditioned by the modified collars than others. Some might be able to fight against the collars' control and help them-but Amara had no way to know one from another.
So she had to regard each of them as the enemy.
Amara stood in the window for a moment, fully aware that she could be seen in the candlelight of the room. Dimly outlined, feminine shapes appearing in that window would doubtless be a familiar sight to those below-and she had no way of knowing where Bernard was, to be able to give him a more specific signal. She would simply have to trust that he had been keeping track of where she had been taken and would be in position to watch the building to see her standing there like a practice target. She counted slowly to thirty, then closed the curtains again.
She went out of the room on silent feet, wrapping herself in a windcrafted veil that should keep her unseen to anyone beyond the reach of her sword-a potent advantage if she decided to attack, but not an overwhelming one. A skilled enough metalcrafter would not need his eyes to know where her sword was, and the Vord didn't seem to have kept anyone alive who was not at least wielding the skill of a Legion Knight at his given talents.
There were several collared Alerans in the main room of the inn, apparently off duty. Three were watching one of Brencis's whisper-girls dance to music no one but she could hear. Another trio played listlessly at cards, and a silent pair were deep in their cups, drinking with grim, methodical determination. Amara went through the room with every ounce of stealth she could muster, wary of her own balance under the befuddling aftereffects of both collars' euphoric bonding process. She managed to pass by them without attracting attention, and glided into the Slave Market.
She headed straight for the stone box-cages that held the captured windcrafters.
The cages didn't have locks, thank goodness, and were held closed by simple bolts. In her current condition, she wasn't sure how quickly she would have been able to open a more complex mechanism, even though she still had her tools in a pocket on the trouser leg that had survived. Snoring came from some of the cages.
Brencis had to have been slipping them the drugs in their water. She would just have to hope that some of the Alerans inside had been aware and determined enough to refuse it, hoping for their chance at escape.
Amara and Bernard were about to give it to them.
Or at least, she desperately hoped Bernard was.
"Can you hear me?" Amara hissed into one of the slots just under the top lip of the first cage.
It took a moment for someone to answer, "Who is there?"
"I'm a Cursor," Amara whispered. "And keep your crowbegotten voice down."
Confused murmurs came from the cage, sleepy voices speaking in blurred words. They were immediately shushed by other voices, which probably made more noise than all of the confused murmurs together.
"Quiet," Amara hissed, looking around, certain that someone was going to notice the muted commotion any second. "We're going to get you out of here, but we're going to get as many people out as we possibly can. Stay alert. Everyone who can fly in a straight line needs to be ready."
"Open the cage!" someone rasped.
"Be ready," Amara responded. "I'll be back." Then she slipped over to the next cage, and repeated the conversation. And the next. And the next.
The Vord discovered her as she reached the fifth.
She had just shushed the final stone cage filled with captives when one of the lizard-form Vord twenty yards away raised its head, whuffling in through its nose, and let out a shriek that vibrated from the stones of the courtyard.
It must have smelled the blood still on me, she thought. Most animals would react strongly to the scent of bleeding prey. She should have taken a moment to clean herself better-but it was too late for that.
Speed was everything now.
Amara dropped the veil to call upon Cirrus for speed, and slammed open the bolts to the cage before hurling herself back down the line to the next cage and repeating the process.
"Alerans!" she cried, the words oddly elongated to her altered perceptions. "Alerans, to arms!"
She slammed open the bolts to the last cage as a chorus of Vord shrieks arose around them. The captive windcrafters began shoving their way out of the cages in their wake, screaming cries of their own.
"Alera!"
"Fight, you miserable bastards!"
Only Amara's heightened senses allowed her to see the flicker in the air above her, where the Citizens were caged under multiple layers of counters to their furycraft. There was a small explosion of sparks, where steel had met steel-and another burst of sparks, where a second arrow had struck another of the hinges on the hanging cage with impossible force and precision, and a dozen Citizens were abruptly dropped fifteen feet to the wet stones of the courtyard floor.
Sparks exploded from the second cage of hanging Citizens, and more cries went up.
"To me!" Amara cried, leaping up onto the nearest cage. "Alerans, to me!"
"Cursor, look out!" screamed someone in the darkness.
Amara whirled, sword in hand, to find the Vord that had first raised the alarm bounding toward her. She waited until it was in the air to lean far to one side, striking with Brencis's sword, and felt the blade crunch through the Vord's chitinous armor. She had misjudged her balance, though, crows take those bloody collars, and she fell to the stones with the Vord, bleeding vile, dark fluid, scrambling to find her.
There was a crack like a miniature thunderbolt and the creature dropped as still and dead as if crushed by an enormous hammer. One of Bernard's arrows protruded from the base of its skull, sunk all the way to the green-and-brown fletching.
Amara looked up to see her husband leap from a low rooftop to the back of a wagon, bow in hand, and from there to the courtyard beside her. He strode to the nearest wooden cage, presumably filled with metalcrafters, and ran his hand along the top. It immediately groaned and warped and fell to pieces, freeing the prisoners inside.
"Are you all right?" Bernard asked, extending his hand to her, his eyes wide with fear. "Are you hurt?"
She took it, and he hauled her to her feet. "I'll... yes, all things considered. I mean, I'm fine. The blood isn't mine. It's Brencis's."
"Oh," Bernard breathed, his face sagging in nearly comic relief. "Good."
Pleasure washed through her from the collar bound about her thigh at his approval. "Oh," she breathed. "Love, please. Be careful of your words."
Bernard blinked at her, then seemed to understand. His face clouded and he stepped in close to her, setting his bow aside. He growled in his throat, seized the steel collar about her throat and snapped it clear of her neck with his bare hands. "I never found the key to the first one," he told her, kneeling. The collar about her thigh was rather a tighter fit, and his fingers felt warm and rough, sliding beneath it. "Hold still. It could cut you."
She saw him pause for a heartbeat, and she had a wild thought that he was being tempted. He didn't have to take the collar off her, did he? No one could except for him, after all. What if he simply left it on her? The collar pulsed with pure bliss again at the very thought, and Amara swayed on her feet, struggling to remember why that would be a bad thing-
And then there was another sound of snapping metal, and her thoughts were abruptly clear again.
"Foul thing," Bernard spat, rising with the broken steel circlet in his hand.
"Vord!" screamed one of the prisoners still trapped inside a wooden cage.
One of the lizard-forms had swarmed over a nearby wall and leapt down onto one of the water-drenched cages holding the miserable firecrafters, raking at them with its talons.
Bernard spun, lifted the steel circlet, and threw it with fury-born strength. The metal struck the Vord in midlimb and ripped through it like paper. The Vord fell, shrieking and spraying filthy-looking blood all over the courtyard around it.
Amara tossed her sword to one of the freed metalcrafters as more Vord swarmed over the walls. She pointed at the other cages, and snapped, "Free them!"
"Yes, my lady!" shouted the man. He spun to the nearest suspended cage of earthcrafters and slashed it open with the fine steel blade, the bars parting in a shower of sparks, before he moved on to the one beside it.
Bernard had taken up his bow again, and Amara watched as he calmly shot a pair of oncoming Vord from the walls. "We can't hold them," he said. "Get the windcrafters and get them out of here."
"Don't be ridiculous," Amara retorted. "We're all leaving together."
"There are too many of them. Our people aren't armed. Half of them can barely stand," Bernard said. A vordknight buzzed down from above, and he shot it through the center of its chest. It fell to the ground like a wounded pheasant, and one of the freed earthcrafters smashed it with a heavy iron bar ripped from the walls of the cage that had recently held him.
But more Vord were coming. Many more. They swarmed over the walls from every direction, and the thrum of vordknight wings quivered in the air all around them, before materializing into half a dozen of the winged horrors, diving upon some of the still-dazed, defenseless prisoners.
A sphere of white-hot fire erupted abruptly in the air-not among the Vord, but immediately above and behind them. For an instant, Amara thought that the firecrafter's aim and timing had been badly off, but the wash of heat blackened and curled the Vord's relatively delicate wings, and the eruption of hot wind from the firecrafting sent them spinning and tumbling completely out of control to crash haphazardly to the ground.
"Bloody crowbegotten bugs!" roared a gravelly voice, and a blocky old man, his silver hair still shot with streaks of fiery red limped into sight, being supported by the slender, bedraggled young woman Brencis had called Flora.
"Gram?" Bernard said, surprise and delight on his face.
The old firecrafter squinted about until he spotted Bernard. "Bernard! What the crows are you doing in the south?"
Bernard shot one of the crashed vordknights who had survived the fall and risen to its feet in the courtyard. "Rescuing you, apparently."
"Bah," Gram growled, and Amara finally placed the old man as the previous Count of Calderon. He raised his hand and waved it in a circle, and a sheet of fire arose atop the walls surrounding the courtyard, a red-hot curtain that came from nowhere and drew howls of pain and protest from dozens of as-yet-unseen Vord. "Move to the Vale, Gaius says. Retire in wealth and comfort, he says. My ass, the crowbegotten old confidence man." He squinted at Bernard. "Figure us a way out of this mess, boy. I can't hold this for more than half an hour or so."
"Half an hour?" Bernard asked, grinning.
"The wooden cages," Amara said. "We can use them as wind coaches, long enough to get clear of the city at least."
Bernard turned to her and kissed her hard on the mouth. Then he drew his sword and tossed it to another freed metalcrafter. He pointed at that man and the one who had taken Amara's sword. "You, you. You're on guard. Kill anything that gets through." He jabbed a finger at the freed earthcrafters. "Arm yourselves with something and help." He spun to the Citizens, gathering loosely around Lord Gram. "Anyone with any watercrafting, do what you can to help the others shake off the aphrodin, starting with Citizens and windcrafters."
One of the Citizens, a man who would have been pompously impressive if he'd been clean, groomed, and standing in a civilized part of the world, demanded in a dazed voice, "Who do you think you are?"
Bernard took one step forward and rammed his clenched fist into the dissenter's mouth.
The other man dropped bonelessly to the ground.
"I," Bernard said, "am the man who is going to save your lives. You two, toss him into one of the wooden cages. He'll slow us down less when he's unconscious. Move it people!"
"Do as he says!" bellowed Lord Gram.
Citizens scrambled to obey.
"Bloody crows," Amara breathed. "Do you know who that was?"
"An idiot," Bernard said, his eyes sparkling. "He can challenge me to the juris macto later, if he likes. Shall we get to work?"
"What should I do?"
"The windcrafters and coaches. Get them ready."
Amara nodded. "Bernard, the slaves..."
"We'll take whoever disarms himself and wants to go," Bernard said. "If there's room." He leaned down and kissed her swiftly, again, then growled, "When I get you out of here, Countess..."
A thrill ran through her that had nothing to do with furycrafted collars. "Not until we've both bathed. Now, don't make me punch you in the mouth, Your Excellency."
He winked at her, then turned, barking orders as the freed Aleran Citizens and Knights prepared to make good their escape.
Half an hour later, dozens of makeshift wind coaches sailed up from the captured city, Vord shrieking useless protest behind him. Perhaps a score of vordknights attempted to stop the coaches, but were driven away by half a dozen firecrafters, and moments later the coaches were too high and moving too swiftly for any winged pursuit to catch up with them.
Amara vaguely remembered working as hard as she could to help keep one of the coaches aloft, and bringing it in for a brutal but nonlethal landing an endless amount of time later, as the sun began to rise. Then someone put a stale piece of bread into her hand, which she ate ravenously. A moment later, there was a warm fire-a real fire, by the great furies, and its heat wrapped her in blessed warmth.
Bernard pressed her head gently down onto a cloak he'd spread on the ground, and said, "Rest, my Countess. We'll have to move again soon. I'll keep watch."
Amara was going to protest that he needed rest, too, she honestly was, but the fire was beautiful and warm and...
And for the first time in weeks, Amara felt safe.
She slept.