Jim Butcher - Furies of Calderon

Aldrick gripped Fidelias by the shoulder and spun the smaller man to face him. The swordsman's eyes were hard. "If it doesn't, there's evidence. If it gets back to the Senate, they'll bring charges against him, Fidelias. Treason."

The former Cursor glanced down at Aldrick's hand, then up the length of the swordsman's arm to his face. He met his eyes in silence for several seconds, before saying, "You're a brilliant fighter, Aldrick. You could kill me, right here, and we both know it. But I've been playing the game for a long time. And we both know that you can't do it before I have a chance to react. You'll be less of a swordsman without your hand. Without your feet." He let the words hang in the air for a moment, and the ground shifted, very slightly, beneath the pair of them, as Vamma stirred through the earth. Fidelias let his voice drop to something quiet, cool. He used the same tone when ordering a man to dig his own grave. "Make up your mind. Dance or stand down."

Silence stretched between them.

The swordsman looked away first, his stance shifting back into his usual, relaxed slouch. He picked up the weapon the Marat had left and stood facing the other way for a moment.

Fidelias let out a slow, silent breath and waited for the too-quick pulse in his throat to slow down again. Then he turned and mounted his horse, folding his hands over the pommel to hide their trembling. "It's a necessary risk. We'll take precautions."

Aldrick nodded, his expression unhappy, resolved. "What precautions?"

Fidelias jerked his chin toward the sword. "We start with finding these two who have actually seen the Marat in the valley. If that belonged to a retired scout, he might work out what's going on."

Odiana nudged her horse over to Aldrick's, took the reins, and led the mount over to the man, her eyes on Fidelias, her expression pensive. The swordsman mounted and slipped the captured sword away, into a strap behind the saddle. "So we find them. Then what?"

Fidelias turned his horse and started riding out of the clearing, aiming their path in a gentle circle around the outside of the mountain, toward the causeway, where he was most likely to find the signs of anyone passing from

the mountain and toward the nearest steadhold. "We find out what they know."

Odiana asked, "And if they know too much?"

Fidelias glanced at his riding gloves and flicked a drying spot of blood from one of them. "We make sure they stay quiet."

"And that's what happened," Tavi said. "It all started with that one little lie. And all I wanted to do was to get those sheep back. Show my uncle that I could handle things without anyone's help. That I was independent and responsible." He picked up a rind from one of the bright orange fruits and threw it back into the plants at the water's edge, scowling, his thoughts in a turmoil.

"You don't have any furies at all?" the slave repeated, her voice still stunned. "None?"

Tavi hunched his shoulders against her tone and gathered the scarlet cloak closer around him, as though the fabric might ward off the sensation of isolation her words brought him. His voice came out harsher than he'd meant it to, defensive. "That's right. So? I'm still a good herder. I'm the best apprentice in the Valley. Furies or not."

"Oh," Amara said quickly. "No, I didn't mean to-"

"No one means to," Tavi said. "But they all do. They look at me like… like I'm crippled. Even though I can run. Like I'm blind, even though I can see. It doesn't matter what I do, or how well I do it, everyone looks at me the same way." He shot her a glance and said, "Like you are, right now."

Amara frowned and rose, her torn skirts and her appropriated cloak swaying about her ankles. "I'm sorry," she said. "Tavi it's… unusual, I know. I've never heard of anyone with that problem before. But you're also young. It's possible that you just haven't grown into it yet. I mean, you're what? Twelve? Thirteen?"

"Fifteen," Tavi mumbled. He rested his chin on his knees and sighed.

Amara winced. "I see. And you're worried about your service in the Legions."

"What service?" Tavi said. "I don't have any furies. What are the Legions going to do with me? I won't be able to send signals, like the aircrafters, hold the lines with the earthcrafters, or attack with the firecrafters. I won't be able to heal anyone with the watercrafters. I can't forge a sword, or wield one like a metalcrafter. I can't scout and hide, or shoot like a woodcrafter. And I'm small. I'm not even good for handing a spear and fighting in the ranks. What are they going to do with me?"

"No one will be able to question your courage, Tavi. You showed me that last night."

"Courage." Tavi sighed. "As near as I can figure it, all courage gets you is more of a beating than if you'd run away."

"Sometimes that's important," she pointed out.

"Taking a beating?"

"Not running away."

He frowned and said nothing. The slave remained silent for several moments, before she settled down beside him, wrapping the scarlet cloak around her. They listened to the rain outside for a few moments. When Amara spoke, her words took Tavi off guard. "What would you do, if you had a choice?"

"What?" Tavi quirked his head and looked up at her.

"If you could choose anything to do with your life. Anywhere to go," Amara said. "What would you do? Where would you go?"

"The Academy," he said, at once. "I'd go there. You don't have to be a crafter, there. You just have to be smart, and I am. I can read, and write, and do figures. My aunt taught me."

She lifted her brows. "The Academy?"

"It isn't just for Knights you know," Tavi said. "They train legates there, and architects, and engineers. Counselors, musicians, artists. You don't have to be a skilled crafter to design buildings or argue law."

Amara nodded. "Or you could be a Cursor."

Tavi wrinkled up his nose and snorted. "And spend my life delivering mail? How exciting could that be?"

The slave nodded, her expression sober. "Good point."

Tavi swallowed against a sudden tightness in his throat. "Out here, on the steadholt, crafting keeps you alive. Literally. Back in the cities, it isn't as important. You can still be someone other than a freak. You can make your own life for yourself. The Academy is the only place in Alera where you can do that."

"Sounds like you've thought about this a lot," Amara said quietly.

"My uncle saw it once, when his Legion was on review for the First Lord. He told me about it. And I've talked to soldiers on their way up to Garrison. Traders. Last spring, Uncle promised me that if I showed him enough responsibility, he'd give me a few sheep of my own. I figured out that if I took care of them and sold them next year, and saved up all of my pay from the Legions, that I could put together enough money for a semester at the Academy."

"One semester?" Amara asked. "What then?"

Tavi shrugged. "I don't know. Try to find some way to stay. I might be able to get someone to be a patron or… I don't know. Something."

She turned to look at him for a moment and said, "You're very brave, Tavi."

"My uncle will never give me the sheep, after this. If he's not dead." The tightness in his throat choked him, and he bowed his head. He could feel tears filling his closed eyes.

"I'm sure he's all right," the slave said.

Tavi nodded, but he couldn't speak. The anguish he'd been trying to keep stuffed down inside rose up in him, and the tears fell onto his cheeks. Uncle Bernard couldn't be dead. He just couldn't. How would Tavi ever be able to live with that?

How would he ever face his aunt?

Tavi lifted his fist and shoved angrily at the tears staining his cheeks.

"At least you're alive," Amara pointed out, her voice quiet. She put a hand on his shoulder. "That's nothing to take lightly, given what you went through yesterday. You survived."