by Jim Butcher
Fear and excitement made Tavi tremble, but he forced himself to remain calm. He withdrew as slowly and smoothly as he could. He had just gotten out of the slive’s striking range when the beast hissed again and bolted out of its shelter and toward the boy.
Tavi let out a panicked scream, his light baritone cracking into a child’s higher pitch as he did. He threw himself back from the slive’s deadly bite, got his feet underneath him and started to run.
Then, to his complete surprise, he heard someone call out in an answering shout, one nearly drowned out by the rising winds.
Tavi snarled in frustration. The memory of the Marat warrior and his terrible partner came back to him in a flood of terror. Had they caught up to him?
The wind brought him another shout, the pitch too high to be the Marat. There was no mistaking the panic and fear in it. “Please! Someone help!”
Tavi bit his lip, looking down the causeway toward his home and safety—then facing the opposite way, toward the cry for help. He took a shaking breath and turned west, away from his home, and forced his tired legs into motion again, running along the pale stone of the causeway.
The lightning flashed again, a shuddering flame that swept from cloud to cloud, overhead, first green, then blue, then red, as though the furies of the skies had gone to battle against one another. Light bathed the rain-swept valley for nearly half a minute, while thunder shook the stones of the causeway and half-deafened him.
Shapes began to whirl down toward the ground through the tumult and rain, and raced and danced across the valley floor. The windmanes had followed the storm. Their luminous forms swirled and gusted effortlessly among the winds, pale green clouds, nebulous and vaguely human in shape, with long, reaching arms and skeletal faces. The windmanes screamed their hatred and hunger, their cries rising even above the bellowing thunder.
Tavi felt terror slow his legs, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on, until he could see that most of the windmanes in sight swirled around and around a central point, their pale, sharp-nailed hands reaching.
In the center of the ghostly cyclone, there stood a young woman Tavi had never seen before. She was tall and slender, not unlike his own Aunt Isana, but there the resemblance to his aunt ended. The woman had skin of dark, golden brown, like the traders from the southernmost cities of Alera. Her hair was straight and fine, whipped wildly about her by the wind, and was almost the same color as her skin, giving her something of the appearance of a golden statue. Her features were stark, striking, if not precisely lovely, with high cheekbones and a long, slender nose softened by a generous mouth.
Her face was set in a grimace of desperation and defiance. She wore a bloodstained cloth around her arm, and it looked as though she had torn her ragged, coarse skirts to make it. Her blouse was stained with grime and pressed against her by the rain, and a woven leather slave’s collar circled her slender throat. As Tavi watched, one of the windmanes curled toward her in a graceful swoop.
The girl cried out, throwing one hand toward the windmane, and Tavi saw a pale blue stirring in the air — not as sharp or as well defined as the windmanes themselves, but flashing there momentarily nonetheless, the spectral outline of a long-legged horse, lashing out with its forelegs at the woman’s attacker. The windmane screamed and fell back, and the woman’s fury drove forward, though it moved more sluggishly than the manes, more slowly. Three more manes rushed the air fury’s flanks, and the woman lifted her weight from a branch she had leaned upon, hobbling forward to swipe at the windmanes with desperate futility.
Tavi reacted without thinking. He lurched into a tottering run, clawing at his pouch as he did. His balance wavered in the darkness between thunderbolts, but only a breath later the clouds lit up again. Blue, red, and green lightning warred for domination of the skies.
One of the windmanes abruptly whipped around toward him and then surged at him through the frigid rain. Tavi clawed a smaller package from his pouch and tore it open. The windmane howled in a spine-tingling scream, spreading its claws wide.
Tavi grabbed at the crystals of salt within the packet and hurled a portion of them at the windmane as it charged him.
Half a dozen crystals tore through the fury like lead weights through cheesecloth. The windmane let out an agonized scream, a note that sent terrified chills racing down Tavi’s spine and into his belly. It curled in upon itself, green fire flaming up and over it as it began to tear, wherever the crystals had hit. In seconds, the mane tore apart into smaller fragments that dispersed and vanished into the gale — gone.
The others of its kind scattered out into a wide circle, letting out screeches of rage. The slave looked back at Tavi, her eyes wide with desperate hope. She clutched at her stick and hobbled toward him, the ragged shape of her fury once more becoming unseen, when the windmanes drew away.
“Salt?” she shouted, through the storm. “You have salt?”
Tavi managed to draw a ragged breath and to shout back, “Not much!” His heart thudded and lurched in his chest, and he hurried to the slave’s side, casting a look out and around him at the pale phosphorescence of the windmanes, circling the pair at a wary distance. “Bloody crows!” he swore. “We can’t stay out here. I’ve never seen so many in one storm.”
The slave squinted out at the darkness, shivering, but her voice came to him clearly. “Can your furies shelter us at all?”
Tavi felt a sickly little rush in his belly. Of course they couldn’t, as he didn’t have any. “No.”
“Then we’ve got to get to shelter. That mountain. There could be a cave —”
“No!” Tavi blurted. “Not that mountain. It doesn’t like trespassers.”
The girl pressed her hand against her head, panting. She looked exhausted. “Is there a choice?”
Tavi cudgeled his wits to work, to remember, but fear and exhaustion and cold made them as sluggish as a snow-covered slive. There was something he should remember, something that might help, if he could just think of what it was. “Yes!” he shouted, finally. “There’s a place. It isn’t far from here, if I can find it.”
“How far?” asked the slave, eyeing the circling windmanes, her words trembling as her body shook with cold.
“A mile. Maybe more.”
“In the dark? In this?” She shot him an incredulous look. “We’ll never make it.”
“We’re not spoiled for choice,” Tavi called back, over the wind. “It’s that or nothing.”
“Can you find it?” the girl asked.
“I don’t know. Can you walk that far?”
She looked hard at him for a moment, during another strobe of lightning, hazel eyes intent, hard. “Yes,” she said, “give me some of the salt.”
Tavi passed over half of the scant handful of crystals left to him, and the slave accepted them, closing her fingers over them tightly.
“Furies,” she said. “We’ll never get that far.”
“Especially if we never get started,” Tavi shouted and tugged at her arm. “Come on!” He turned to move away, but the girl abruptly leapt at him and shouldered him hard to one side. Tavi fell with a yelp, startled and confused.
He climbed back to his feet, cold and shivering, his voice sharp and high. “What are you doing?!?”
The slave slowly straightened, meeting his eyes. She looked tired, barely holding on to her wooden club. On the ground at her feet lay a dead slive. Its head had been neatly crushed.
Tavi looked from it to the slave and saw the dark blood staining the end of her club. “You saved me,” he blurted.
Lightning flared again. In the cold and the gale, Tavi saw the slave smile, baring her teeth in defiance, even as she shivered. “Let’s not let it go to waste. Get us out of this storm, and we’ll be even.”
He nodded and peered around. Lightning showed him the strip of the causeway, a dark, straight line, and Tavi took his bearings from it. Then he turned his back on the looming shape of Garados and started off into the darkness, fervently hoping that
he could find the shelter before the windmanes recovered their courage and renewed their attack.
CHAPTER 9
Isana woke to the sound of feet pounding up the stairs to her room. The day had passed and night had fallen while she slept, and she could hear the anxious rattle of rain and sleet on the roof. She sat up, though it made her head pound to do it.
“Mistress Isana,” gasped a breathless Beritte. She tripped in the darkness at the top of the stairs and stumbled to the floor with a gasp and an unladylike curse.
“Lamp,” Isana mumbled, forcing out a familiar effort of will. The spark imp in the lamp flickered to life on its wick, giving the room a low golden glow. She pressed the heels of her hands to her temples, trying to sort out her rushing thoughts. Rain pounded, and she heard the wind gust into an angry howl. Lightning flickered outside, followed swiftly by an odd, bellowing thunder.
“The storm,” Isana breathed. “It doesn’t sound right.”
Beritte gathered herself to her feet and bobbed in a hasty curtsey. Hollybells, the scarlet flowers just beginning to wilt, dropped petals to the floor. “It’s horrible, mistress, horrible. Everyone’s afraid. And the Steadholder. The Steadholder is here, and he’s badly hurt. Mistress Bitte sent me to fetch you.”
Isana jerked in a sharp breath. “Bernard.” She pushed herself out of bed, rising to her feet. Her head throbbed with pain as she rose, and she had to rest a hand against the wall to keep herself from falling. Isana took a deep breath, trying to still herself against the rising panic inside her, to steel herself against the pain. Dimly, now, she could feel the fear and anger and anxiety of the rest of the people in the steadholt, rising up from the hall below. They would need strength and leadership now, more than ever.
“All right,” she said, opening her eyes and forcing her features to smooth out. “Take me to him.”
Beritte rushed out of Isana’s room, and the woman followed her with short, determined steps. As she stepped out into the hallway, the anxious fear flowing up from the room below began to press more firmly against her, almost like a cold, damp cloth that clung to her skin and began to seep inside her. She shivered, and at the top of the stairs paused for a moment, forcing the cold sensation away from her thoughts, until it no longer pressed so tightly against her. The fear would not simply go away, she knew, but for the moment it was enough that she distance herself from it, make herself functional again.
Isana then walked down the stairs, into Bernardholt’s great hall. The room was fully a hundred feet long, half as wide, and made entirely of bedrock granite long ago raised from the earth. The living quarters above had been added on, wood beam and brick construction, but the hall itself was a single shaped piece of stone, wrought by long and exhausting hours of furycrafting from the bones of the earth. Storms, no matter how fierce, could not damage the great hall or anyone sheltered within it or the only other such building in the steadholt — the barn where precious livestock lived.
The hall was crowded with folk. All of the steadholt’s residents were there, representing several large families. Most were gathered around one of the several trestle tables that had been set out earlier in the evening, and the food that had been in preparation since before dawn had been taken to the tables and laid out upon them. The mood of the room was anxious—even the children, who normally would have been screeching and playing games of chase as the storm gave them a virtual holiday, seemed subdued and quiet. The loudest voices in the hall were tense murmurs, and every time the thunder roared outside, folk would fall silent, looking toward the doors of the hall.
The hall was divided. Fires burned in the hearths at either end. At the far fire, the Steadholders had gathered at a small table. Beritte was leading her toward the other, where Bernard was laid. Between them, the holdfolk had gathered in separate groups, close together, with blankets laid by for sleeping on, should the storm last through the night. The talk was subdued—perhaps due to the confrontation earlier that day, Isana thought, and no one seemed to want to be too near either of the fireplaces.
Isana strode past Beritte and toward the nearer fire. Old Bitte, the steadholt’s furycraft teacher, was crouched down beside where they had laid Bernard out on a pallet near the fire. She was an ancient, frail woman, whose long white braid hung to the small of her back. Her hands shook as a matter of course, and she couldn’t walk far, but she was still confident, her eyes and her spirit undimmed by the years.
Bernard’s face had the stark pallor of a corpse, and for a moment Isana felt her throat tighten with terror. But then his chest rose and fell in a slow, ragged breath, and she closed her eyes, steadying herself again. He was thickly covered with blankets of soft wool, except for his right leg, which was smeared with blood, pale, and uncovered. Bandages, also soaked in blood, had been wound around his thigh, but Isana could see that they would need changing shortly.
“Isana,” Old Bitte croaked, her voice gently ragged with the roughness of her years. “I’ve done all I can for him, child. Needle and thread can only do so much.”
“What happened?” Isana asked.
“We don’t know,” Bitte said, sitting back. “He has a terrible wound on his thigh. Perhaps a beast, though it could be a wound from an axe or a blade. It looks like he managed to put a tourniquet on it and to let it out once or twice. We may be able to save the leg—but he lost so much blood. He’s unconscious, and I don’t know if he’ll wake up again.”
“A bath,” Isana said. “We need to draw him a bath.”
Bitte nodded. “I’ve sent for one, and it should be here in a few moments.”
Isana nodded, once. “And get Tavi over here. I want to hear what happened to my brother.”
Bitte looked up at Isana, dark and keen eyes sad. “Tavi didn’t come home with him, child.”
“What?” Fear flooded her, swift and chill and horrible. She had to fight to push it aside, covering the effort by pulling tendrils that had escaped her braid back from her face. Calm. She was a leader in this steadholt. She had to appear calm, controlled. “Didn’t come home with him?”
“No. He’s not here.”
“We’ve got to find him,” Isana said. “This is a furystorm. He’ll be defenseless.”
“Only that poor idiot Fade would go out into the storm at all, child,” Bitte said in an even tone. “He went out to make sure the barn doors were sealed and was the one who found Bernard. The furies watch over fools and children, they say. Perhaps they will help Tavi as well.” She leaned forward and said, lower, “Because no one here can do anything about it.”
“No,” Isana insisted. “We have to find him.”
Several of the men of the steadholt struggled down the stairs, carrying the big copper bathtub. They set it down on the floor nearby and then began, with the help of some of the children, to relay buckets of water to the tub from the spigot on the wall.
“Isana,” Bitte said, her voice frank, almost cold, “you’re exhausted. You’re the only one I know who has a chance of bringing Bernard back, but I doubt you’ll be able to do even that, much less find Tavi in this weather.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Isana said. “The boy is my responsibility.”
Old Bitte’s hand, warm and surprisingly strong, gripped her wrist. “The boy is out there in that storm. He’s found shelter by now, Isana. Or he’s dead. You must focus on what you do now — or Bernard will be dead as well.”
The fear, the anxiety pressed closer, in tune with the terror rising inside of her. Tavi. She shouldn’t have let herself become so distracted with the preparations, shouldn’t have let Tavi deceive her. He was her responsibility. The image of Tavi, caught in the storm, torn to shreds by the windmanes, flashed to the front of her thoughts, and she let out a quiet sound of frustration, helplessness.
She opened her eyes to find her hands shaking. Isana looked at Bitte and said, “I’ll need help.”
Old Bitte nodded, but her expression was nervous. “I’ve spoken to the hold women and they’ll gi
ve you what they can. But it may not be enough. Without skilled watercrafting, there would be no chance at all of saving him, and even with it—”
“The hold women?” Isana snapped. “Why not Otto and Roth? They’re Steadholders. They owe it to Bernard. For that matter, why aren’t they caring for him already?”
Old Bitte grimaced. “They won’t, Isana. I already asked.”
Isana stared at the old matron, startled. After a moment, she asked, “They what?”
Bitte looked down. “They won’t help. None of them.”
“In the name of all the furies, why not?”
The matron shook her head. “I’m not sure. The storm has everyone nervous—especially the Steadholders, worrying about their folk at home. And Kord has been working that for everything he can. I think he’s hoping to stop the Meet.”
“Kord? He’s in from the barn?”
“Aye, child.”
“Where’s Warner?”
Bitte grimaced. “The old fool. Warner nearly flew at Kord. Warner’s boys took him upstairs. That girl of his talked him into a hot bath, since they’ve not had a chance to bathe since arriving. Otherwise, they’d have been at one another’s throats an hour ago.”
“Bloody crows,” Isana snarled, and rose to her feet. The men and children filling the tub blinked and took a cautious step back from her. She flicked a glance around the hall and then said, to Old Bitte, “Get him in the tub. They’ll help my brother, or I’ll shove those Steadholder chains down their cowardly throats.” She turned on one heel and stalked across the hall toward the trestle table at the head of it, where several men had gathered — the other Steadholders.
Behind them at the fire were Kord’s sons, the mostly silent Aric and his younger brother, the handsome—and accused—Bittan. Even as Isana crossed the hall, she saw Fade, his hair and tunic soaked with cold rain, his head ducked down, try to slip close to the far fire. He reached for the ladle standing in a pot of stew hung by the fire to stay warm.
Bittan scowled up at the slave from his seat immediately beside the fire. Fade moved a bit closer, his branded face twisted into a grotesque parody of a smile. He bobbed his head at Bittan nervously, picked up a bowl, and then reached for the ladle.