Jim Butcher - Cursors's Fury

The storm rolled overhead, rumbling, lightning flashing from cloud to cloud, but it had a weary quality to it, now. Rain began to fall, and the thunder shrank from great, roaring cracks of sound to low, discontented rumbles.

Amara turned her attention to the walls, where the local Knights Aeris were returning to their quarters. She noted, in passing, that the men hadn’t even bothered to don their armor. One of them, in fact, was still quite naked from bed, but for the legionare’s cloak he held wrapped around his waist. Her own escort looked a bit wild around the eyes, but wry remarks and lazy laughs from the Knights of Garrison seemed to be steadying the men.

Amara shook her head and descended back to the stairs, retreating into Bernard’s chambers. She slipped some more wood onto the fire and stirred it and its attendant furies to greater heat and light. Bernard returned a few moments later, bow in hand. He unstrung it, dried it with a cloth, and set it in a corner.

“I told you,” he said, amusement in his tone. “Nothing worth getting out of bed for.”

“Such things are common here?” she asked.

“Lately,” he said, frowning faintly. He had gotten soaked in the rain and spray, and he peeled wet clothing on his way to stand beside the fire. “Though they’ve been rolling in from the east lately. That’s unusual. Most of the fury-storms here start up over old Garados. And I can’t ever remember having this many this early in the year.”

Amara frowned, glancing in the direction of the surly old mountain. “Are your holders in danger?”

“I wouldn’t be standing here if they were,” he replied. “There are going to be windmanes out until the storm blows itself out, but that’s common enough.”

“I see,” she said. “What arrows did you use on those windmanes?”

“Target points, covered in a salt crystal.”

Salt was the bane of the furies of the wind and caused them immense discomfort. “Clever,” Amara said. “And effective.”

“Tavi’s idea,” Bernard said. “He came up with it years ago. Though I never had the cause to try it until this year.” He broke into a sudden grin. “The boy’s head will swell when he hears about it.”

“You miss him,” Amara said.

He nodded. “He’s got a good heart. And he’s the closest thing I’ve had to a son. So far.”

She doubted it, but there was little use in saying so. “So far,” she said, her tone neutral.

“Looking forward to Ceres,” Bernard said. “I haven’t spoken to Isana in weeks. That’s strange for me. But I suppose we’ll have time on the trip. “

Amara said nothing, and the crackling of the fire emphasized the sudden tension that built up between them.

Bernard frowned at her. “Love?”

She drew in a breath and faced him, her eyes steady on his. “She declined the First Lord’s invitation to be transported by his Knights Aeris. Politely, of course.” Amara sighed. “Aquitaine’s people are already bringing her to the conclave of the Dianic League.”

Bernard frowned down at her, but his eyes wavered away, moving to the warmth of the fire. “I see.”

“I don’t think she would have cared to keep much company with me anyway,” Amara said quietly. “She and I… well.”

“I know,” Bernard said, and to Amara, her husband suddenly looked years older. “I know. “

Amara shook her head. “I still don’t understand why she hates Gaius so much. It’s as though it’s personal for her.”

“Oh,” Bernard said. “It is.”

She touched his chest with the fingers of one hand. “Why?”

He shook his head. “I’m as ignorant as you are. Ever since Alia died…”

“Alia?”

“Younger sister,” Bernard said. “She and Isana were real close. I was off on my first tour with the Rivan Legions. We were way up by the Shieldwall, working with Phrygias troops against the icemen. Our parents had died a few years before, and when Isana went into service in the Legion camps, Alia went with her.”

“Where?” Amara asked.

Bernard gestured to the western wall of the room, indicating the whole of the Calderon Valley. “Here. They were here during the First Battle of Calderon.”

Amara drew in a sharp breath. “What happened?”

Bernard shook his head, and his eyes looked a bit more sunken. “Alia and Isana barely escaped the camp before the horde destroyed it. From what Isana said, the Crown Legion was taken off guard. Sold its own lives to give the civilians a chance to run. There were no healers. No shelter. No time. Alia went into childbirth, and Isana had to choose between Alia and the baby.”

“Tavi,” Amara said.

“Tavi.” Bernard stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Amara. She leaned against his strength and warmth. “I think Isana blames Alias death on the First Lord. It isn’t rational, I suppose.”

“But understandable,” Amara murmured. “Especially if she feels guilty about her sister’s death.”

Bernard grunted, lifting his eyebrows. “Hadn’t ever thought of it that way. Sounds about right. Isana has always been the type who blames herself for things she couldn’t have done anything about. That isn’t rational, either.” He tightened his arms on Amara, and she leaned into it. The fire was warm, and her weariness slowly spread over her, making her feel heavy.

Bernard gave her a last little squeeze and picked her up. “We both need more sleep.”

She sighed and laid her head against his chest. Her husband carried her to the bed, undressed her of the clothing she’d thrown on before rushing into the rain, and slipped into the sheets with her. He held her very gently, his presence steady and gentle, and she slipped an arm around him before falling into a doze that quickly sank toward deeper sleep.

She considered the furystorm in the drifting stillness that comes just before dreams. Her instincts told her that it had not been natural. She feared that, like the severe storms of two years ago, it might be a deliberate effort on behalf of one of the Realm’s enemies to weaken Alera. Especially now, given the events stirring across the Realm.

She choked down a whimper and pressed herself closer to her husband. A quiet little voice in her thoughts told her that she should take every moment of peace and safety she could find-because she suspected they were about to become memories.

Tavi didn’t get his sword up in time, and Max’s downward stroke struck his wrist at an appallingly perpendicular angle. Tavi heard a snapping sound and had time to think Those are my wrist hones before the world went suddenly scarlet with pain and sent him to one knee. He keeled over onto his side.

Max’s rudius, a wooden practice blade, hit his shoulder and head quite firmly before Tavi managed to wheeze, “Hold it!”

At his side, Maestro Magnus flicked his own rudius at Max in a quick salute, then unstrapped his wide Legion shield from his left arm. He dropped the rudius and knelt beside Tavi. “Here, lad. Let me see.”

“Crows!” Max snarled, spitting. “You dropped your shield. You dropped your bloody shield again, Calderon.”

“You broke my crowbegotten arm!” Tavi snarled. The pain kept burning.

Max tossed his own shield and rudius down in disgust. “It was your own fault. You aren’t taking this seriously. You need more practice.”

“Go to the crows, Max,” Tavi growled. “If you weren’t insisting on this stupid fighting technique, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Magnus paused and exchanged a look with Max. Then he sighed and removed his hands from Tavi’s injured arm, taking up shield and rudius again.

“Ready your shield and get up,” Max said, his voice calm as he recovered his own rudius.