by Jim Butcher
Tavi blinked at her and sipped at his drink. “Do I . . . you know. Have to do anything? Learn to make speeches or something?”
She laughed and kissed his forehead. “Just rest. You’re a brave person, Tavi, and you think about others more than yourself, when hard times come. Always remember who you are.” She rose. “There are some visitors coming, but I don’t want you to talk to them for very long. Drink your water and then get some more sleep. I’ll bring up some food later this evening, when you’re ready.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tavi said. He watched her walk toward the door, and just before she left, he asked her, “Aunt Isana? Who is Araris Valerian?”
Isana stopped in the doorway, frowning. She drew a breath. “He . . . he was one of the royal guardsmen. One of Princeps Septimus’s personal bodyguards. A famous swordsman.”
“Did he die with the Princeps?”
She turned to face him and said, very quietly, very firmly, “Yes, Tavi. He died. Fifteen years ago. Do you understand?”
“But—”
“Tavi.” Isana sighed. “I need you to trust me. Please, Tavi. Just for a little while.”
He swallowed and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Isana smiled at him, wearily. “Here are your visitors. Remember, don’t talk for too long.”
She slipped out. A moment later, Doroga ducked his head to slip beneath the doorway and strode into the room. The huge Marat headman was dressed in his loincloth, together with a cloak with a mantle of thanadent feathers and a garish, pale red tunic. Aleran boots dangled in his belt, though his own feet were bare, and rings decorated every finger. His left arm was in a sling, swollen and discolored, but he seemed in good spirits and smiled at Tavi, moving to his bed and crushing his hand in a friendly, monstrous grip.
Behind him walked Kitai, scowling, dressed in a loincloth and wearing an Aleran tunic carelessly stained with food and dirt. Her long, pale hair had been pulled back into a neat braid, revealing the delicate curves of her cheekbones and neck.
“Well, young warrior,” Doroga said. “I have paid you back for saving my whelp—”
“Daughter,” Kitai interjected. “I am not a whelp anymore, father.”
“Daughter,” Doroga rumbled, with an expansive smile. “You saved my daughter, and I paid you back for it. But then you saved me as well. I find myself still in your debt.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Tavi said.
“You shouted a warning to me, Tavi,” Doroga said. “Without it, I would have died.” He squeezed Tavi’s shoulders, and Tavi briefly thought something was going to break again. “Thank you.”
“But what I did was small. You’re the one who did all the big things. You led a horde against another horde, sir. A horde of your own people.”
“I set out to repay my debt to you,” Doroga said. “Finish what you set out to do. It is part of being a man.” Doroga smiled at him and rose. “Kitai.”
Kitai scowled.
Doroga frowned at her.
Kitai rolled her eyes and snapped, to Tavi, “Thank you. For saving my life.”
Tavi blinked mildly at her. “Um. Sure.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t think I’m going to forget it, either.”
Tavi thought that it sounded a great deal more like a threat than a promise. “Uh. No. I don’t think that.”
Kitai’s scowl deepened, though something around her eyes softened at the words. “I am going to learn to ride a horse,” she stated. “If it is all right with you.”
“Uh. Sure, whatever. Good, that’s great, Kitai.” Tavi glanced at Doroga, hopefully.
Doroga rolled his eyes and sighed. Then said, “We should go. Your headman wants to thank me tomorrow, and Kitai should wash her tunic.”
Kitai snapped, “Whelps wear tunics. It is foolish to make me wear this one. I don’t like it, I don’t want it. Why shouldn’t I wear what the rest of the Marat women wear?”
“You want to walk around here naked like that?” Tavi demanded. “Are you crazy? Dress like a normal person while you’re here.”
Doroga abruptly smiled at Tavi, his face stretching into a broad grin. “Good. That is good.”
Kitai folded her arms and shot Tavi a look that could have crumbled stones to dust. Tavi sank a bit under the sheets. Kitai made a sound of disgust and stalked out of the room.
Doroga broke into a rumbling laugh and ruffled Tavi’s hair in a gesture peculiarly like Uncle Bernard’s. “Doomed, young warrior. Doomed. But her mother and I started off that way.”
Tavi blinked. “What?”
“We will see one another again.” Doroga turned to go.
“What?” Tavi said again. “Her mother what? Doroga, wait!”
Doroga didn’t slow, rumbling out a low laugh as he left the room. “Remember what I said, Tavi. We will speak again.”
Tavi settled back on the bed, scowling, folding his arms, pensive. He had the definite impression that he had gotten in over his head, somewhere along the way.
Tavi frowned, pondering. “Finish what I started.”
There was a gentle knock at the doorway, and Tavi looked up to see Fade’s scarred, homely face smiling in at him from the hall. “Tavi,” Fade said, his tone happy.
Tavi smiled. “Hello, Fade. Come in?”
Fade shuffled inside, eyes vacant, carrying a long package of red cloth.
“What’s this?” Tavi asked.
“Present,” Fade said. “Present, Tavi.” He offered the cloth bundle to him.
Tavi reached out to take it and found it heavier than he expected. He lay it on his lap and unwrapped the cloth from around it. The cloth turned out to be one of the scarlet capes from the Princeps’ Memorium, and wrapped within it, in an old and travel worn scabbard, was the battered old blade Amara had carried from the Memorium, and that Fade had used upon the wall.
Tavi looked up at Fade, who smiled witlessly at him. “For you.”
Tavi frowned. “You don’t have to keep up the act, Fade,” he said quietly.
For a moment, something glittered in Fade’s eyes, above the coward’s brand on his cheek. He regarded Tavi in silence for a moment and then gave him a deliberate wink. “For you,” he repeated in that same voice, and then turned to go.
Tavi looked up to see a man standing in the doorway. He was tall, broad of shoulder and long of limb. His face did not look much older than his uncle’s, but there was something about his faded green eyes that spoke of more years than were evident. Silver streaked his hair, and a heavy cloak of plain, grey fabric covered him except for what his hood revealed of his face.
Fade drew in a sharp breath.
“A princely gift,” the man murmured. “Are you sure it is yours to give, slave?”
Fade lifted his chin, and Tavi saw the slave’s shoulders straighten. “For Tavi.”
The man in the doorway narrowed his eyes, then shrugged his shoulders. “Leave us. I would speak to him alone.”
Fade glanced warily back at Tavi and then nodded his head deeply to the stranger. He shuffled out the door after giving Tavi another witless smile, and vanished into the hall.
The stranger shut the door quietly behind Fade and moved to sit down on the bed beside Tavi’s, his green eyes never leaving the boy. “Do you know me?”
Tavi shook his head.
The stranger smiled. “My name is Gaius Sextus.”
Tavi felt his mouth drop open. He sat up straight, stammering. “Oh. Sir. Sire, I didn’t recognize you, I’m sorry.”
Gaius held up a gloved hand in a soothing gesture. “No, stay in bed. You need your rest.”
“I thought you were coming tomorrow, sire.”
“Yes. But I came here incognito this evening.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to speak with you, Tavi. It would seem that I am in your debt.”
Tavi swallowed. “I was just trying to get my sheep home, sir. That’s all I meant to happen, I mean. After that, everything just sort of . . .”
&nb
sp; “Got complicated?” Gaius suggested.
Tavi flushed and nodded. “Exactly.”
“That’s how these things happen. I don’t want to keep you up long, so I’ll come to the point. I owe you. Name your reward, and you’ll have it.”
Tavi blinked at the First Lord, his mouth falling open again. “Anything?” he asked.
“Within reason.”
“Then I want you to help the holders who got hurt, and the families of those who were killed. Winter’s coming on, and it’s going to be hard for all of us.”
Gaius lifted both eyebrows and tilted his head to one side. “Truly? Given anything to choose from, that is your choice of rewards?”
Tavi felt his jaw set, stubbornly. He met Gaius’s eyes with his own, and nodded.
Gaius murmured, “Amazing.” The First Lord shook his head. “Very well. I’ll have Crown aid dispensed to those who suffered loss on a case-by-case basis by the local Count. Fair enough?”
“Yes, sire. Thank you.”
“Let me add one thing more to that, Tavi. My Cursor tells me that you wish to attend the Academy.”
Tavi’s heart thudded abruptly in his chest. “Yes, sire. More than anything.”
“It might be difficult for someone with your . . . limitations, shall we say? You will be in the company of the sons and daughters of merchants and nobles and wealthy houses from all over Alera. Many of them strong crafters. It may provide you with a great many challenges.”
“I don’t care,” Tavi blurted. “I don’t care about that, sire. I can handle myself.”
Gaius regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “I believe you can. Then if you will accept it, it will be done. I will give you patronage for your attendance at the Academy and assist you in choosing your fields of study. You will be Academ Tavi Patronus Gaius. Go to the capital. The Academy. See what you can make of your life given a chance, hmm?”
Tavi’s head spun, and he felt his eyes fill with tears. He blinked them many times, trying to hide the tears. “Sire. Sire, you don’t know what it means to me. Thank you.”
Gaius smiled, and the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled up as he did. “Rest, then. Tomorrow will be all ceremony and display. But please know that you have my gratitude, young man. And my respect.”
“Thank you, sire.”
Gaius rose and inclined his head. “Thank you, Academ. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He left the room, leaving Tavi feeling a little dizzy. The boy lay down on his pillow, staring up at the ceiling, his heart racing. The capital. The Academy. Everything he had wanted. He started to cry and to laugh at the same time, and he hugged himself tightly, because he felt as though if he didn’t he might burst.
The First Lord of all Alera had told him thank you. That he would see him tomorrow.
Tavi stilled for a moment, mulling over what had been said to him that day.
“No,” he murmured. “There’s something I need to do first. Need to finish what I’ve begun.”
CHAPTER 47
Fidelias sank into the warm bath in aching relief, his eyes closing. Nearby, Lady Aquitaine, dressed only in a robe of pale silk, placed Aquitaine’s signet dagger into a coffer on her dresser, and shut and locked it.
“And my men?” Fidelias asked.
“All being cared for,” she assured him. “I repaired your watercrafter’s hearing, and she and her man went to their suite.” She half smiled. “They deserve the time, I think.”
“I failed,” Fidelias said.
“Not entirely,” murmured Lady Aquitaine. She tested the temperature of the water, and then lay her fingers on Fidelias’s temples. “Without the dagger, Gaius has nothing but suspicions.”
“But he knows,” Fidelias said. He felt briefly dizzy as a slow wave of warmth pulsed over him. His aches began to vanish into a molten cloud of blessed relief. “He knows. Aquitaine isn’t working in secret any longer.”
Lady Aquitaine smiled. Then she stepped around the tub and let the silk robe slip from her shoulders. She slid into the water with Fidelias and wrapped her arms around the man’s shoulders. “You worry too much.”
Fidelias shifted uncomfortably. “Lady. Perhaps I should go. Your husband —”
“Is busy,” Lady Aquitaine purred. She gestured, and in the water shapes rose, solid outlines as though dolls upon a tiny stage. There were two figures there, on a great bed in a well-appointed chamber, writhing together in sensual completion, then kissing, slow, heavy kisses.
“There, sweet lady,” Aquitaine’s voice, tinny and distant murmured. “Are you feeling better?”
“Attis,” a young woman’s voice whispered, lazily contented. “So strong.” She shivered and began to sit up. “I should go.”
“Nonsense,” Lord Aquitaine said. “He’ll be handing out rewards for hours yet. You and I have time for more.”
“No,” she murmured, “I shouldn’t.” But Fidelias could hear the excitement in her voice.
“You should,” Aquitaine murmured. “There. That’s better.”
“Such a lover,” the woman sighed. “And soon, we can be together like this whenever you desire.”
“That’s right,” Aquitaine said.
“And Lady Aquitaine?” the woman asked.
Lady Aquitaine’s lips split in a cool little smile.
“She won’t be a problem,” Lord Aquitaine said. “No more talking.”
Fidelias watched as Gaius Caria, First Lady of Alera, wrapped her arms around Lord Aquitaine and drew him closer to her.
“You see,” Lady Aquitaine purred, letting the images slide away into the water again. “We have more than one knife at his back.” She turned to Fidelias, her lips at his ear, and he felt himself begin to respond with slow, ardent hunger. “The story is not yet done.”
Gaius Sextus, First Lord of Alera, descended to the Calderon Valley upon a winged steed of pure fire. Around him flew a full Legion of Knights Aeris, five thousand strong, and the Royal Guard in their scarlet capes, Knights Ferro and Ignus, Knights Aqua and Terra and Knights Fauna, all of them of ancient high blood. Trumpets announced their arrival, and despite the vast numbers of men aloft, the air hardly seemed to stir. The First Lord descended on Bernardholt with a full Legion in his train, and the people of the Calderon Valley turned out to meet him.
Amara stood foremost before the crowds, and Gaius dismounted, the stallion of flame vanishing to a wisp of smoke as he did. Amara knelt as he approached her, but he took her hand and raised her to her feet, embracing her with gentle arms. He wore the scarlet and azure of Alera, a blade at his side, and carried himself with pride and strength, though there seemed to be more lines of care worn into the corners of his eyes.
He stood up and looked down at her eyes, smiling. “Amara. Well done.”
Amara felt the tears touch her eyes, and she straightened with pride. “Thank you, sire.”
The Legion settled behind them like hundreds of gleaming, deadly dragonflies, and Amara stood a little straighter in her borrowed gown. “Sire, I’ll present them to you in the order I discussed in my report?”
Gaius nodded. “Yes. Do. I’m eager to meet them.”
Amara called out, “Let Frederic of Bernardholt approach the Crown.”
There was a startled gulp from the crowd, and someone pushed the tall, brawny youth up out of the crowd to the general laughter of the holders. Frederic looked around, folding his hands nervously, then sighed and walked forward to Amara and the First Lord. He began to bow, then knelt, then changed his mind and stood up to bow again.
Gaius laughed and took the young man’s hand and shook it firmly. “I am given to understand, young man, that you bested not one but two of the mercenary Knights in single combat, armed with only a shovel.”
“Spade, sir,” Frederic corrected him. Then flushed. “That is, uh. I hit them, yes sire.”
“And I am told that in the battle, you defended a door of a building in the east courtyard, protecting the children inside from harm at the h
ands of the Marat.”
“Yes. With my spade, sir. Sire. Sorry.”
“Kneel, young man.”
Frederic swallowed and did. Gaius drew his sword, and it gleamed in the sun. “For courage, loyalty, and resourcefulness in the face of enemies of the Realm, Frederic of Bernardholt, I do hearby dub thee a Knight of the Realm, with all the responsibility and privileges therein. You are, from this day, a Citizen of the Realm, and let no man dispute your devotion. Rise, Sir Frederic.”
Frederic stood up, stunned. “But . . . but all I know is herding gargants, sir. I don’t know about that fighting and whatnot. Sire, sorry.”
“Sir Frederic,” Gaius intoned, “I wish all of my Knights knew a skill so useful.” He smiled and said, “We will discuss, in time, your duties here.”
Frederic bowed, clumsily. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Sire. Sir.”
Gaius gestured, and Frederic took a few dazed steps to one side.
Amara called, “Let Bernard of Bernardholt come forth.”
Bernard, dressed in rich fabrics of brown and woodland green, stepped forward from the crowd and dropped to one knee before Gaius, bowing his head.
Gaius took Bernard’s hand and raised him. “I understand you helped take over matters when Gram was injured.”
“I only helped, sire,” Bernard said. “I did what anyone would have.”
“You did what anyone should have,” Gaius said. “There is a difference. A broad difference. Steadholder, your courage in the face of such overwhelming danger is not overlooked.”
Once again, Gaius tapped his sword to either shoulder. “By the authority of the Crown, I do hereby dub thee Bernard, Count of Calderon.”
Bernard’s head snapped up, and he blinked.
Gaius smiled. “With all the responsibility and privileges therein, and so on. Rise, good Count.”
Bernard stood up, staring at Gaius. “But Gram is the Count here.”
“Gram is now a Lord, I’m afraid, your Excellency.” Gaius lowered his voice with a glance around. “He has a comfortable assignment in the Amaranth Vale now, while he recovers from his injuries. I need someone who the local people respect and who I can trust to take over for him. Also someone who the Marat will respect. You’re it.”