Codex Alera 06 - First Lord's Fury

by Jim Butcher

  “Do you think?” Isana asked in a conversational tone, “that it might be possible to have hot tea with our dinner tonight? I’ve always found a good cup of tea to be most . . .” She smiled at them. “Reassuring.”

  The Queen stared at her for a time. Then she whirled to face Invidia, and said, “You may not have the remaining crafters,” she hissed. Then, the hem of her tattered gown snapping, the vord Queen stalked from the hive.

  Invidia looked after the Queen, then turned to Isana. “Are you mad? Do you know what she could do to you?” Her eyes flickered with disquieting light. “Or what I could do to you?”

  “I needed her to leave,” Isana said calmly. “Do you wish to be rid of her, Invidia?”

  The burned woman gestured in burning frustration at the creature clamped to her. “It cannot be.”

  “What if I told you that it could?” Isana asked, speaking in a calm, almost-toneless voice. “What if I told you that the vord possess the means to cure you of any poison, to restore the loss of any organ—even to restore your beauty? And that I know its name and can make a fair guess at where it might be?”

  Invidia’s head rocked back at Isana’s words. Then she breathed, “You’re lying.”

  Isana offered the woman her hand calmly. “I’m not. Come see.”

  The other woman took a step back from Isana, as though the offered hand contained pure poison.

  Isana smiled. “I know,” she said calmly. “You could be free of them, Invidia. I think it is very possible. Even against the Queen’s will.”

  Invidia lifted her chin. Her eyes burned, and her scarred face twisted into what looked like physical pain. Terrible hope pulsed from her, and though she tried to hide it, Isana had been too near her, through too much, for too long. There was no more hiding it from her finely tuned senses. Though it sickened her to do it, Isana faced her calmly and waited for the pressure of that hope to drive the other woman to speak.

  “You,” Invidia rasped, “are lying.”

  Isana shook her head slowly, never looking away from the other woman’s eyes. “Should you wish to change your future,” she said calmly, “I am here.”

  Invidia turned and stormed from the hive. Isana heard a roaring windstream bear her away—leaving her in the hive alone. Except, of course, for perhaps a hundred wax spiders, most of them motionless but not asleep. If she moved toward the exit, they would swarm her.

  Isana smoothed her skirts again and sat calmly.

  Waiting.

  CHAPTER 41

  Fidelias had watched Crassus run the Legions and manage the Canim in the retaking of Riva while Octavian rested from the rather spectacular display of furycrafting he’d put on. Fidelias was impressed with the young Antillan lord. He’d expected Crassus to behave quite a bit differently when he was the one in command. He’d expected someone much more like . . . well, like Maximus, from the heir of Antillus Raucus. Crassus had, it would seem, inherited the best traits of his mother’s bloodline, House of Kalarus: cool logic, intelligence, and polish, seemingly without being infected with the megalomaniacal self-obsession in which most of those petty-minded monsters had reveled.

  Granted, Crassus’s levelheaded style wasn’t necessarily a perfect one where the Canim were concerned. An officer of their corps, a young Shuaran, had dropped a challenge to Crassus’s authority within hours, at which point his elder half brother Maximus had promptly brought one of Raucus’s strengths of character to the forefront—the ability to make a decisive and unmistakable statement.

  When the Cane went for Crassus’s throat, Maximus threw him through a building.

  It was a rather absolute form of diplomacy though Fidelias could only assume that Octavian had rubbed off on Maximus to some degree: It had been a wooden building rather than a stone one. The Cane in question was expected to recover from his injuries—eventually. Varg had denied the uppity Cane the services of Aleran healers, which Crassus had promptly offered.

  Fidelias’s grasp of Canim was still fairly rough, but Varg’s comment had amounted to something like, “Your stupidity will get fewer good warriors killed if you have time to reflect on today’s mistake before leading them.”

  Octavian dropped his head back at Fidelias’s recounting and laughed. His voice came out sounding a little flat within the privacy windcrafting he had woven around them. “One-eared Shuaran pack leader? Tarsh?”

  “Aye, Your Highness, the same.”

  Octavian nodded. The two of them were walking the perimeter of the camp’s defenses as the sunset closed, after another day of hard marching, inspecting the work of the Legions and the warriors. “Maximus has wanted to have an excuse to take a swing at Tarsh ever since we met him in Molvar. And I can’t imagine that Varg would be sorry about being given a reason not to place anyone under Tarsh’s command.” Octavian nodded. “What of the survivors from Riva?”

  The Legions had found a handful of folk clever or fortunate enough to have successfully hidden from the vord during the days of occupation. None of them were in what would be considered good condition though few bore any injuries. “The children are showing signs of beginning to recover,” Fidelias said. “The others . . . some of them have family who might be alive. If we get them to someplace warm and quiet and safe, they have a chance.”

  “Someplace warm, quiet, and safe,” said the Princeps, his eyes hardening. “That can be a rare thing even in times of peace.”

  “True enough.”

  The Princeps stopped in his tracks. They were a short distance from the nearest sentries. “Your best guess. Could Crassus command this force in . . . my absence?”

  “In your absence, as your lieutenant, yes,” Fidelias replied immediately. “In the event of your loss, Captain? Not for long.”

  Octavian eyed him sharply. “Why?”

  “Because the Canim respect Varg, and Varg respects you. The Free Aleran Legion respects you—but if you weren’t here, they would follow Varg’s lead.”

  The Princeps grunted, frowning. Then he said, “Are you telling me that I should name a Canim the second-in-command of our forces?”

  Fidelias opened his mouth and closed it again. He blinked, thinking it over. “I believe . . . that Varg would have a better chance of holding the force together than Crassus, or anyone else in the First Aleran’s command structure.”

  “Except, perhaps, Valiar Marcus,” Octavian mused.

  Fidelias snorted. “Yes, well, that’s not an option now, is it?”

  Octavian regarded him steadily and said nothing.

  Fidelias tilted his head as it slowly dawned on him what Octavian meant. “Oh, Your Highness. You couldn’t possibly do that.”

  “Why not?” Octavian asked. “No one but my personal guard and Demos’s crew know the truth about you. They can keep a secret. So, Marcus runs the force until it can unite with the Legions, passes along Crassus’s orders, and is watched by the Maestro—who is, I believe, still uncertain as to why you aren’t hanging on a cross being eaten by vord.”

  “I’m a bit unclear on that point myself, at times.”

  Octavian’s visage hardened briefly. “I will do as I see fit with your life. It is mine to spend. Remember that.”

  Fidelias frowned and inclined his head slightly. “As you wish, my lord.”

  “That’s right,” Octavian said, some measure of bitter humor touching the tone.

  Fidelias studied the young man for a moment and realized that . . . the Princeps was torn over some decision. Normally he was so confident, so driven; Fidelias had never seen him like this. There was uncertainty hovering behind his words, hesitance: Octavian himself wasn’t sure what his next steps would be.

  “Are you planning on leaving the force, sir?” Fidelias asked carefully.

  “At some point, it’s inevitable,” Octavian replied calmly. “If nothing else, I will be obliged to make personal contact with the Legions in Calderon—and hope to the great furies whoever is in charge over there has had sense enough to listen to my uncle.�
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  Fidelias grunted. “But . . . that isn’t what you think will happen.”

  Octavian grimaced, and said, “Someone has to command the men, regardless of what happens to me. We have to take down the vord Queen—and her cadre of captured or treacherous Citizens. I will, by necessity, be in the center of that conflict. And . . . the odds seem to be long against me.”

  Fidelias debated on how to respond to the moment of vulnerability the Princeps was showing. He finally just began chuckling.

  Octavian frowned at him and lifted an imperious eyebrow.

  “Long odds,” he said. “Bloody crows, sir. Long odds. That’s bloody funny.”

  “I don’t see what’s so amusing about it.”

  “Naturally, you don’t,” Fidelias said, still chuckling. “The furyless boy from the country who stopped an invasion.”

  “I didn’t really stop it,” Tavi said. “Doroga stopped it. I just . . .”

  “Completely demolished an operation backed by the most dangerous High Lord and Lady in the Realm,” Fidelias said. “I was there. Remember?” The last words were not bereft of irony.

  Octavian gave a small inclination of his head in acknowledgment of the touch.

  “The boy who personally saved the First Lord’s life in his second term at the Academy. Who took command of a Legion and fought the Canim to a standoff—and who then stole Varg from the most tightly guarded prison of the Realm and brokered the first truce in history with the Canim to get them out of the Realm. The young upstart Princeps who pitted himself against a continent full of vord and hostile Canim and won.”

  “I got my people and Varg’s out alive,” Octavian corrected sharply. “I haven’t won anything. Not yet.”

  Fidelias grunted. “Sir . . . honestly. Suppose you defeat the vord here. Suppose you unite our people again, take Alera back. Will that be a victory?”

  Octavian raked his fingers through his hair. “Of course not. It’ll be a good start. But there will be severe repercussions for the balance of power in our society that must be addressed. The Canim will, probably, be settling here, and we’ll have to reach some kind of mutual understanding with them, and the Free Alerans are never going to back the same set of laws that allowed them to be enslaved. Not to mention the fact that—”

  Fidelias cleared his throat gently. “Young man, I submit to you that your standards of victory are . . . set rather high. If you continue that way, no matter what you do, it will never be enough.”

  “That is exactly correct,” Octavian replied. “Are the men and women the vord have already killed only partially dead? Are they only technically dead? Only legally dead? Can a compromise be made wherein they are given back some portion of their lives?” He shook his head. “No. No compromise. My duty to them, and to those still alive, demands nothing less than everything I can give them. Yes, old soldier, my standards are high. So are the stakes. They’re a matched set.”

  Fidelias stared at him, then shook his head slowly. Gaius Sextus had held an air of absolute authority, of personal power that arrested one’s sense of reason, at times, to extract support and obedience. Gaius Septimus had been a vibrant figure, driven and intelligent, always looking to the future. He could have inspired men to follow him down any path of reason, no matter how winding.

  But Octavian . . . men would follow Octavian into a leviathan’s gullet if he asked it of them. And crows take him if Fidelias himself wouldn’t be one of them. The headstrong lunatic would probably discover some way to lead them all out the other side draped in the rings and crowns of a devoured treasure ship and somehow emerge clean.

  “I couldn’t lead the Legions and the Canim,” Fidelias said quietly. “Not alone. But . . . if you made your will known to Varg, then Valiar Marcus could serve as Crassus’s advisor, his huntmaster. Varg would give him the chance to stand on his own merits in that case. And I would direct him as best I could.”

  “You know the Canim,” Octavian said. “Better than anyone else I have.” His eyes glinted. “You’ve spent time with Sha, I think.”

  “I’ve met the Cane,” Fidelias said calmly. “He seems most professional.”

  “And have you ever met Khral?”

  “I do not believe my duties as First Spear ever brought me into contact with him, my lord.”

  “Oh,” Octavian said, smiling suddenly. “Very smooth.”

  Fidelias inclined his head, his mouth touched with amusement at one corner.

  The Princeps turned to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Marcus.”

  Fidelias dropped his eyes. “My lord . . .”

  “Whatever else you’ve done,” Octavian said gently, “I have seen you. I have trusted you with my life, and you have trusted me with yours. I have seen you work tirelessly to serve the First Aleran. I have seen you give your body and heart to the Legion, to your men. I refuse to consider the idea that it was all a ploy.”

  Fidelias looked away from him. “That hardly matters, sir.”

  “It matters if I say it matters,” Octavian growled. “Crows take me, if I am to be First Lord, we’re going to establish that from the outs—”

  The earthcrafting went beneath Fidelias so swiftly, so softly, that he hardly noticed it. He froze in place and narrowed his eyes, sending his own awareness into the ground beneath them.

  A second passed by him. And a third.

  They were all heading in the same direction—toward the command tent, the center of the camp.

  “. . . if I have to crack every skull in the Senate to . . .” Octavian frowned. “Marcus?”

  Fidelias’s hand went to his side, where his sword would normally be. It was, of course, gone. “Sir,” he said, his voice tight, “there are earthcrafters passing beneath us at this very moment.”

  Octavian blinked. Powerful the young man might be, but he didn’t have the subtlety, the awareness, that could only come from decades of experience. He hadn’t sensed a thing. But once he closed his own eyes for a moment, frowning, he let out a blistering curse. “Friendlies would never attempt to enter the camp like that. The vord had a number of Citizens in their control.”

  “Aye.”

  “Then we can’t send legionares against them. It will be a bloodbath.” He “listened” for a moment more, then opened his eyes. “They’re heading for command,” Octavian said shortly. Only his eyes showed strain. “Kitai’s there.”

  “Go,” Fidelias said. “I’ll bring the Pisces after you.”

  “Do it,” Octavian snapped, and before he was finished speaking, he took a single bounding step and leapt into the air on a roaring gale of wind. Within another heartbeat, he had drawn his sword, and white-hot, furious fire burned forth from the blade.

  Fidelias turned to sprint toward the center of the camp. As he went, he began bellowing orders that carried even over the hollow roar of Octavian’s monstrous windstream.

  He did not need to be doing such things at his age, but he tried to focus on the positive: At least he wasn’t running in full armor. And, thank the great furies, the Princeps hadn’t taken Fidelias flying alongside him. Even so, some part of Fidelias noted with amusement that he wasn’t simply following Gaius Octavian, unarmed and unarmored, into the leviathan’s mouth.

  He was sprinting.

  CHAPTER 42

  Tavi didn’t know how many earthcrafters the vord had collared and enslaved, but given how quickly Alera said that they had affected repairs upon the causeways, it was either a great many Citizens with lesser gifts or a few very powerful ones. Either way, Kitai was in the command tent, averting friction between the Antillan brothers and the Canim, and between the command staff of the Free Aleran and Maestro Magnus, and unaware of what was coming.

  Tavi dived at the command tent, a dangerous maneuver when flying so low—but he managed to land perhaps twenty feet off without breaking his legs or ankles, then promptly redirected his windstream to catch the command tent and tear it neatly up off its posts and stakes like an enormous kite. A dozen pe
ople in the tent, staff and guards, Aleran and Canim, came lurching to their feet. Half a dozen of them, including Kitai, had already drawn steel before Tavi got a clear look at them.

  “To arms!” he thundered, before either the guards or the people within the tent could react. He ran toward the tent, the sword in his hand sending out sparks that threatened to catch his own bloody cloak on fire, and shouted, “Enemy earthcrafters coming in low!”

  “Oh crows take it,” muttered Maestro Magnus in a positively offended tone. He had to gather up his long tunic to show pale, scrawny legs as he stepped up onto a wooden camp stool. “Of all the ridiculous nonsense.”

  “Where?” Kitai snapped, taking several rapid steps from the others, looking left and right at the ground beneath her.

  Tavi focused his thoughts upon the earth beneath him. Subtle though such travel might be, his flight to the command tent had been far swifter, and he felt the foremost earthcrafting coming toward him, several yards away. Instead of answering, he stopped, took a quick pair of steps, and with the power of the earth itself behind his arms and shoulders, thrust the burning blade straight down into the soil beneath him. The blade struck home, though he could tell only from the sudden quivering jerks that ran through the steel to his hand, like the wriggling motion of a fish caught upon a hook that ran through the line and pole to the hand of an angler. He withdrew, the motion effortless with the burning sword, and struck again only inches from the first blow.

  The earth beneath him suddenly collapsed downward in a circle perhaps ten feet across. One moment, he was standing upon solid ground, and the next it was falling from beneath him. One hand, formed into a stiffening claw, thrust up from the loose soil. Tavi tried not to take note of the fact that the hand was a woman’s and not young, forcing the fact of what he had just done to the back of his mind.

  “Aleran!” cried Kitai’s voice. Her anxious face appeared at the top of the sudden pit Tavi found himself in.

  “I’m all ri—” Tavi began.

  The enemy earthcrafter following in the wake of the first suddenly stumbled out of the earth five feet from Tavi, abruptly finding himself standing in the open air at the bottom of the pit. Tavi stared at him for a motionless instant of recognition. He hadn’t seen the massively muscled, lank-haired man who had appeared, a thug named Renzo, since commencement activities at the Academy. The enormous young man was perhaps a year older than Tavi and weighed two of him. An extremely accomplished earthcrafter, Renzo had been stupid enough to be a friend of Kalarus Brencis Minoris, which doubtless explained the steel slaver’s collar about his mountainous neck. Tavi had beaten Renzo into screaming surrender before he’d had use of any furycrafting at all, and the act still shamed him in his memory.