Jim Butcher - Cursors's Fury

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 In-vidia’s enemy.” She smiled. “You just… started it a bit early. With style.”

Amara felt a little laugh escape her.

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…”

“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.”

“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 le-gionares, 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.

To be fighting a good fight, in a worthy cause.