by Jim Butcher
"Like Fidelias."
"Like Fidelias," Gaius agreed. "You're a rare person, though, Amara. You're just the opposite."
She frowned. "You mean, I know what loyalty is?"
"More than that. You live within it. You couldn't imagine a world in which you didn't. You could no more betray what you held dear than you could will your heart to stop beating. I am old, Amara. And people reveal themselves to me." He was quiet for a moment more, and said, "I never doubted your loyalty. Only your ability to survive the mission. And it appears that I may owe you an apology, on that count, Cursor Amara. Consider your graduation exercise a success."
Amara felt pride stir in her, an absurd feeling of pleasure that Gaius would praise her so. She felt her back straighten and her chin lift a little higher. "I am your eyes and ears to command, milord."
Gaius nodded, once, and behind Amara the wind began to rise, rustling over the trees like surf over sand, making them whisper and sigh in a vast, quiet chorus. "Go with the furies then, Cursor. For Alera."
"I will find what you need, Your Majesty. For Alera."
Chapter 7
Fidelias hated flying.
He sat on the litter, facing ahead, so that the wind sliced into his eyes and blew his hair straight back from his high forehead. On the seat facing him sat Aldrick the Sword, huge and relaxed as a newly fed lion. Odiana had curled up on Aldrick's lap to doze off hours before, and the water witch's dark hair danced and played in the wind, veiling the beauty of her features. Neither one evinced any signs of discomfort at the flight, physical or otherwise.
"I hate flying," Fidelias muttered. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the wind, and leaned over the edge of the litter. A brilliant moon, looming large among a sea of stars, painted the landscape below in silver and black. Wooded hills rolled slowly beneath them, a solid darkness, broken here and there by silver-kissed clearings and winding, half-luminescent rivers.
Four of the Knights Aeris from the camp bore them through the air, one at each pole of the litter. They wore harnesses that fitted them to the litter, supporting the weight of the three people inside, while the Knights' weight, in turn, was borne by the powerful furies at their command. Another half-dozen Knights Aeris flew in a loose ring around the litter, and moonlight glittered on the steel of their arms and armor.
"Captain," Fidelias called to the lead Knight. The man glanced back over his shoulder, murmured something, and drifted back through the air toward the litter.
"Sir?"
"Will it be much longer before we arrive in Aquitaine?"
"No, sir. We should be there before the hour is out."
Fidelias blinked. "That soon? I thought you said it would take us until dawn."
The Knight shook his head, eyes cooly scanning the sky ahead. "Fortune favors us, sir. The furies of the south are stirring and have brought us a strong wind to speed our way."
The former Cursor frowned. "That's highly unusual at this season, is it not, Captain?"
The man shrugged. "It's saved us hours of flight time and made it easier on everyone. We haven't even had to spell the men bearing the litter. Relax, sir. I'll have you in the High Lord's palace before the witching hour." And with that, the soldier accelerated, moving to take position ahead of the litter again.
Fidelias frowned and resettled on his seat. He glanced over the side of the litter again, and his stomach jumped and fluttered with an irrational sensation of fear. He knew that he was as safe flying in the litter, escorted by Knights Aeris, as anywhere in the realm, but some part of his mind simply would not casually accept the vast distance between himself and the ground below. Here, he was far from wood and earth, far from the furies he could call to his service, and that disturbed him. He had to rely upon the strength of the Knights with him rather than his own. And everyone other than himself had, in time, inevitably disappointed him.
He folded his arms and bowed his head against the wind, brooding. Gaius had used him from the very beginning. Used him with a purpose, to be sure, and never carelessly. He had been far too valuable a tool to waste through misuse or neglect. Indeed, at times, the precarious peace of the entire realm had occasionally hinged upon his ability to accomplish on behalf of the Crown.
Fidelias felt his frown deepen. Gaius was old-the old wolf that led the pack-and it was nothing more than a matter of time before he was hauled down to his death. But despite that brutal, simple truth, Gaius continued to fight against the inevitable. He could have turned over power to a nominal heir a decade ago, but instead, he had held on, wily and desperate, and delayed matters for a decade by pitting the High Lords against one another in bids to see who could position his daughter or niece to marry the First Lord and give birth to the new Princeps. Gaius (with Fidelias's aid, of course) had played the lords off of one another with merciless precision, until every High Lord of Alera spent years convinced that his candidate would surely be the one to wed Gaius. His eventual choice had pleased no one, not even High Lord Parcius, Caria's father, and even the most dense of the High Lords had realized, in time, that they had been played for fools.
The game had been well played, but in the end it had all been for nothing. The House of Gaius had never been a fertile one, and even if he had proved physically capable of producing an Heir (which Fidelias remained unsure about), the First Lady had not, as yet, shown herself to be with child, and
palace rumor held that the First Lord seldom went to the same bed in which his wife slept.
Gaius was old. He was dying. The star of his House was falling from the heavens, and anyone who blindly clung to the hem of his robes would fall with him.
Like Amara.
Fidelias frowned, while something nagged at him, distracted him, burned in his belly. It was a pity, to be sure, that Amara had chosen a fool's crusade rather than making an intelligent decision. Surely, if he'd had more time, it may have proved possible to encourage her to see a more rational point of view. Now, instead, he would have to act directly against her, if she interfered again.
And he did not want to do that.
Fidelias shook his head. The girl had been his most promising student, and he had let her come to mean too much to him. He had destroyed some three score men and women in his years as a Cursor-some of them as powerful and idealistic as Amara. He had never hesitated to perform his duty, never let himself be distracted by anything so trivial as personal attachment. His love was for Alera.
And that was really the issue at hand. Fidelias served the realm, not the First Lord. Gaius was doomed. Delay of the transfer of power from Gaius's hands to another could only cause strife and bloodshed among the High Lords who would wish to assume Gaius's station. It might even come to a war of succession, something unheard of since the dawn of Aleran civilization, but which was rumored to have been commonplace in the distant past. And should that happen, not only would the sons and daughters of Alera die point-lessly, fighting one another, but the division itself would be a signal fire to the enemies of the Realm-the savage Icemen, the bestial Marat, the ruthless Canim, and who knew what else in the unexplored wilds of the world. Above all else, such weakening of the Realm's unity had to be circumvented.
And that meant establishing a strong ruler, and swiftly. Already, the High Lords quietly defied the First Lord's authority. It would only be a matter of time before the High Lords and their cities disbanded the realm into a cluster of city-nations. And if that happened, it would be simple for the enemies of mankind to quietly nibble away at those realms until nothing was left.
Fidelias grimaced, his belly burning more sharply. It had to be done, like a battlefield surgeon forced to remove a mangled limb. There was nothing
that would make it less gruesome. The best one could hope for was to get it done as swiftly and cleanly as possible.
Which led to Aquitainus. He was the most ruthless, the most able and perhaps the strongest of the High Lords.
Fidelias's stomach roiled.
He had betrayed Gaius,
the Codex, the Cursors. Betrayed his student, Amara. He had turned his back on them, to support a man who might become the most ruthless and bloodthirsty dictator Alera had ever known. The furies knew, he had tried everything in his power to convince Gaius to take another path.
Fidelias had been forced to this.
It was necessary.
It had to be done.
His stomach burned as the glowing furylights of Aquitaine appeared on the horizon.
"Wake up," he murmured. "We're almost there."
Aldrick opened his eyes and focused on Fidelias. One hand absently caressed Odiana's dark wealth of hair, and she let out a pleased little whimper in her sleep, writhing in the man's lap with liquid sensuality, before settling into stillness again. The swordsman watched Fidelias, his expression unreadable.
"Deep thoughts, old man?" Aldrick asked.
"Some. How will Aquitaine react?"
The big man pursed his lips. "It depends."
"On what?"
"On what he is doing when we interrupt him with bad news."
"Is it all that bad?"
Aldrick smiled. "Just hope he's up drinking. He's usually in a pretty good mood. Tends to forget his anger by the time the hangover has worn off."
"It was an idiot's plan to begin with."
"Of course. It was his. He isn't a planner of deception or subterfuge. But I've never met a man who could lead as strongly as he does. Or anyone with his raw power." Aldrick continued stroking the sleeping water witch's hair, his expression thoughtful. "Are you worried?"
"No," Fidelias lied. "I'm still too valuable to him."
"Perhaps, for now." Aldrick said. He smiled, a mirthless expression. "But I'll not be loaning you any money."
Fidelias clucked his teeth. "Direct action would have been premature in any case. By escaping, the girl may have done his Grace the biggest favor of his life."
"I don't doubt it," Aldrick murmured. "But somehow, I'm almost certain that he won't see it that way."
Fidelias studied the other man's face, but the swordsman's features revealed nothing. His grey eyes blinked lazily, and his mouth curled into a smile, as though taking amusement in Fidelias's lack of ability to gauge him. The Cursor frowned at the man, a mild expression, and turned to watch the city of Aquitaine come into sight.
First came the lights. Firecrafters by the dozens maintained the lights along the city's streets, and they burned with a gentle radiance through the mist-shrouded evening, all soft yellows, deep amber, pale crimson, until the hill upon which the city was built seemed itself to be one enormous, living flame, garbed in warmth and flickering color. Upon the city's walls, and just beyond them, lights burned with a cold, blue brilliance, casting the ground far around into stark illumination and long black shadows, their harsh glare vigilant against any would-be invaders.
As the litter glided down, and closer, Fidelias could begin to make out shapes in the shifting lights. Statues stood silent and lovely on the streets. Houses, all elegant lines and high arches, contested with one another to prove the most skillfully crafted, the most beautifully lit. Fountains sparkled and flickered, some of them illuminated from below, so that they burned violet or emerald in the darkness, pools of liquid flames. Trees rose up around houses and lined the streets, thriving and beautiful life that had been crafted as carefully as every other part of the city. They, too, wore veils of colored light, and their leaves, already changed into autumn's brilliant hues, shone in too many shades to count.
The sound of a bell tolling the late hour rose to the descending litter. Fidelias heard the trod of hooves upon paving stones somewhere below and raucous singing from a night club of some kind. Music came up from a garden party as the litter passed over it, strings supporting a sweet alto flute that pursued a gentle, haunting melody. The smell of wood smoke and spices still drifted on the evening breezes, along with the scent of late-blooming flowers and of rain on the wind.
To call Aquitaine beautiful was to call the ocean wet, Fidelias thought. Accurate enough, in its way, but wholly insufficient to the task.
They were challenged by a barking voice before they had come within a long bowshot of the High Lord's manor, a walled fortress surmounting the hill upon which the city stood. Fidelias watched as a man in the sable and scarlet surcoat of Aquitaine swept down from the air above. A dozen more hovered somewhere in the night sky above them, unseen-but the Cursor could feel the eddies of wind that their furies kicked up in keeping them aloft.
The challenger of the Knights Aeris guarding the High Lord's manor exchanged a pass phrase with the captain of Fidelias's own escort, though the exchange had the comfortable, routine air of a formality. Then the group swept on forward, down into the manor's courtyard, while more guards watched from the walls, along with leering statues wrought in the shapes of hunchbacked, gangly men. The moment Fidelias stepped from the litter, he felt the light, steady tremors of power in the earth that led back to each statue on the wall and found himself staring at the statues.
"Gargoyles:1" he breathed. "All of them?"
Aldrick glanced at the statues and then to Fidelias and nodded once.
"How long have they been kept here?"
"As long as anyone remembers," Aldrick rumbled.
"Aquitaine is that strong…" Fidelias pursed his lips in thought. He did not agree with the principles of anyone who kept furies within such a restrictive confine-much less those who would trap them there for generations. But it certainly confirmed, had he been in any doubt, that Aquitaine's raw power was more than sufficient for the task at hand.
The Knights Aeris accompanying the litter departed toward a bunk-house for food and drink, while the captain of Aquitaine's guard, a young man with an earnest expression and alert blue eyes, opened the door to the litter and extended a courteous hand to those within. Then he led them inside the manor proper.
Fidelias took casual note of the manor as he followed the young captain, marking the doors, the windows, the presence (or evident lack) of guards. It was an old habit, and one he would be foolish to surrender. He wanted to know the best way to leave any place he walked into. Aldrick walked beside him, casually carrying the still-sleeping Odiana as though she weighed no more than an armload of cloth, each footstep something solid, focused.
The young captain swung open a pair of double doors leading into a long feasting hall, complete with mountain-style fire pits built into the floors,
already burning though the season had not yet grown truly cold. That dim, crimson light was the only illumination in the hall, and Fidelias took a moment to pause inside the doors and allow his eyes to adjust.
The hall stretched out, lined with a double row of smooth marble pillars. Curtains covered the walls, providing a bit of aesthetic warmth and the perfect cover for eavesdroppers, guards, or assassins. The tables had been taken down for the night, and the only furniture in the hall was a table and several chairs upon a dais at the far end. The shapes of people moved about there, and Fidelias could hear the gentle music of strings.
The captain led them all straight down the hall and toward the dais.
Upon a large chair covered in the fur of a grass lion from the Amaranth Vale sprawled a man-as tall as Aldrick, Fidelias judged, but more slender, and with the appearance of a young man in the prime of his youth. Aquitai-nus had high cheekbones and a narrow face, led by a strong jaw whose lines were softened by the tumble of dark golden hair that fell to his shoulders. He wore a simple scarlet blouse with black leather breeches and soft, black boots. A goblet dangled lazily in one hand, while the other held the end of a long strip of silken cloth that slowly unwound from the shapely girl dancing before him, gradually baring more and more of her skin. Aquitainus had eyes of pitch black, stark in that narrow face, and he watched the dancing slave with an almost feverish intensity.
Fidelias's eyes were drawn to the man standing behind and just a bit to one side of the High Lord's chair. In the dimness, details were difficult to make out. The man
wasn't tall, perhaps only a few inches more than Fidelias himself, but was strongly built, his posture casually powerful, relaxed. He bore a sword at his hip-that much Fidelias could see-and a very slight bulge in his dark grey tunic perhaps revealed the presence of a hidden weapon. Fidelias met the silent man's eyes, briefly, and found the stranger's gaze to be opaque, assessing.
"If you value your head, Captain," Aquitainus murmured, without looking away from the girl, "it can wait until this dance is done." His voice, Fidelias noted, carried the faintest trace of a drunken slur.
"No, Your Grace," Fidelias said, stepping forward and past the captain, "it can't."
The High Lord's back stiffened, and he turned his head slowly toward Fidelias. The weight of the man's dark eyes fell onto the Cursor like a physical blow, and he drew in a sharp breath as he felt the stirring in the earth beneath
them, a slow and sullen vibration, deep within the stone-a reflection of the High Lord's anger.
Fidelias assumed a casually confident stance and reacted as though Aquitainus had acknowledged him. He clasped a fist over his heart and bowed.
There was a long silence before Fidelias heard Aquitainus's reaction. The man let out a low and relaxed laugh that echoed throughout the nearly deserted hall. Fidelias straightened again, to face the High Lord, careful to keep his expression schooled into neutral respect.
"So," Aquitainus purred. "This is the infamous Fidelias Cursor Callidus."
"If it please Your Grace, Cursor no longer."
"You seem rather unconcerned with my pleasure," Aquitainus noted, with a droll roll of the hand still clasping the dancing girl's cloth. "I almost find it disrespectful."
"No disrespect was intended, Your Grace. There are grave matters that require your attention."
"Require… my… attention," murmured Aquitaine with an elegant arch of brow. "My. I don't think I've been spoken to in that fashion since just before my last tutor took that untimely fall."