Jim Butcher - Furies of Calderon

Ideally, with Bernard's testimony, she might get the Count to mount a more active defense from Garrison, and to send to Riva for reinforcements. Perhaps even manage a preemptive strike, something that might disperse the wave of an oncoming horde before it broke upon the Realm's shores.

On the other hand, if there was no imminent invasion and the Crown's agent roused the local Legions and incurred vast expenditure on Riva, it would be a major embarrassment before the other High Lords, and the Senate. Gaius's reputation might not survive the subsequent attacks, further agitating the already restless High Lords with what could be tragic results.

Amara swallowed. Gaius had assigned her to represent his interests in the Valley. Her decisions would be his. And while he would bear the moral and ethical responsibility for her actions here, the High Lords might demand legal retribution against her for the misuse of Crown authority-and Gaius would be compelled to grant it. Imprisonment, blinding, and crucifixion were some of the gentler sentences she could expect from such a trial.

The Crown's reputation, the possible security of the Realm, and her own life rode upon her decisions. Best she make them carefully.

She needed more information.

They came to Bernardholt some time just after the sun reached its peak.

Amara was struck at once by the solidity of the place. She had been born

and raised in a steadholt, and she knew the signs of a strong holding-and one in a heightened state of alert. The steadholt's central buildings had walls higher than some military encampments, reaching nearly twice the height of a man and made of seamless, dark grey stone, laboriously raised from the ground by a powerful earthcrafter. The gates, heavy oak bound with steel, were half-closed, and a grizzled holder wearing an old sword stood on the wall above them, squinting laconically out over the distance.

Outbuildings stood not far from the walls, all of them one-story affairs, including what looked like a forge, vast gargant burrow, a combination barn and stables, and several animal pens. The granary, she knew, would be within the central enclosure, along with the kitchens, the living areas, and several smaller holding pens for animals, usually used only in emergencies. A pair of gargants, tended by a tall, handsome young man with wind-ruddy cheeks and black hair, stood in harness, waiting patiently while he threw several long, heavy ropes into a sack and secured it to one side of the harness.

"Frederic," Bernard called, as they drew closer. "What are you doing with the team?"

The young man, already tall and strong for a boy not yet old enough to depart for the Legions, tugged at a forelock with one hand and ducked his head to the Steadholder. "Taking them down to the south field to pull out that big stone, sir."

"Can you handle the fury in that one?"

"Thumper and me can, yes sir." The boy started to turn away. "Hullo, Tavi. Glad you're back in one piece."

Amara looked at the shepherd boy, but Tavi barely lifted his gaze to the other young man. He waved a hand, the motion vague.

Bernard grunted. "There's another storm in the air. I want you back in two hours, Fred, whether the stone's moved or not. I have no intentions of more people getting hurt."

Frederic nodded and turned back to his work, as Bernard strode on to the gates, nodded to the watchmen over them, and slipped into the stead-holt proper. Once inside, Bernard said, "Tavi."

The boy, without waiting to hear anything else, paced toward the side of the great hall and flung himself up the wooden staircase built along the outside of the building and into a door on the upper story, where Amara knew living quarters would commonly be situated.

Bernard watched the young man vanish inside with a grimace on his face. Then he let out a heavy sigh and glanced back at her. "You, come with me."

"Yes, sir," Amara said, and sketched a small curtsey. It was then that her ankle chose to give out on her altogether, and she wavered to one side with a little yelp.

Bernard's hand shot out and gripped her shoulder, through the scarlet cloak, steadying her-and closing tightly over the painful cut on her upper arm. She let out an involuntary gasp of pain, and her balance swam.

The big Steadholder stepped forward and simply picked her up as though she weighed no more than a child. "Crows, girl," he muttered with a scowl. "If you were hurt, you should have said something."

Amara swallowed, as a pang of relief from her beleaguered body warred with a nervous anxiety at the Steadholder's sudden proximity. Like Aldrick, he was an enormous man, but he exuded none of the sense of placid, patient danger that surrounded the swordsman. His strength was something different-warm and reassuring and alive, and he smelled of leather and hay. Amara struggled to say something, but wound up remaining awkwardly silent as the Steadholder carried her into the great hall and then into the kitchens behind it, where warm air and the smells of baking bread wrapped around her like a blanket.

He carried her over to a table near the fire and promptly sat her down upon it.

"Sir, really," she said. "I'm all right."

Bernard snorted. "The crows you are, girl." He turned and drew up a stool to the table and sat down on it, taking her foot quite gently between his hands. His touch was warm, confident, and again she felt soothed, as though some of that confidence had transferred into her by the touch. "Cold," he said. "Not as bad as it could be. You used crafting to keep your feet warm?"

She blinked at him and nodded mutely.

"No substitute for a good pair of socks." He frowned over her foot, fingers moving smoothly. "Hurt there?"

She shook her head.

"There?" Pain flashed through the whole of her leg, and she couldn't keep the grimace from her face. She nodded.

"Not broken. Sprain. We need to get your feet warmed up." He rose and walked to a shelf, withdrawing a small copper tub. He touched a finger to the spigot above the washbasin and held his hand beneath it until the water

streaming out steamed and turned his skin red with its heat. Then he started filling the tub.

Amara cleared her throat and said, "You are the Steadholder, sir?"

Bernard nodded.

"Then you should not be doing this, sir. Washing my feet, I mean."

Bernard snorted. "We don't hold much with that city nonsense out here, girl."

"I see, sir. As you wish, of course. But may I ask you another question?"

"If you like."

"The boy, Tavi. He told me that you were attacked by a Marat warrior and one of their war birds. Is that true?"

Bernard grunted, his expression darkening. He tapped the spigot again rather sharply, and the water cut off with an apologetic little hiccup. "Tavi likes to tell stories."

She tilted her head to one side. "But did it happen?"

He placed the tub on the stool he'd sat upon a moment before and took her foot and part of her calf in hand. For a moment, Amara was acutely conscious of the sensation of his skin upon hers, the way the cloak and her skirts had fallen to reveal her leg nearly to the knee. She felt her face heat, but if the Steadholder took note of it, he gave no sign. He slipped her injured foot into the water, then motioned for her to put the other there as well. Her cold-numbed feet tingled unpleasantly, and steam curled up from the tub.

"How did you hurt your leg?" he asked her.

"I slipped and fell," she replied. She repeated to him her story, about carrying a message to Garrison on behalf of her master, adding in a fall just before Tavi found her.

The Steadholder's expression darkened. "We'll have to send him word. You're not in any shape to continue traveling for another day or two. Wait until your feet have warmed up. Then dry them off and have a seat." He turned toward a larder, opened it, and withdrew a homespun sack full of tubers. He dropped that, a large bowl, and a small knife on the table. "Everyone under my roof works, lass. Once you warm up, peel these. I'll be back directly to see about your arm."